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This is from an excellent piece I found at Sports Illustrated's vault. The story is told by Jack Dempsey's flamboyant manager Jack Kearns and as such is his eyewitness account of the fight between Jess Willard and Jack Dempsey. I've made the excerpts only to cover the story of the alleged plastering of Dempsey's wraps. The full article is here:
http://vault.sportsillustrated.cnn.c...5547/index.htm
"...
I had bet $10,000, which we could not afford to lose, at 10 to 1, that Dempsey would win in the first round. If he did, we would make a tidy $100,000—equivalent to Willard's guarantee and substantially more than our own $27,500 guarantee.
I had schemed and connived over too many years to let anything go wrong with a bet like that, let alone with the championship of the world. The hell with being a gallant loser. I intended to win.
My plan had to do with a small white can sitting innocently among the fight gear on the kitchen table. I poured myself a nightcap and picked up the can, grinning at the neat blue letters on its side. All it said was "Talcum Powder." Then I latched the kitchen door and went to a corner cupboard that extended from tabletop height to the ceiling. I pulled over a chair and stood on it to reach into a niche far back on the topmost shelf. Not even a drunk would have thought of hiding a bottle in that spot. Several days earlier, on an unaccompanied trip into Toledo, I had bought another can of powder. This one was labeled "Plaster of Paris," and I was looking for it now. It was there.
I put the two cans side by side on the kitchen table. Then I found a knife and pried off their lids. I spread out a handkerchief and dumped the talcum powder into it, then knotted the corners together. Next I poured the plaster of paris into the talcum-powder can and replaced the lid. Set back among the fight gear—the bandages, the Vaseline, the razor blades, the cotton—it looked as innocent as any of them. There was just one more thing to be done. I picked up the plaster of paris can and the handkerchief full of talcum powder, unlatched the kitchen door and walked the 50 yards to the shore of Maumee Bay, where I pitched the whole business out into the dark waters. That was why the party had to end before dawn. That was something I wanted no man to see. Standing there in the dark, I knew we were as ready as Dempsey's condition and my plotting ability could make us.
It may seem strange but, returning to the house, my conscience was easy. I was a product of the days—have they ever ended?—when it was every man for himself. In those times you got away with everything possible. Turn your head, or let the other guy turn his, and knuckles were wrapped in heavy black bicycle tape or the thick lead foil in which bulk tea was packaged. The net result was much like hitting a man with a leather-padded mallet. The rules were lax then, officials were not at all fussy and there were few boxing commissions.
...
A witness from each camp was to observe the bandaging of hands as insurance against jiggery-pokery. I was to supervise Willard's preparations, and his chief second, Walter Moynahan, was to oversee the putting on of Dempsey's wrap.
This is standard practice at all big fights, and wisely so, because the stakes are so large. Even today, when prizefighting is at a low ebb, one fixed fight can orbit a mediocre boxer into the 90% income-tax-bracket status. We didn't know it at the time of the Dempsey-Willard fight, but this was the most important prefight moment in boxing's history. It was a moment that would usher in the era of the million-dollar gate.
Willard was waiting, completely relaxed, as I walked into his quarters. When I waved a greeting he gave me a look I believe he reserved for panhandlers. He was very careful with his money.
Let's get on with it," he grunted.
Willard's reluctance to part with money was clearly evident in the caliber of his entourage. They were inexperienced and worked cheap. They were so nervous that they fumbled with his hand bandages.
"For God's sake," I butted in, just to help upset them a little more. "Don't wind them up on his wrists. Put them on his knuckles, where he needs them."
"If you want," I volunteered, pushing the blunt needle in a little deeper, "I'll do it for you."
"Get away from me," Willard growled suspiciously as I started forward.
I grinned at him.
"Suit yourself," I said. "Suit yourself."
As they finished with the bandages, I interrupted again.
"Take this here sponge," I snapped, grabbing one from a water bucket. "Put some water on his bandages to keep his hands cool."
Willard was getting mad now. His face flushed, and not altogether because of the heat.
"Why don't you get out of here?" he said, snarling.
"Just trying to help," I answered with a shrug. "But I got a right in here and I'll stay till the job's finished."
Leaving one of my handlers behind to make sure no one tampered with Willard's hands, I returned to our dressing room to bandage Dempsey under Moynahan's suspicious supervision. On the way I assumed a friendly and sympathetic attitude toward Willard's chief second.
"You should have dampened those bandages and put on some talcum powder," I told him. "His hands would've been much more comfortable."
Moynahan nodded in frustrated agreement.
"I know," he said. "But you can't tell that Jess to do something if he don't want to do it."
Reaching our dressing room, I quickly wound on Dempsey's bandages under Moynahan's vigilant inspection. After I finished with the wrappings, I turned to Jimmy DeForest, my trainer, and pointed to the water bucket.
"Give me that sponge well soaked with water," I ordered. "I want to keep the kid's hands cool."
In an aside to Moynahan, I told him again: "This is what you should've done for Willard."
The sponge, dripping with water, made a sloshing sound as I clamped it to the bandages on Dempsey's hands. In a moment they were drenched through.
"Now the talcum powder," I directed DeForest, and he passed me that innocent-looking, blue-lettered can. I sprinkled its contents heavily over the soaked bandages.
"No question," I rattled on to the unsuspecting Moynahan as I set the can safely aside, "this really is what you should have done for Willard."
Moynahan made no comment. Dempsey, who was entirely innocent of what had happened, stood there in what amounted almost to a stupor. I had to hide a smile as the call came to enter the ring."
I highly recommend reading the rest of the article that includes eyewitness accounts of the fight itself and a fun tale of Battling Nelson taking a bath in lemonade.
The fight is here:
PS: I originally posted this thread in NSB. It was intended for this forum.
http://vault.sportsillustrated.cnn.c...5547/index.htm
"...
I had bet $10,000, which we could not afford to lose, at 10 to 1, that Dempsey would win in the first round. If he did, we would make a tidy $100,000—equivalent to Willard's guarantee and substantially more than our own $27,500 guarantee.
I had schemed and connived over too many years to let anything go wrong with a bet like that, let alone with the championship of the world. The hell with being a gallant loser. I intended to win.
My plan had to do with a small white can sitting innocently among the fight gear on the kitchen table. I poured myself a nightcap and picked up the can, grinning at the neat blue letters on its side. All it said was "Talcum Powder." Then I latched the kitchen door and went to a corner cupboard that extended from tabletop height to the ceiling. I pulled over a chair and stood on it to reach into a niche far back on the topmost shelf. Not even a drunk would have thought of hiding a bottle in that spot. Several days earlier, on an unaccompanied trip into Toledo, I had bought another can of powder. This one was labeled "Plaster of Paris," and I was looking for it now. It was there.
I put the two cans side by side on the kitchen table. Then I found a knife and pried off their lids. I spread out a handkerchief and dumped the talcum powder into it, then knotted the corners together. Next I poured the plaster of paris into the talcum-powder can and replaced the lid. Set back among the fight gear—the bandages, the Vaseline, the razor blades, the cotton—it looked as innocent as any of them. There was just one more thing to be done. I picked up the plaster of paris can and the handkerchief full of talcum powder, unlatched the kitchen door and walked the 50 yards to the shore of Maumee Bay, where I pitched the whole business out into the dark waters. That was why the party had to end before dawn. That was something I wanted no man to see. Standing there in the dark, I knew we were as ready as Dempsey's condition and my plotting ability could make us.
It may seem strange but, returning to the house, my conscience was easy. I was a product of the days—have they ever ended?—when it was every man for himself. In those times you got away with everything possible. Turn your head, or let the other guy turn his, and knuckles were wrapped in heavy black bicycle tape or the thick lead foil in which bulk tea was packaged. The net result was much like hitting a man with a leather-padded mallet. The rules were lax then, officials were not at all fussy and there were few boxing commissions.
...
A witness from each camp was to observe the bandaging of hands as insurance against jiggery-pokery. I was to supervise Willard's preparations, and his chief second, Walter Moynahan, was to oversee the putting on of Dempsey's wrap.
This is standard practice at all big fights, and wisely so, because the stakes are so large. Even today, when prizefighting is at a low ebb, one fixed fight can orbit a mediocre boxer into the 90% income-tax-bracket status. We didn't know it at the time of the Dempsey-Willard fight, but this was the most important prefight moment in boxing's history. It was a moment that would usher in the era of the million-dollar gate.
Willard was waiting, completely relaxed, as I walked into his quarters. When I waved a greeting he gave me a look I believe he reserved for panhandlers. He was very careful with his money.
Let's get on with it," he grunted.
Willard's reluctance to part with money was clearly evident in the caliber of his entourage. They were inexperienced and worked cheap. They were so nervous that they fumbled with his hand bandages.
"For God's sake," I butted in, just to help upset them a little more. "Don't wind them up on his wrists. Put them on his knuckles, where he needs them."
"If you want," I volunteered, pushing the blunt needle in a little deeper, "I'll do it for you."
"Get away from me," Willard growled suspiciously as I started forward.
I grinned at him.
"Suit yourself," I said. "Suit yourself."
As they finished with the bandages, I interrupted again.
"Take this here sponge," I snapped, grabbing one from a water bucket. "Put some water on his bandages to keep his hands cool."
Willard was getting mad now. His face flushed, and not altogether because of the heat.
"Why don't you get out of here?" he said, snarling.
"Just trying to help," I answered with a shrug. "But I got a right in here and I'll stay till the job's finished."
Leaving one of my handlers behind to make sure no one tampered with Willard's hands, I returned to our dressing room to bandage Dempsey under Moynahan's suspicious supervision. On the way I assumed a friendly and sympathetic attitude toward Willard's chief second.
"You should have dampened those bandages and put on some talcum powder," I told him. "His hands would've been much more comfortable."
Moynahan nodded in frustrated agreement.
"I know," he said. "But you can't tell that Jess to do something if he don't want to do it."
Reaching our dressing room, I quickly wound on Dempsey's bandages under Moynahan's vigilant inspection. After I finished with the wrappings, I turned to Jimmy DeForest, my trainer, and pointed to the water bucket.
"Give me that sponge well soaked with water," I ordered. "I want to keep the kid's hands cool."
In an aside to Moynahan, I told him again: "This is what you should've done for Willard."
The sponge, dripping with water, made a sloshing sound as I clamped it to the bandages on Dempsey's hands. In a moment they were drenched through.
"Now the talcum powder," I directed DeForest, and he passed me that innocent-looking, blue-lettered can. I sprinkled its contents heavily over the soaked bandages.
"No question," I rattled on to the unsuspecting Moynahan as I set the can safely aside, "this really is what you should have done for Willard."
Moynahan made no comment. Dempsey, who was entirely innocent of what had happened, stood there in what amounted almost to a stupor. I had to hide a smile as the call came to enter the ring."
I highly recommend reading the rest of the article that includes eyewitness accounts of the fight itself and a fun tale of Battling Nelson taking a bath in lemonade.
The fight is here:
PS: I originally posted this thread in NSB. It was intended for this forum.
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