A Straight Counter: The straight counter or ‘jab’ as it is more commonly termed is one of the best blows in boxing when delivered with judgment. To land a straight counter with effect, draw your opponent on to lead with his left which you stop with your right. At the same time strike out with your left, and nine cases out of ten, your opponent will be so anxious about landing his own left that he forgets to guard his face with his right and you have a good percentage in your favor of landing the blow.
If you are fortunate enough to have a longer reach than your opponent, you need not wait for him to lead at you with his left. Carefully gauge your distance and keep your arm’s length between you and your opponent, and when properly set, hit out straight from the shoulder. If your opponent should slip his head to one side and your arm pass over his shoulder, place your arm in a ‘cross guard’ manner against his neck or head and push him away. Always keep your eyes on your opponent’s eyes and watch carefully for a right hand blow coming across your left arm while you are attempting a jab. Be sure and hold your arm still after you have landed the blow.
– George Dixon, “A Lesson in Boxing” (1893)
In the nineteenth century, the world of the boxer was also the world of the “sport” or “sporting men.” It was the after-hours world of pimps and prostitutes, hustlers and gamblers, barkeeps and drunks, vaudevillians and voyeurs. Gambling and boxing were intimately intertwined and attracted their fair share of dangerous men.
“Sports” lived on the margins of city life. They lived for good times and the promise of easy money. The term “sport” began as the phrase “the sporting life,” which originated in 1830 when the term “sporting gentleman” was used to describe a gambler. By the 1850s, a “sporting house” was a gambling den. The term was expanded by 1870 to include a saloon and sometimes a brothel.
Both rich and poor inhabited the sporting life, with elegant high-class houses as well as backroom places. In the saloons and gambling dens that attracted “sports,” one would find a full cross-section of life – rich and poor, Black and white, men and women – not found in any other part of society. Here the rigid social divisions of class, race, and gender came together in common cause and collective experience.
In the tougher sections of cities, the original sporting houses ran betting games on “dog, rat, and cock fights.” After 1870, boxing became a popular betting sport in the saloons of New York’s Bowery. In fact, saloons became an integral part of the boxing life – the term saloon coming into vogue in 1840 – and remained so until Prohibition. “Around 1900,” notes historian Irving Lewis Allen, “greater New York had more than 10,000 saloons, and they were on nearly every street in working-class neighborhoods.” With the gambling, drinking, prostitution, and general crime that gravitated around these activities, the culture of the sporting life was nothing if not dangerous.
And it was in this world that George Dixon not only pursued a championship title but also began to carve a life.
* * *
On February 7, 1890, The Union Athletic Club in Boston arranged a fight between Cal McCarthy and George Dixon for the American Bantamweight Championship. The match was to be a fight to the finish, continuing until one boxer was knocked out or quit. “Sporting men by the hundreds were present,” reported The Boston Globe, as the two fighters entered the ring at 8:45 in the evening. Cal McCarthy was accompanied by his backer, Joe Early, and his seconds, Tom Collins and Jack McMaster; Dixon, by his seconds, Daniel Gunn and Tom McGough.
Born in McClintockville, Pennsylvania, in 1869, to Irish parents, Charles “Cal” McCarthy stood a half-inch shorter than Dixon. His hair was brown and thick and rose up in a wave from a side part. His eyes were dark and deep-set in a narrow face. As a child, McCarthy had moved with his family to Jersey City, New Jersey, where the scrappy Cal was soon drawn into fighting. He started professional boxing in early 1888. He rapidly rose to the top, with quick hands and a ferocious temperament, becoming the first teenaged titleholder in December of that year.
The two boxers on that February night weighed in at 114½ pounds each. “McCarthy,” reported the paper, “looked as white and as hard as a statue, [while] Dixon [was] as lithe and strong as a young oak.” The betting had been heavy leading up to the fight and leaned decidedly toward McCarthy. “Charley Johnston offered $1,000 to $5,000 even money on McCarthy,” recorded the paper, “but there were no takers. Arthur Johnson, a New York colored man, wagered $200 to $250 on Dixon, and there were numerous other bets made, such as $100 to $80 and $100 to $50 on McCarthy.”
At 9:00 p.m., the fighters approached the centre of the ring where the referee, Al Smith, offered instructions and asked the pugilists to shake hands. The two then returned to their corners and to the encouragement of their seconds.
The bell rang.
McCarthy and Dixon danced cautiously around each other for a time, until McCarthy landed two quick blows to Dixon’s head.
Dixon did nothing.
McCarthy struck again at Dixon’s ear with his right and his jaw with his left. Dixon responded with an uppercut that fell short. McCarthy stepped in and delivered a hard right to Dixon’s chest. Dixon, perhaps surprised or even stunned, backed warily against the ropes, where he stayed until the bell rang.
Rounds two and three saw Dixon overwhelmed and frequently clinching, desperate for an opportunity to strike back. McCarthy remained undeterred. He delivered heavy body blows that kept Dixon on the ropes. Dixon tried to respond, again and again, but in each instance, McCarthy tied him up.
In round four, Dixon found an opening and threw an overhand right that struck McCarthy’s nose. McCarthy winced. Dixon moved forward deftly for a second punch, but the wily McCarthy slipped the blow. As Dixon followed, McCarthy countered with two quick lefts to Dixon’s ear and eye. Still on the attack, Dixon picked up his pace. He moved forward and connected with combinations.
Then McCarthy struck back, pushing Dixon to the ropes with sharp combinations. Though Dixon defended well, he was unable to return blows. Again he clinched. When the two turned together, Dixon pulled away and delivered a fearsome combination that might have dropped McCarthy had McCarthy not slipped under a right cross.
In round five, McCarthy again pushed Dixon against the ropes, delivering solid strikes to Dixon’s stomach and ribs. And when McCarthy delivered another combination, Dixon returned with an uppercut that fell feebly short. By round six, betting was now two to one on McCarthy. The crowd roared as McCarthy landed blows once, twice, three times – twice to Dixon’s head and once to his chest – without any response from Dixon. Finally, Dixon slipped away. Shaking off the attack, he gathered himself, lifted his hands, and rushed in. McCarthy simply danced away. McCarthy finished the round by delivering a stinging right that drew blood from Dixon’s nose.
Near to the ring, the betting was now $100 to $35 on McCarthy.
Round seven saw the advantage continuing for McCarthy. Dixon struggled to find any rhythm or opportunity. He swung twice with his right, missing his target both times. McCarthy efficiently responded with blows that connected, left then right, to Dixon’s head, followed by a hard left to the ribs. Finally, Dixon connected with a left to McCarthy’s eye and then a left to his nose.
The heavy betting continued.
In rounds eight and nine, McCarthy worked Dixon’s body. Dixon’s left made a steady target of McCarthy’s head. By round ten, both fighters showed serious fatigue. McCarthy was known for slowing as a fight continued, and on this night, he was true to form. Dixon soon gained the upper hand, delivering sharp blows to McCarthy’s head and chest. McCarthy, in an effort to maintain his advantage, kept backing away, but Dixon stayed in determined pursuit. McCarthy finally resolved to clinch, signalling a swing in the momentum of the fight.
Dixon took the charge.
Round eleven saw an energized Dixon delivering clean, direct strikes to McCarthy in well-delivered combinations. At one point, as the round neared its finish, McCarthy seemed stunned by a blow to the head. He dropped his hands, leaving himself open. Dixon did not hesitate. He struck McCarthy repeatedly. Only the bell saved McCarthy from a knockout.
When the bell rang for round twelve, a dazed McCarthy tried his best to hang back from Dixon, who eagerly pressed his advantage. McCarthy leaned against the ropes as Dixon attacked. The two fighters exchanged heavy combinations. Seeing McCarthy’s weakness, Dixon expended great energy, desperate to finish the contest. McCarthy hung on, clinching or slipping away, only to have Dixon drive him back each time into the ropes.
Somehow, McCarthy made it to the bell.
By rounds thirteen and fourteen, both fighters were spent. They rose slowly from their corners and approached each other with caution. They circled, looking for openings and hoping for a second wind. Bets of $100 to $90 and $500 to $400 on Dixon were now offered, but none were taken, while in the ring, McCarthy offered light jabs at Dixon.
As the sixteenth round came to a close, Dixon landed a hard left to McCarthy’s right eye, which quickly swelled and bled. McCarthy responded with his own blow above Dixon’s left eye, which also began to bleed. In round seventeen, the two fighters found their second wind, offering clean, hard blows – but to little effect.
McCarthy’s right eye bled.
Dixon’s left eye swelled shut.
And the two fought on.
As quickly as it had come, Dixon and McCarthy now lost their second wind. In rounds twenty-one through twenty-three, the two offered nothing more than cautious dancing and probing with few blows landed. In rounds twenty-four and twenty-five, McCarthy worked Dixon’s body and head, and round twenty-six saw Dixon deliver blows that left McCarthy’s “eye and nose in bad condition.”
Heavy exhaustion settled over both fighters through rounds twenty-seven to thirty-three, leaving the boxers moving about the ring warily and wearily, barely able to hold up their hands. The crowd quieted. The pugilists now seemed locked in a dance of endurance.
In round thirty-four, the tide changed. Dixon rushed forward, and the fighters exchanged damaging combinations. The crowd livened, and the betting picked up, moving toward Dixon, 100 to 80. In round thirty-eight, the two fighters were tangled in the corner, and they fell to the canvas. When they rose, Dixon delivered such a flurry of blows that McCarthy “went down to avoid Dixon’s fierce rushes.” According to The Boston Globe reporter, “The round ended with McCarthy lying on his stomach and Dixon punching at his head.”
For the next eight rounds, Dixon was spent. McCarthy took the advantage, striking Dixon with powerful combinations. Yet the effort failed to finish him, and for the two rounds following, the combatants did little more than stagger. In the sixtieth round, Dixon again took the lead with effective combinations to McCarthy’s head and body. And for a time, it looked as though Dixon might put McCarthy away, but Dixon could not find the final combination. From the sixty-fifth round until the sixty-ninth round, the fighters returned to staggering about in the ring, struggling to keep their arms up.
Finally, at the end of the seventieth round, after an astonishing and exhausting four hours and thirty-seven minutes, the referee, Al Smith, called the epic battle a draw.
Almost immediately, Dixon laid shared claim to the bantamweight title.
* * *
To walk along the avenues of New York during the 1890s was to be overwhelmed by the number of saloons. “There is scarcely a block on any of the poorer avenues which has not its liquor-store, and generally there are two,” wrote a visitor to New York in the mid-1890s. “Wherever a street crosses them, there is a saloon on at least one of the corners; sometimes on two, sometimes on three, sometimes, even, on all four. In a stretch of some two miles [along Sixth Avenue] I counted nearly ninety of them.” And by 1890 a picture of heavyweight champion John. L. Sullivan hung in nearly every one.
Part of the “sporting life” was garnering attention, and boxers from the beginning drew attention to themselves, spending lavishly and dressing well. “I’ve got the prettiest clothes you ever saw,” John L. Sullivan often bragged. The first Black heavyweight champion, Jack Johnson, would buy the fastest cars in the brightest colours. He would gleefully pay speeding tickets by the dozen, peeling off crisp bills from a thick money roll. In one often repeated though most likely apocryphal tale, Jack Johnson was said to be driving his new, bright red roadster through a small town in Georgia. When a local policeman caught sight of a Black man behind the wheel of an expensive car, he raced out and stopped him.
“What’s the problem, officer?” asked a smiling Johnson.
“Boy, you were driving too fast,” said the officer. “And I’m gonna have to fine you fifty dollars.”
Johnson, who by now was used to this type of shakedown, reached casually into his pocket and pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills. He peeled one off and handed it to the officer.
“What’s this?” said the surprised officer. “I can’t make change.”
“Keep it for now,” said Johnson as he started up the car. “I’m coming back this way just as fast as I went through.”
* * *
As Dixon’s individual star was rising, tales of boxers and their lavish “sporting” lives filled newspapers across the country. First among these was John L. Sullivan. Because the public appetite for news about the heavyweight champion was so great, Sullivan frequently found himself in the papers for his increasingly erratic behaviour.
Late on the evening of March 5, 1890, John L. Sul-livan entered Kelly’s Saloon on Thirty-first Street in San Francisco. Someone who was there later noted that Sullivan “was maudlin drunk.” A dozen or so customers sat in the back, and in one corner, two women and a single man occupied a small table.
From the doorway, Sullivan looked about the saloon, a cigar hanging from his mouth, “his hair disheveled,” and “his battered silk hat … pushed back on his head.” He stumbled from table to table, amusing himself “at the expense of those present.” He slapped at one, playfully punched another, offered a “dig in the ribs for the next one and would [then] fall over another,” insulting each as he went along. On the whole, the patrons were tolerant, either out of respect for the champion or out of fear.
Sullivan continued on, sometimes “knocking off a hat and pressing his hand over someone’s face.” Then he sat heavily at an empty table. When he noticed the threesome in the corner, he seemed agitated that they were paying him no attention. So he made “several uncomplimentary remarks,” but they ignored him.
Finally, Sullivan stood, knocking over his table, and yelled, “I am John L. Sullivan and I can whip any man in the world!” He then walked over to the trio, and in some demonstration of toughness, he took the cigar from his mouth and “jabbed it into his [own] left eye.” He winced and swore. The absurdity of the scene caused many in the room to laugh. But this only further agitated the champion. And when Sullivan regained his focus, he glared at the table of three.
“Do you know who I am?” slurred Sullivan.
“No, I don’t know who you are,” said the man, “and I don’t care.”
“Well,” said Sullivan, leaning forward and pointing to himself, “I am Sullivan, and I can kill you with one blow.”
“I don’t care,” the man repeated. “And I won’t be insulted by anyone.”
Sullivan was enraged. The young man stood and let loose a right-hand punch that landed smartly on Sullivan’s mouth. The stunned champion staggered back, fell over two chairs, and sprawled on the floor.
Confusion overcame the room.
Realizing what he had done, the young man quickly ran for the door. Sullivan rose to his knees, shaking his head. By the time he got to his feet, Sullivan’s friends had entered the saloon and held him back from taking revenge against innocent spectators.
After a time, and likely after a few more drinks, his friends led John L. out of the saloon and safely home.
* * *
On Sunday afternoon, May 5, 1890, the Lawrence Daily Journal in Kansas reported that fifty men on horseback rode into the small town of Lexington, South Carolina. Outside the local jail on the main street, they dismounted. Some wore masks, and all were armed. They approached the front door, one carrying a rope, and upon finding the door locked, they knocked it down and entered the jail.
Inside, they found the local sheriff standing by his desk, terrified. The men demanded he give up the cell keys, which he did. The mob then marched down the hall toward the cells, where an eighteen-year-old Black man named William Leophart was waiting for trial. Leophart had been arrested for “outraging a white girl.”
Leophart watched in horror as the gang tried to unlock his cell door, but they struggled with the key. He was not about to go easily, so he reached through the bars and “seized a club,” which he swung wildly at the men. He “fought like a maniac,” said one witness, and even managed to injure one of the attackers before the men finally drew their guns and opened fire. “Some 500 shots were poured into the cell,” said the same witness. “The man [Leophart] was literally riddled with bullets, which were picked up afterward in the room by the handful.”
No one was charged with Leophart’s murder.
* * *
Given his epic draw with Cal McCarthy, Dixon began receiving numerous offers to fight. Tom O’Rourke reviewed all with an eye to improving his fighter’s purses. One offer that seemed too good to pass on came from the manager of Tommy Kelly, the 105-pound champion, who had been fighting for two weeks in New Jersey’s vaudeville theatres. Kelly’s manager offered Dixon $250 for one day to fight all comers who could last four rounds. O’Rourke saw this as easy money while he planned for more lucrative fights.
However, when Dixon and O’Rourke arrived at the theatre in New Jersey, they discovered that they had been deceived. Kelly’s manager had arranged for three four-round exhibitions for Dixon, all against experienced boxers. O’Rourke was furious. Dixon, though, remained surprisingly calm. Given the cost of travel and the possible loss of face, Dixon thought it wiser to accept the challenge. So on March 1, 1890, Dixon stepped into the ring with Paddy Kearney, and for four rounds, he beat the hapless Kearney senseless. On March 3, Dixon promptly knocked out veteran Joe Ferrell in two rounds. And on March 5, he dropped Jack Carey in three rounds. He then curtly collected his fee and returned to Boston.
* * *
Meantime, Tom O’Rourke arranged for a bout between George Dixon and the English bantamweight champion, Nunc Wallace. O’Rourke believed that winning this fight would solidify Dixon’s claim to the title. So in June of 1890, Dixon and O’Rourke set sail for England.
Up to that time, English boxers had long been considered the finest in the world – and for good reason. No American champion had ever defeated an English boxer for a world title. Consequently, expectations ran high that Wallace would easily continue the tradition of victory.
Edward “Nunc” Wallace was born in Birmingham, England, the son of Scottish parents. At twenty-four years of age, he stood five feet two inches tall. He had been a professional fighter for four years and had competed in nineteen bouts, seven with bare knuckles and twelve with gloves. He had only been beaten three times and “those were in gloved competition.”
Given the generous publicity, the Dixon-Wallace fight was arranged for the Pelican Club, the famed English gentlemen’s club, where patrons wore tuxedos as they watched pugilists fight on a crisp white canvas and sat at a food- and drink-laden table, waited on by gloved servants. The club was filled to capacity that night with those curious to witness the prowess of the upstart challenger.
At 11:00 p.m., on June 27, 1890, George Dixon, weighing 113 pounds, entered the ring at the Pelican Club wearing a red, white, and blue striped robe “with a spread eagle centre, surrounded by two American flags.” As Dixon waved and walked casually to his corner where he took a seat on the stool provided, the many Americans in attendance let out a raucous cheer. When one of Dixon’s handlers whispered into his ear that the corner had been used by a fighter who had lost earlier in the night, the superstitious Dixon stood and crossed the ring, taking a seat on the opposite side.
Five minutes later, the 112-pound Nunc Wallace entered the room to the enthusiastic applause of the English patrons. He wore a white robe “embroidered with the Prince of Wales plume in black.” He stepped through the ropes into the ring, taking a seat in the available corner. After a few minutes of preparation, the boxers rose and removed their robes. Dixon “was nearly naked, wearing a pair of theatrical trunks,” while Wallace “wore dark blue drawers.”
The referee called the two fighters to the centre of the ring for instructions. They listened, shook hands, and returned to their corners. Meanwhile, the betting began almost immediately, with the odds running at £600 to £400 on Wallace.
From the bell, Wallace was clearly outclassed. He “seemed unable to counter effectively Dixon’s terrific blows,” reported The Boston Globe. And by the third round, he could not land a glancing punch on Dixon without receiving two or three sharp blows in return. To many it seemed Dixon might have ended the fight quickly, but perhaps in the interests of making more money from the betting, Dixon chose instead to spar for points. By the tenth round, as Dixon intensified his assault, Wallace was near to being knocked out and was saved only by the bell.
From table to table in the Pelican Club, the betting shifted quickly, moving two to one and then five to two for Dixon, but “the odds found very few takers.” Dixon continued boxing for points, delivering effective combinations from the twelfth through the seventeenth rounds. Then, in the eighteenth round, Dixon “knocked Wallace all over the ring.” Clearly, Wallace was incapable of defending himself. He lifted his hands in defeat. “Stop,” Wallace was heard to say. “Stop, I’ll give in.”
A thunderous cheer rose from the crowd at the Pelican Club. The Americans in the crowd raced into the ring where they lifted Dixon onto their shoulders and carried him about the room in riotous celebration. The crowd sang a hearty “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” Still standing in the ring, Wallace was “badly bruised about the face, and his right eye was cut open.” Dixon by contrast showed “no marks of punishment.”
Typical of the times, Dixon and O’Rourke remained in England for the remainder of July so that Dixon and Wallace could travel around the country offering boxing fans more than a dozen three-round exhibition bouts.
* * *
Back in Boston, Dixon’s victory was a welcome event. “The colored people of the city took great interest in the fight,” reported The Boston Globe, “and a large number of the prominent colored gentlemen, together with a dozen other sporting men, waited patiently in The Globe sporting rooms last evening for the result of the battle.”
On returning to Boston, Dixon and O’Rourke identified the three men standing in the way of Dixon’s claim to the featherweight title – Johnny Murphy, who purported to be the featherweight champion of the world; Cal McCarthy, whom Dixon needed to beat to erase any doubts; and Abe Willis, the reigning Australian bantamweight champion. Dixon and O’Rourke knew that a victory over these three would end all doubts about who was the bantamweight and the featherweight champion of the world.
First came the fight with Murphy.
On October 23, 1890, Dixon laced up his gloves to fight Johnny Murphy in a featherweight championship bout in Providence, Rhode Island, for a purse of $1,500 and a side bet of $1,200. “The result of the glove contest between George Dixon and Johnnie Murphy,” wrote The World of New York, “which takes place at the Gladstone Athletic Club, in Providence, to-night, will be awaited with interest. The New York and Brooklyn sporting fraternity will have his representation at the ring side, and it is assured that the gymnasium of the Club will be taxed to its utmost capacity, for Boston will send a large delegation … Umpire John Kelly has secured a special parlor car, which will be attached to the Shore Line train leaving the Grand Central Depot at 1 o’clock to-day. This car will be side-tracked at Providence, and leaves that city at midnight if the decision is given at that time. The Stonington line boat last night carried more than a hundred admirers of boxing to Providence.”
Johnny Murphy, muscular and with a square head and close-cropped hair, hailed from England but had moved to America as a child. He now called Boston home. He had been fighting for six years and claimed to be the 114-pound featherweight champion. Although his self-styled championship was more bravado than reality, he was certainly a formidable opponent. And both O’Rourke and Dixon were happy to sell the fight as a championship bout.
Dixon and Murphy both entered the ring that night at 9:35. The crowd, more favourable to Murphy, jeered at Dixon, calling out insults and threats. Dixon ignored them as he listened to the instructions from the referee. The fighters shook hands and the bell sounded.
From the start, the fight belonged to Dixon. He moved with speed and grace, anticipating every effort by Murphy and responding with devastating effect. He threw well-designed combinations to Murphy’s body and sharp uppercuts and overhands to his head.
Murphy, a determined fighter, remained standing. For fourteen rounds, as the crowed taunted Dixon, Murphy held up under the rain of blows. After a time, Murphy appeared dazed and ready to fall. But Dixon refused to finish his opponent.
In the fifteenth round, Murphy’s cornermen claimed that Dixon had thrown a low blow, but the referee waved the claim off and let the fight continue. The crowd howled in protest. Thereafter, perhaps remembering the Wright bout, Dixon seemed more cautious, afraid of losing on a foul. Murphy took advantage of Dixon’s caution and pressed for an advantage. Even still, Murphy could not land a solid punch. Round after round, Dixon kept dodging and dancing, and countering with decisive blows.
A contemporary drawing of the fight shows Murphy and Dixon in a tight clinch, as they fall heavily to a ring floor of broad wooden planks surrounded by ropes. Over them stands a referee with wide sideburns and wearing a long coat. Sitting ringside are men dressed in top hats and long coats, while further back, the poorer patrons perch on wooden boxes.
In round thirty-seven, Dixon rushed Murphy into the corner and threw a right and left to his head. Murphy slumped but did not fall. He lifted his hands and weathered more blows from Dixon before slipping under a right hand and staggering to the opposite side of the ring. Dixon followed and delivered another sharp strike to the head that dropped Murphy to his knees. As Dixon hovered, his hand cocked back, Murphy pulled himself up by the ropes. Once Murphy stood free, Dixon let loose a furious combination that might well have finished Murphy had the bell not rung.
Murphy rallied in the next round, pressing Dixon, who now dodged what Murphy offered and responded with efficient counterblows. But Murphy began to fade. In the fortieth round, almost two hours after the fight began, Murphy could take no more. Enduring one more Dixon combination, Murphy collapsed into the arms of his trainers, and the fight was called. Those in attendance could not help but notice that Dixon hardly seemed fatigued.
The crowd shouted their disgust.
“When he fought Johnny Murphy and beat him in forty rounds,” observed Nat Fleischer, “Dixon had to do all his fighting in the center of the ring, so maneuvering his man as not to get near the ropes where the thugs could hit his legs with their black jacks and slug shots.” Yet Dixon maintained an exceptional discipline. He rarely showed anger at the constant abuse, and he always projected a positive, agreeable face to the public.
Still, the constant racist reproach from white fans must have taken its toll.
* * *
In July 1890, the Daily Tribune of Salt Lake City ran a long article about the growing interest in the bantamweight and featherweight classes of boxing. The headline series, common to the age, ran: “Little Giants of the Ring. The Bantams and Feather-Weights Crowding the Big Fellows. A Swarm of Lilliputian Fighters. The Product of the Boxing Schools – More Scientific, Pluckier and Cleverer Than the Heavy-Weights – Some Interesting Examples – Great Matches Among the Little Men.”
“Since the Kilrain-Sullivan fight,” read the article, “no event in the prize ring has been regarded with livelier interest than the battle for the bantam-weight championship of the world between George Dixon and Nunc Wallace.” The comparison to John L. was clear.
“That the triumphant tour of John L. Sullivan should have been emulated by a bantam is sufficiently amusing to those who have not been observant of the tendencies of the ring, but to the insiders, it is full of significance. The day of the ‘little un’ has come. In numbers and superior science, he is crowding the big fellows to the wall. He is chock full of grit and would rather be killed than suffer defeat. His little body sometimes contains the heart of a lion. It is not surprising that the big fellows should hold him in such high esteem, looking at him admiringly and wonder at the concentrated lightning style in which he sets to work on an opponent.”
Around this time, Dixon began a habit of celebrating his victories with a drink. After a fight, Dixon and O’Rourke would make their way to the local saloon, where O’Rourke would have a few glasses of beer, while Dixon, noted the New York Sun not long after his death, “would get a pocketful of money and start opening wine and buying drinks for everyone like a millionaire out on a lark. The colored fighter had a big heart and slipped many a five or ten spot to broken down boxers and old friends. Outside of the ring, Dixon was a very quiet man. He never talked fight of his own will and never got into a row if he could help it.”
At the very threshold of his greatest success, Dixon’s concurrent embrace of the sporting life would bring his greatest failure.