|
Written by GRIM
|
|
Monday, 23 April 2007 |
|
Page 23 of 40
CHAPTER XL
Kind Hearted Old Irish Car Greaser
Proves a Friend Indeed.
The train on which I had started from Hot Springs, and on which I had experienced such a narrow escape from death while riding on the trucks, thundered into St. Louis on the morning of April 23. It was a fast train, and when the snorting engine backed its long string of cars into the beautiful Union Station it was found that the brakes wouldn't work properly. Bang went the end coach against the huge, steel-ribbed, safety bumpers, and the crash jarred every bone in my body, tossing me out from my iron-ribbed bed between the wheels, and onto the ties under the car. The bumpers were strong and didn't give. Had such been the case I surely would have been ground to pieces beneath the train.
A dear, old grease-begrimed car repairer, whose name I afterwards learned was Mike OToole, happened to be right on the spot at the time, and seeing my predicament, hastily sprang under the car and yanked me out. I was black as the ace of spades ; my clothes were tattered and torn, and I was bruised from head to foot.
The old fellow was very angry, and said he intended turning me over to the big policeman, who was standing at the entrance gate a few feet away. With tears in my eyes I begged the old fellow not to arrest me.
"Let me tell you who I am and the hard luck I have had," I pleaded. "And maybe you won't think so hard of me."
OLD CAR GREASER A FRIEND.
The old car greaser saw the tears in my eyes as they trickled over the soot and grease, and without saying a word he led me to a little room in the yards. "Wash yourself, Kid," he ordered, "and then I'll talk to yea."
While sputtering in the water and soap I told him that I was "Kid" Nelson, and that I had given my word to be in Milwaukee shortly to fight Cyclone Johnny Thompson. I told him of my misfortune at Hot Springs and of my old mother at Hegewisch. He stopped a minute, as if thinking.
"Here's the clippings," I said, and I pulled out the dope that I had cut from the Chicago papers. "Look here, Kid," he suddenly exclaimed, "are you the boy that licked that Ole Olson out at Hegewisch?" I told him that I was that self-same boy.
The old man danced with glee when I showed him the clippings telling of how I licked several negroes down South. He then got towels for me and saw that I was nicely fixed up.
He secured a clean pair of overalls for me, after which he made me "dibby up" his morning lunch. He then showed me a fast train, which was headed Chicagoward, and would pull out in half an hour.The old man even went so far as to tip off the fireman that I was "Kid" Nelson, the great little Hegewisch boxer. I was pretty well taken care of after that, and that evening I rolled into the Polk street station, happy, though pretty badly used up. It was a record-breaking trip, and, mind you, didn't cost me a penny. I pulled out the friendly five-spot upon my arrival and fed the "tiger" on real steak at my old standby's place, Flynn Brothers' restaurant.
BAT HAS A REAL FEED.
After putting away the first real feed I had had since leaving Hot Springs, I felt pretty good, only that I was dust-begrimed, and my clothes were all worn out, after the thrilling experience of "A Night and a Day." I hurried down to one of those 10 cent "flop houses" on State street, where you get a bed and a bath, all for a dime. I, of course, broke the rules of the house by taking the bath before I went to bed instead of waiting until morning. Early next morning I met my manager, Teddy Murphy, and we went up to Hoo-Dooville, Milwaukee, and came off with flying colors.
Cyclone Johnny Thompson was the boxer the Badger Club officials had picked to break my winning streak, and for whom I rode the record-breaking trucks from Hot Springs to Chicago. It was my second meeting with Thompson. Since the former bout he had fought his way up to the very top of the lightweight division like myself and was the favorite over me in the betting. I might casually mention here that I have usually been the under dog in the betting. The exception was, of course, in my last battle with the negro Gans, when I went to the post a 2 to 1 favorite.
I could never understand it, but I experienced a good share of my tough breaks while fighting in Milwaukee. I lost several of my battles fought right in the "city of beer." (All on hair line decisions or where the referee showed favoritism to the home talent.) My record will bear me out, as it will be seen that I never lost a fight in Milwaukee to an outsider, but all to home lads.
LICKS CYCLONE JOHNNY.
On the evening of April 24, 1903, the "Cyclone," fresh as a daisy from four weeks' hard training on Iris farm at Sycamore, jumped over the ropes and grasped my hand. "Kid," he said, "you won't find this fight as easy as the other one. Your great Southern record doesn't seem to have made much of a hit here, as I see they are quoting you at 3 to I."
"All right, Johnny," I answered, "take good care of yourself tonight, as I'm in a bad humor; the odds will be 100 to 1 against you before three rounds are over."
"Clang! clang! went the gong, and we sailed into each other. Johnny in our previous fight did not rush me hard, but contented himself with staying away and tried to outpoint me. He did last the six rounds, but I beat him easily. This night, however, he sailed into me from the outset, and, my, how we did whack each other about the ring. I always go hard to begin with, but he probably had the first round up his sleeve. Again, in the second, he kept up his slugging and rushing. Toward the close I slipped a neat left deep into his wind and he backed up as though I had hit him with a piece of lead pipe. In the third the "Cyclone," like a sprinter out in front of the field in a long race, began to tire and come back to me. ThenI began to shoot over some of my extra special left hooks and mixed things up with him, so that he probably didn't know whether he was fighting or mixed in a railroad wreck. I forced him to cover for the –balance of the battle, and in the sixth and final round he probably raced five miles around the ring while endeavoring to keep out of reach of my "hot punches." In the last round I got to him, and it was the gong alone that saved him. So much for "Cyclone" Johnny Thompson.
BEATS STOCKINGS KELLY.
Stockings Kelly, another one of Chicago's best lightweights, challenged me. I accepted and we met on May 22. It was our first meeting, and 'as Kelly had defeated several pretty fair fighters, I trained hard for him. He put up a pretty nifty battle for just two rounds. But the fast pace quickly told on his wind, and then I cantered out to put him away. I got to him prettily in the fourth round, and ended his suffering with a straight right to the wind, which was ably assisted by a half left hook to the jaw.
Three weeks later a young man whom many of the readers of this history will remember, challenged me, Young Scotty, by name. We met at Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. This is one of the rights that will live forever in the minds of every man who witnessed it. I knocked Scotty out about half a dozen times, and, strange to say, every time I put him down and out the electric lights went out too.
His head hit the floor with such force it jarred the building and I guess turned off the electric light switch? ? ?
Nevertheless, with the assistance of the referee and the electric lights, etc., he managed to stay the limit, eight rounds, and to my surprise I was actually handed the decision along with $125, for my trouble.The facts in the case are the bunch tried to shoo Young Scotty in, but I beat them to it. The lights were turned off purposely to save him. Nick Finley, who had won several small bets handed me a crisp one hundred dollar bill, saying, "You done great Bat, even though they turned out the lights on you. You turned them out on Scotty a few times yourself well, what's the use you won that's enough."
|
|
