John L. Sullivan, America’s first sports superstar, was also the first athlete to earn $1 million. He pioneered other types of action, too. He dabbled in show biz and willing women. He drank too much. He had a posse of hangers-on. And he died destitute.
Remarkably, he managed all this even though at the height of his fame, his sport was illegal in every state.1 Today, boxing and prizefighting are synonymous. In the nineteenth century, however, they were distinct. Boxing, which gentlemen like Theodore Roosevelt did as a hobby at Harvard, was socially acceptable; prizefighting, which tough guys did for money, was not. Even so, prizefights took place all over the country, supported by a public that loved the action and a gambling culture that provided an economic base.
John L. was the best fighter in the land and had been regarded as such since at least 1882, when he pummeled Paddy Ryan to the canvas in 11 minutes. He hadn’t lost since, dispatching his challengers with contemptuous ease.
Jake Kilrain, who had made his name fighting around Boston, was good enough that Richard Fox, owner of the National Police Gazette, which covered the sport thoroughly, had proclaimed him champion. No one beyond Kilrain’s friends really believed this assertion (if they did). But if Kilrain could beat John L., he could turn that claim into reality, as well as pick up the $20,000 stake, the biggest purse ever.2
Sullivan’s people were sure that at his best, he could lick Kilrain with the proverbial one hand tied behind his back. The problem was that when they made the deal for a title match against Kilrain in early 1889, their man was suffering from the aftereffects of a particularly prolonged period of debauchery that had him seeing phantom rats.3 But the fight was set for July 8, 1889, six months away, more than enough time to dry him out. With two months left before the big fight, though, Sullivan’s backers were desperate; he was still a sodden mess. So they made a bet with Billy Muldoon, a famous trainer and reigning Greco-Roman wrestling champion.4 They would pay him $10,000 to get Sullivan in shape—to be paid only if he won.
Sullivan was shipped to Muldoon’s farm in an isolated part of upstate New York. Muldoon was ready for him. He told the only two bars in town not to serve Sullivan and banned the champ’s friends.
Sullivan hated it. He loathed Muldoon. And he wanted a drink. Despite Muldoon’s warning, a local bartender gave him one, or maybe three or four. Who was going to say no to the heavyweight champ? Muldoon hauled Sullivan out and wrestled him to the ground. With that, Sullivan got serious. Over the next seven weeks, he did whatever Muldoon asked, including milking cows, and was in bed by 9:00, with Muldoon asleep in the same room. He even bathed in brine to toughen his skin. After a few weeks, Sullivan was doing eight to ten miles of roadwork in the morning; in the afternoon, he worked out in a barn Muldoon had converted into a gym. Pictured here is one of the weights he used.5
Sullivan and Kilrain would fight under London Prize Ring rules. There were no gloves, and a round lasted as long as one man was on his feet; wrestling and grabbing were legal. The fight would end when one man could not go on. On a blistering hot day, a series of trains took spectators from New Orleans to a farm in Richburg, Mississippi, where a 20-foot-ring had been built. A little after 10:00 in the morning, the two stepped into the ring. Kilrain wore black knee breeches; Sullivan his famous green ones. Both were around 5 foot 10. Kilrain, 29, weighed in at 195 pounds. Sullivan, 30, was 207 pounds of superbly conditioned muscle.
One glance at Sullivan’s trim figure told Kilrain he couldn’t outslug the Boston Strong Boy; his strategy was to tire him out. But Sullivan was well able to chase Kilrain, even if he didn’t much like it. In the fourth round, which lasted 15 minutes, Sullivan became exasperated: “Why don’t you stand and fight like a man, you sonofabitch?”6 When there was an actual exchange of blows, he got the better of the action. As the fight wore on, Kilrain tired, not Sullivan, and he began to land thudding blows at will. In the seventy-sixth round, Kilrain’s seconds wouldn’t let him come out. Sullivan had won. Kilrain was devastated but philosophical; his telegram to his wife read: “Nature gave out. Not hurt, though licked. Your husband.”7 Various authorities came after the two for fighting illegally, and it took a lot of time and money to settle the charges.
The battle at Richburg was the last bare-knuckle heavyweight championship prizefight. Sullivan himself always preferred fighting with gloves and began to insist on it.8 With his stock as high as it would ever be, his opinion carried weight. In 1892, in the first title defense to be contested with gloves, Sullivan lost to 26-year-old Jim Corbett, crushed by a left to the jaw in the twenty-first round. It was the only loss of his career. Corbett’s deft use of feints and jabs and movement was altogether more sophisticated than the pounding rushes characteristic of Sullivan and his peers. Corbett is sometimes called the “father of modern boxing.”
This was also the first legal title fight; Louisiana had decriminalized the sport in 1890.9 For that, Sullivan must get a large share of the credit. While he was at times a rake and a drunk, he was also hugely popular. He lifted the sport from being a spectacle for lowlifes to one that also attracted the middle and upper classes. It was their support that successfully got the sport legalized in state after state.10 The first and last great champion of bare-knuckle boxing, Sullivan embodied one era and helped usher in a new one.