BOB FITZSIMMONS BOOK Excerpts

[McGoorty]

CHAPTER XVII
THE PLAN FOR AN AMATEUR’S SUCCESSFUL
ENCOUNTER
ALL amateur boxers are inclined to be
nervous. This is a fault. The best way to cure
it is to do all the boxing you can with men
whom you know you can best, but men who
will give you a hard battle. Take your lessons
from a competent professional teacher.
After boxing a while with men to whom the
gloves and the ring are as familiar as their
daily meals, the amateur game will seem like
child’s play to you. That is one hint for you.
Now for another. Be sure you go into the
ring in good physical condition. Get your
stomach “right” and keep it “right.” Be
careful not to catch cold. There must have
been no training on hot birds and cold bottles;
no theatre parties, late suppers, or cotillons.
When you step into the centre of the ring
do not rush blindly at your man. I have seen
many amateurs do that. If the other fellow comes at you that way stick out your left hand
as hard and as often as you can, and jab him
in the face. If things go quietly, however, you
should feel your opponent out well. Use your
cleverness to the best of your ability to confuse
him. If you are successful in that then comes
the time to be aggressive. jab him, if you can,
with your left. Failing this, send in both
hands, straight from the shoulder, to his face
and head. Keep at this until you get his
guard up. If he finds you fighting at his head
all the time he will forget to protect his
stomach and wind.
When he forgets, the time has come for you
to get in your fine work. Watch your opportunity
well, and when the proper moment
comes step in as close to him as you can,
and a little to one side, and strike with
your left or right hand, whichever is convenient,
hard in his solar plexus. Throw every
pound of your weight behind the blow, put all ∙
your strength in it, and pivot slightly on your
foot as it lands.
If you execute the blow properly, it is almost
certain to score a knockout. CHAPTER XVII
THE FAMOUS BLOWS OF ROBERT FITZSIMMONS
Photographed During a Boxing Bout with
George Dawson, Physical Instructor
of the Chicago Athletic Club

Bad luck,,, If You Want the Photos.. well you'll just have to download the book eh ??

[McGoorty]

next up folks .......

chapter xx
the heavyweight
championship battle
by thomas t. Williams

[McGoorty]

CHAPTER XX
THE HEAVYWEIGHT
CHAMPIONSHIP BATTLE
BY THOMAS T. WILLIAMS
THE fight began at 12.05 o’clock, on March
17, 1897, with all the preliminaries, pomp, and
frippery of a dress parade. All the fancies of
pugilism were aired in the men’s respective
corners. Only one thing was omitted, the
customary handshake, that old fiction used
under the English law to suggest that it
was only a test of endurance and skill and
not of malice.
“I will shake hands with Fitzsimmons when
he has whipped me,” said Corbett to me on the
occasion of that memorable meeting on the
highroad,
and in an hour from the time the
fight began he kept his word.
Fitzsimmons earned that handshake. He
fought his fight like a game man; he fought it
his own way; he fought it uphill against odds
which, in the fifth round, could only have beenrepresented by 10 to 1. He fought for his
life; he fought for his wife, who cheered him
by her presence, and he received blows that
would have reduced any other man now before
the public to subjection in much less time than
this fight lasted.
To say that the unexpected happened would
not be true. It was the expected that happened.
We all expected to see Corbett have
the best of the fight right along, emerge from
the ring practically unmarked, and win the fight
unless Fitzsimmons got in one punch. Corbett
was looking for that punch himself, his seconds
were looking for it, and yet Fitzsimmons was
able to catch him off his guard long enough to
plant the blow that reversed all ring form, and
U that made a middleweight
champion over the
best heavyweight
of the century and won the
Australian a fortune.
To describe the fight in the language of the
ring would convey but little meaning to those
who have not devoted the whole of their lives to
pugilistic phraseology. The hooks and counters,
leads and swings, clinches and pushes, and
all that sort of thing can be seen on the
kinetoscope at five cents a peep. I did not seethem. I saw the fight as a whole, but not in
I its details. I happened to see the blow in the
stomach that ended it, and a few other critical
ones, but the grand mixture of attack and
defense was lost.
I saw a face that will haunt me until time
has effaced it from my memory. It was a
mixture of pathos and tragedy. There was
no savagery in it, but some intelligence.
There was a leer and a grin and a look of
patient suffering and dogged courage. It was
the face of a brave man fighting an uphill
fight, with lip torn and bleeding, nostrils
plugged with coagulated blood, ears torn and
swollen, eyes halfclosed
and blinking in the
sunlight, with every line and muscle drawn to
the angle of suffering, but withal watchful,
intent, and set.
Fitzsimmons’ face was not cruel or passionate,
but was clear, and never once did he lose
his hope of success, his watchfulness over his
opponent, his waiting for an opening. It was
one face from the time that first blood was
claimed and allowed in the fifth round until
the victory was in his hands. You cannot compare
it with anything, for there is not anotherhuman countenance like Fitzsimmons’ when he
is lighting against odds.

[McGoorty]

Corbett had the crowd. It was plain from
the start that on this St. Patrick’s day an IrishAmerican
had the sympathies of the people
against the Englishman who came here by way
of the Antipodes. Then, too, the crowd was
largely from Corbett’s home in San Francisco;
and California, though not always true to her
native sons, did send her best wishes to
Corbett that day. The cries of “Good boy,
Jim!” were heard whenever Corbett made a
hit. Fitzsimmons answered these with a look
that said, “Wait and see whether you want to
shout for Corbett after the finish.” The look
was not due to intention—Fitzsimmons’ purpose
evidently being to smile—but when one’s
lips are an inch away from the teeth and one’s
nose is reduced to a pulp the finish of a smile
is hard to guess.
Corbett’s face changed during the fight.
The change came at the end of the tenth
round, when, much to the surprise of everyone,
Fitzsimmons was still in the ring, and
Corbett, too wise to go in and finish him, was
wondering why the Australian took so muchpounding. The high, proud look of confidence
that had marked Corbett’s appearance from the
beginning suddenly gave place to an appearance
of exhausted vitality and doubt. He
found himself with less energy than he expected,
and he could not understand why that
bruised and battered piece of flesh in front of
him, which bore so little resemblance to
humanity, continued to face him. A minute
before that look came over Corbett, odds of
10 to 1 on him would have found no takers.
A minute after wise ringgoers
were whispering,
“The champion is losing his steam,” and
Bill Naughton, monotonously counting off the
blows to a stenographer, said, “Jim is gone.”
There was such a story told by the ashen grayness
of Corbett’s face that things brightened
in Fitzsimmons’ corner, and Delaney looked as
though he would like to cry. From that time
on there were two men in the fight. Corbett,
unhurt, but not confident; Fitzsimmons,
bruised and beaten and torn and bloody, but
waiting for his chance.
Going back to the beginning, there is not
much to tell of the first two rounds. The
boxing was light, Corbett endeavoring to hitand get away without return, and Fitzsimmons
simply waiting. In the second round, after
Fitzsimmons had received a few blows in the
face, he grew more aggressive, and, driving
Corbett into his corner, attempted to punch
him, but the big champion laughed and ducked
and got out of what seemed to be a very tight
place. It was “Good boy, Jim!” all over the
ring, and, “Good boy, Jim!” again when
Corbett landed twice in Fitzsimmons’ stomach
with blows that might have been dangerous
had Fitzsimmons been the least out of condition.
It was noticeable that Corbett could
hit and hit and generally get away from Fitzsimmons’
returns. The confident air became
more confident and the applause from the
Californians more general.
In the third round the spectators had a
chance to see who had the best of the clinches,
which were frequent. Fitzsimmons would try
little jabbing hits that reached Corbett’s neck
or body and did no harm. Corbett seemed to
think clinches were his best time for a knockout
blow, but it is not easy to knock out a
man whose head, like a turtle’s, has a habit of
ducking in between two enormous masses ofmuscle, and its only presentation a side view.
Whenever Corbett had attempted a heavy
blow and failed, and sometimes when he did
not fail, Fitzsimmons would lay his head over
Corbett’s shoulder and smile at the southwest
corner.
In the fourth round it looked like a fight,
and all around I could hear the enthusiastic
sports saying, “Oh!” and “Ah!” and smacking
their lips over the stiff blows that Corbett
sent into Fitzsimmons’ face and body. They
were not knockout blows, but blows at about
halfstrength,
delivered with the arm stiff and
were meant to hurt and not to kill.
Fitzsimmons soon showed the effects of
them. His face began to swell, and he would
lie on Corbett’s shoulder as though in the hope
of obtaining some respite from the punching,
which was annoying. Corbett grew confident
as this round progressed, and went to his I
corner as happy as a boy. It was “Good boy,
Jim!” and “Punch his head off!” and “Knock
the Australian’s head off!” but only one man
said “Take your time, Fitzsimmons!” Corbett
looked like a winner then, and he looked like a
winner all through the fifth round, when hedrew first blood from Fitzsimmons’ lip, and
Siler allowed the claim which Billy Delaney
promptly made.

[McGoorty]

I began to feel sorry for Mrs. Fitzsimmons
then, and wished she was not there.
She was anxious and Fitzsimmons was distressed,
and Martin Julian’s face bore all kinds
of woe. Little Roeber was thoughtful for the
first time this year, and Dan Hickey suffered
as much as his chief.
In Corbett’s corner, how different! Delaney,
calm and confident; Donaldson, a trifle jubilant;
Billy Woods and “Kid” Egan both
smiling, and occasionally turning around to
remark to some spectator, “Six rounds.”
The blood seemed to arouse Corbett’s
temper, and he went at Fitzsimmons with more
determination than he had shown before. He
hit him time and again, and I could see Mrs.
Fitzsimmons wince, right across the ring.
There were words of sympathy, too, for her in
the sixth round, when, after the clinch, Corbett
landed a tremendous blow that brought Fitzsimmons
to his knees, sent the blood spurting
from his nose, and distorted his face almost
beyond recognition. Everybody wonderedwhether Fitzsimmons would recover, but the
ninth second found him on his feet and still
fighting. Again and again Corbett hit him
until his own gloves were covered with blood
from Fitzsimmons’ face, and his body was
smeared a glaring crimson from the same
source.
Smiling, confident, and erect, Corbett poked
at his now crouching adversary. Someone in
his corner said: “Look out, Jim, he is kidding.
Do not go near him. He is foxy.” Who
knows but that remark gave Fitzsimmons the
championship. There was no deception in
that bruised face, no foxiness in the eyes that
were drawn down to tiny points, showing
nothing but patience and determination.
The services of the seconds at the end of the
round made Fitzsimmons presentable, and the
minute was a grateful rest to him. When he
came up he began his hard hitting, and the
spectators thought he had determined to finish
the fight right there or go to the floor. But
no. When he found his blows did not reach
the clever man in front of him, he changed his
tactics and waited, taking the punishment that
came to him as gamely and as doggedly as abulldog would take a beating—and still there
was nothing savage about him. He would
punch, and Corbett allowed him to land once
to feel his blow. It was feeble, and we all
looked for a finish then. We expected to see
Corbett dash in and knock his head back, as
the crowd advised. A righthand
swing from
Fitzsimmons, which missed him, madehim
change his mind and keep away—at least that
is what it seemed to me.
The eighth round was sickening. Face
smashes and body blows, punches in the neck
and punches under the heart were Fitzsimmons’
portion. It would have all been over but for
his gameness. The betting men were almost
ready to cash in their Corbett tickets.

[McGoorty]

So, also, in the ninth round, he was hit and
hit and hit again. Fitzsimmons would put his
face over Corbett’s shoulder and hang for
respite. “Why doesn’t that game fellow quit?”
people asked. But the game fellow hit when
he could and hugged a little, and when his
portion became too much to bear he would
swing his right, though out of distance, to keep
his larger opponent away. At the end of the
ninth round Corbett laughed, and his secondswere happy. It was all over but the finishing,
and the finishing was to be done right away.
But somehow or another Fitzsimmons did not
look quite so bad when his face was washed
and sponged and his wind was cleared, and
Corbett wondered at the change that came
over him. Why, the man was getting stronger
under the terrific beating, and, incredible as it
may seem, he was the stiffest puncher in this
round. Not that he hurt Corbett, but he
worried him and made him doubtful and
wonder who it was, and it was then that the
doubt came into Corbett’s heart and the gray
look into his face. But he, too, was game, and
I began to sympathize with him. Fitzsimmons
was anything but a beaten man in the eleventh
round. He was growing stronger and Corbett’s
wind was none too good. Fitzsimmons
grew confident and pushed the champion and
poked him into his corner and landed good
and hard on his face, and punched him, and
then Corbett rallied and hit back, and I saw
the hardest and fastest fighting I have ever
seen in the ring. It was “Game boy, Fitzsimmons!”
while the Corbett men looked grave,
and the crowd, who scented the coming changeof championships, began to yell for Fitzsimmons.
Even then it was anything but all
over.
There was no denying Corbett’s courage,
and when the twelfth round began he was
full of fight, and led and led, until Fitzsimmons
went in to smash, and caught him twice on the
jaw on the breakaway. Then Corbett missed
his chance. There had been a clinch and rally,
and Fitzsimmons had got the worst of it. He
went back after the clinch, and for a second
his arms hung helpless. What a chance for an
uppercut. Corbett saw it, but a tenth of a
second too late. Dash went his right hand,
upward and outward, missing Fitzsimmons’
chin by an inch and losing the fight—the
nearest miss for so much money one is likely
to see. Then we felt sorry for Corbett again,
and Delaney whispered caution and told him
to fight the man to a finish in his own way, and
the thirteenth round passed without much
difference.
“Fight the fellow to a finish; whip him in
your own way,” was Delaney’s warning to
Corbett as the fourteenth round began. The
veteran second looked anxious. He could seethat Fitzsimmons was anything but whipped.
His eye and ear told him that Corbett was P
becoming slightly tired. He felt confident that
Corbett could win if he saved himself. It was
clear that he was the cleverer man and unhurt,
while Fitzsimmons’ face was battered to a pulp.
But no man can fight another’s battle. It was
Corbett who had to do the fighting.
There were a few exchanges, and then I saw
what I do not want to see again. I saw Fitzsimmons’
left hand go smash into Corbett’s
stomach just as though it had gone into butter,
and I saw Fitzsimmons’ right hand reach the
point of Corbett’s jaw. Then Corbett sank to
his knees in the western corner of the ring
holding on to the ropes for support; his eyes
absolutely turned upward until none of the
pupil was visible. His face was white. He
was not unconscious in the sense of being
entirely benumbed, but his limbs refused to
respond to the demands made upon them.

[McGoorty]

Time was up. The champion was out.
Where was Nevada’s boasted police force
then? Surely they were wanted. Where were
the Pinkerton fighting men and the braves
from the border? I would like to have thesequestions answered. There were none of them
I around the ring, where they should have been,
keeping order; and the threat of death to the
man who crossed the ropes proved to be but
an idle bluff. The ring was half∙full in twenty
seconds. I noted the time. Corbett was upon
his feet again, halfdelirious,
and, dashing at
Fitzsimmons, who had been called back by his
seconds, Corbett gave his conqueror a blow in
the face that might have killed him.
Plucky little Roeber jumped into the melee.
I saw Joe Corbett hitting indiscriminately.
Everything was confusion. Spectators tried to
find out what was the matter. There were
cries of “Foul!” Corbett’s hand was on his
stomach, pointing to the place where he had
been hit, and Siler, cool, contained, and nervy
despite the crush, said: “No foul. Fitzsimmons
knocked him out fairly with a
stomach punch, and Fitzsimmons wins.”
After the round was finished it was fully two
minutes before the spectators knew what the
decision was. I made inquiry immediately
around the ring, and could only find three men
who knew, or thought they knew, what had
happened. They were Billy Madden, GeorgeSiler and William Muldoon. Now everyone
knows all about it.
At the time it occurred but few people saw
the blow and fewer still realized exactly what
I they had seen. What I saw was a righthand
reach, from which Corbett drew his head and
upper body back. It was a feint to give
Fitzsimmons his coveted chance. Then I saw
Fitzsimmons’ left hand fly into Corbett’s
stomach. Corbett was facing me, and I saw
him flinch and his lips form as if to make a
sound. As he came forward I saw Fitzsimmons
strike him with his right hand on the jaw,
not what I think was a dangerous blow; nor do
I think that the righthand
blow had anything
to do with ending the “bout.” I say I saw
these things. That is certainly what I marked
on the piece of paper in front of me, and it is
certainly what is fixed in my mind; but others,
as competent as myself and with as good eyes,
reverse the blows and make the righthand
punch the stomach blow and the left hand on
the jaw.
When doctors disagree perhaps the patient
may be permitted to tell his story, and I for
one am contented to leave this to Fitzsimmons,who tells his own story in another chapter, and
who, I am certain, knows exactly what occurred.
I say “certain,” because in watching him I saw
that he knew what he was doing. The moment
he landed his face told the story of a
successful general’s clever coup. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------NEXT CHAPTER is Tops ; this a preview CHAPTER XXI
THE HEAVYWEIGHT
CHAMPIONSHIP BATTLE
BY ROBERT FITZSIMMONS -------- ANY COMMENTS BLOKES ???

[Juof]

going to bookmark this is there a way i can get a pdf online or something?

[McGoorty]

going to bookmark this is there a way i can get a pdf online or something?

Sure mate.... Try This thread link..... there is a choice of links for that, and other great books for free download... once there you'll have a ball. http://www.boxingscene.com/forums/sh...d.php?t=513351

[McGoorty]

CHAPTER XXI
THE HEAVYWEIGHT
CHAMPIONSHIP BATTLE
BY ROBERT FITZSIMMONS
WHEN I entered the ring I tipped the beam
at one hundred and fiftysix
and onehalf
pounds, while Mr. Corbett weighed one hundred
and eightyseven
pounds. Before the
fight my opponent acknowledged over his
signature that he was in fit condition to make
the fight of his life. Well, he made it, and so
did I. He is a big, strong, clever fellow, but
from the moment I saw him standing before
me, trembling with anxiety to begin, I saw the
expression of uncertainty in his eyes. I saw
his legs tremble as he stood there like a young
cub lion, waiting to spring at me.
At the call of time I had collected all my
coolness; had settled myself to meet him in
any variety of onslaught he chose to offer, and
felt certain that if he whipped me he would
have to do part of the work. I remember distinctly
the way he leaped from the arms of hissecond; how his arms quivered as he struck a
defensive pose. There was nothing for me to
do at that juncture but to feel him. I saw that
he was not in possession of that confidence
which he boasted, and I was in no sense of the
word disconcerted. I began to frame his weaknesses.
Much to my surprise, he, too, was
curbing his temper, and was not likely to lose
it unless he lost the fight. On that point I was
right, and we will discuss that later.
In the opening of the first round I decided
to meet him halfway
in everything, and toward
the close, when I saw an opening made by his
advances to me, I put my right on him and
broke my thumb. For a moment the pain was
severe, but he had evidently been knocked by
the blow, and his caution gave me plenty of
time to recover. When the gong sounded I
was satisfied that there was something more
than mere inquisitiveness in him. There was a
color of anxiety, and his big eyes danced over
my face and peered into mine as though he
were looking for an answer. I hardly think
my expression told him anything. We came a
little nearer and began to feel the advantages
of the first round, but I saw that he was on thedefensive, and I made up my mind right there
that I would have to go in and take a little
punishment. He was on the verge of going at
me several times in the third round, but I came
at him and sent some hard ones on to his jaw
that put him back a little. But he is a good,
game fellow and stood it well, returning about
as good as I sent, but he was a little more
cautious about “finishing” me.