By Mike Casey
There is greatness in life and then there is something beyond that. Something indefinable to which we can never assign an appropriate name or description. Willie Lewis was a great fighter. But he was never going to put a serious dent in the Michigan Assassin, Stanley Ketchel. Willie’s manager knew that even if Willie didn’t.
So Dan McKetrick, a typically shrewd and opportunistic fight manager of the age, employed a two-pronged attack in galvanising his Willie for the great confrontation at New York’s National Sporting Club, known to locals as The Coliseum. McKetrick pumped up Lewis with a heady mix of good old-fashioned wisdom and plain old-fashioned kidology, telling the kid that he would spring the great upset of the age by beating the raging lion that was Ketchel.
While Willie ruminated over all these wonderful words of encouragement, Dan McKetrick enlisted God to handle the tricky part of pulling off the unlikeliest result in boxing. Jumping into his brand new automobile and heading for the Bronx with his old pal and legendary fight manager, Dumb Dan Morgan, McKetrick stopped off at St Anthony’s Roman Catholic Church to indulge in a bout of unusually intense prayer. He even lit a candle at the Shrine of St Anthony and said a few more prayers for good measure. The job was done. McKetrick had all but appointed Willie Lewis a saint. How could God let the boy down now? Dumb Dan Morgan was confused to say the least. He had agreed to work Willie Lewis’ corner with McKetrick and was now wondering what he had let himself in for. The truth became all too sadly and brutally apparent.
The New York crowd of about three thousand was solidly behind Lewis as he confidently engaged Ketchel in the first round and showed no fear of the Assassin. Lewis, a natural welterweight, was conceding ten pounds to Stanley, who weighed in at 158lbs.
Ketchel tested Willie with a couple of stiff digs to the ribs, but then the miracle that Dan McKetrick had prayed for seemed to take shape. Gasps could be heard around the Coliseum as Lewis suddenly caught Ketchel flush on the bridge of the nose with a terrific right hand smash. When Stanley lowered his gloves, they were covered in blood. Willie had inflicted a serious wound and went full throttle to seize the great prize as he rubbed the blood into Stanley’s eyes and kept punching to the bell.
The Coliseum was in uproar. Even Dan McKetrick was stunned.
It was all too much for Dumb Dan Morgan, who knew what was coming next and left the Lewis corner for a seat in Row 4. Dumb Dan advised McKetrick that he alone would be responsible for picking up Willie’s body when Ketchel had taken his revenge. Not lightly did Dumb Dan refer to Ketchel as The Slasher.
The execution wasn’t long in coming. Poor Willie Lewis wasn’t a saint and didn’t have any miracles. As Dumb Dan Morgan later recalled, “Ketchel doubled him up with a one-two punch to the stomach. Then, as the Kid straightened up, The Slasher nailed him with one of the most terrible right hand punches to the face I have ever seen. It caught Lewis flush in the mouth and drove two of his front teeth right up through his upper lip. It was an awful sight.
“The Kid was helpless, but would not go down. The referee was on the spot too. To stop a brawl like this could cause a riot.”
Ketchel saved referee Tom O’Rourke any embarrassment by quickly finishing off Lewis.
Dumb Dan Morgan later berated Dan McKetrick for making the fight. “Did you ever in your wildest dreams think that young kid had a chance with a killer like Ketchel?”
“Yes, I did,” McKetrick replied. “I counted on the surprise element and sometimes forces are at work you don’t know about. I gambled and lost. It ain’t MY fault the saint didn’t stand up!”
Violently
For a man who had lived so hard and fought so violently, the last words of Stanley Ketchel were strangely gentle and poignant. As he lay dying at the Dickerson ranch in Conway, Missouri, his assailant’s bullet lodged in his back, Ketchel looked up at his friend Pete Dickerson and said, “Take me home to mom, Pete.”
Ketchel was just twenty-four years old. Yet how he left his mark in such a tragically short space of time! He had cultivated a reputation as one of the most feared men on earth in a straight fight. He was a natural, vicious, two-fisted fighter with a colossal punch in either hand, who had terrorised the middleweight division and even challenged the great Jack Johnson during a sensational professional career that spanned just seven years between 1903 and 1910.
Ketchel was a natural born puncher. At first sight, he looked scrawny and pallid of complexion. He frequently looked nervous and drawn when he entered the ring. But he generated his great power from wide shoulders beautifully muscled arms and a wealth of natural talent.
He was a mid-western boy from Grand Rapids, Michigan, but a Wild West man at heart, who began to carve his indelible mark on boxing with a quick succession of early knockouts in the Montana towns of Butte, Miles City, Helena, Gregson Springs and Great Falls. He quickly became known to local boxing writers as the Montana Wonder.
There is greatness in life and then there is something beyond that. Something indefinable to which we can never assign an appropriate name or description. Willie Lewis was a great fighter. But he was never going to put a serious dent in the Michigan Assassin, Stanley Ketchel. Willie’s manager knew that even if Willie didn’t.
So Dan McKetrick, a typically shrewd and opportunistic fight manager of the age, employed a two-pronged attack in galvanising his Willie for the great confrontation at New York’s National Sporting Club, known to locals as The Coliseum. McKetrick pumped up Lewis with a heady mix of good old-fashioned wisdom and plain old-fashioned kidology, telling the kid that he would spring the great upset of the age by beating the raging lion that was Ketchel.
While Willie ruminated over all these wonderful words of encouragement, Dan McKetrick enlisted God to handle the tricky part of pulling off the unlikeliest result in boxing. Jumping into his brand new automobile and heading for the Bronx with his old pal and legendary fight manager, Dumb Dan Morgan, McKetrick stopped off at St Anthony’s Roman Catholic Church to indulge in a bout of unusually intense prayer. He even lit a candle at the Shrine of St Anthony and said a few more prayers for good measure. The job was done. McKetrick had all but appointed Willie Lewis a saint. How could God let the boy down now? Dumb Dan Morgan was confused to say the least. He had agreed to work Willie Lewis’ corner with McKetrick and was now wondering what he had let himself in for. The truth became all too sadly and brutally apparent.
The New York crowd of about three thousand was solidly behind Lewis as he confidently engaged Ketchel in the first round and showed no fear of the Assassin. Lewis, a natural welterweight, was conceding ten pounds to Stanley, who weighed in at 158lbs.
Ketchel tested Willie with a couple of stiff digs to the ribs, but then the miracle that Dan McKetrick had prayed for seemed to take shape. Gasps could be heard around the Coliseum as Lewis suddenly caught Ketchel flush on the bridge of the nose with a terrific right hand smash. When Stanley lowered his gloves, they were covered in blood. Willie had inflicted a serious wound and went full throttle to seize the great prize as he rubbed the blood into Stanley’s eyes and kept punching to the bell.
The Coliseum was in uproar. Even Dan McKetrick was stunned.
It was all too much for Dumb Dan Morgan, who knew what was coming next and left the Lewis corner for a seat in Row 4. Dumb Dan advised McKetrick that he alone would be responsible for picking up Willie’s body when Ketchel had taken his revenge. Not lightly did Dumb Dan refer to Ketchel as The Slasher.
The execution wasn’t long in coming. Poor Willie Lewis wasn’t a saint and didn’t have any miracles. As Dumb Dan Morgan later recalled, “Ketchel doubled him up with a one-two punch to the stomach. Then, as the Kid straightened up, The Slasher nailed him with one of the most terrible right hand punches to the face I have ever seen. It caught Lewis flush in the mouth and drove two of his front teeth right up through his upper lip. It was an awful sight.
“The Kid was helpless, but would not go down. The referee was on the spot too. To stop a brawl like this could cause a riot.”
Ketchel saved referee Tom O’Rourke any embarrassment by quickly finishing off Lewis.
Dumb Dan Morgan later berated Dan McKetrick for making the fight. “Did you ever in your wildest dreams think that young kid had a chance with a killer like Ketchel?”
“Yes, I did,” McKetrick replied. “I counted on the surprise element and sometimes forces are at work you don’t know about. I gambled and lost. It ain’t MY fault the saint didn’t stand up!”
Violently
For a man who had lived so hard and fought so violently, the last words of Stanley Ketchel were strangely gentle and poignant. As he lay dying at the Dickerson ranch in Conway, Missouri, his assailant’s bullet lodged in his back, Ketchel looked up at his friend Pete Dickerson and said, “Take me home to mom, Pete.”
Ketchel was just twenty-four years old. Yet how he left his mark in such a tragically short space of time! He had cultivated a reputation as one of the most feared men on earth in a straight fight. He was a natural, vicious, two-fisted fighter with a colossal punch in either hand, who had terrorised the middleweight division and even challenged the great Jack Johnson during a sensational professional career that spanned just seven years between 1903 and 1910.
Ketchel was a natural born puncher. At first sight, he looked scrawny and pallid of complexion. He frequently looked nervous and drawn when he entered the ring. But he generated his great power from wide shoulders beautifully muscled arms and a wealth of natural talent.
He was a mid-western boy from Grand Rapids, Michigan, but a Wild West man at heart, who began to carve his indelible mark on boxing with a quick succession of early knockouts in the Montana towns of Butte, Miles City, Helena, Gregson Springs and Great Falls. He quickly became known to local boxing writers as the Montana Wonder.
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