Left Hand Body Blow: [In] a left hand body blow … the head is thrown slightly to the right and your opponent’s left arm will pass over your shoulder. As quickly as possible lead with your left for the body. If the blow lands it is usually a very telling one as your opponent is coming toward you, while the weight of your body is also flowing towards him. This same blow may be delivered at the face but it is not so effective as when landed on the body from the same position. This is one of the best as well as one of the most difficult blows I know of. When landing a left hand blow on the body, always try to hit squarely in the pit of the stomach as it is the part of the body which most affects the wind. Be careful not to stoop too low or put your head too far forward as your opponent may land a blow by swinging his right arm around behind the back. I will explain this ‘behind the back’ blow I refer to later. In slipping away from a left hand blow at the face always try and get your head just beyond your opponent’s elbow.
– George Dixon, “A Lesson in Boxing” (1893)
Throughout the nineteenth century, both bare-knuckled fighting and gloved boxing were popular pastimes among the poor and working class. Their participation in boxing naturally followed, and often reflected, the economic, social, and ethnic divisions and conflicts within the neighbourhoods of large cities. And it was no coincidence that boxing grew in popularity at the same time of growing labour strikes, gang warfare, and racial strife. It was also no coincidence that the ranks of boxers often filled with people who felt the most social and economic pressure.
America’s first “immigrants,” the Irish, dominated early boxing as did Black Americans. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the growth of Italian and Jewish immigration saw the inclusion of these groups in boxing. In fact, during these early years, fighters routinely identified themselves by their ethnicity as a means to cultivate support. “Irish” Eddie Finnegan, Abe “The Little Hebrew” Attell, and George “Little Chocolate” Dixon are all examples. The ethnic nickname was not always derogatory. Rather, it was a means to provide group identification with a particular fighter.
* * *
As George Dixon’s reputation grew, he received more attention as the presumed bantamweight champion. Naturally, Cal McCarthy, who still claimed the American bantamweight championship, took exception. In November of 1890, while Dixon sparred at a vaudeville performance in New York City with Ben Williams, the impresario of the evening, Tom Ward, introduced George Dixon to the audience as the “Bantamweight Champion of the World.” As it turned out – and one imagines by Tom O’Rourke’s design – Cal McCarthy was also present. While Dixon was receiving applause from the audience, McCarthy sauntered onto the stage and addressed the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “George Dixon is not the bantamweight champion of the world and will not be until he has defeated me. I have won the title and am willing to uphold it against Dixon or any other man. I have never been defeated, and until then the bantam championship is mine.”
The wily Ward did not miss a beat. “In the absence of Tom O’Rourke, George Dixon’s manager and backer, I am authorized to look after Dixon’s interests. I will match Dixon against McCarthy for any amount of money that he can put up. Dixon is the bantamweight champion of the world and won the title in this country and England. Mr. O’Rourke will be in town tomorrow and he will be ready to match against McCarthy.”
Dixon was either genuinely taken aback, or he feigned indignation. Afterward he spoke with a reporter from The Boston Globe. “I was surprised at McCarthy’s behavior,” Dixon said. “I met him in the bar next to the theatre before I went to the stage. We shook hands and drank together and talked for a few minutes upon general topics. I excused myself and went to dress. The next I saw of him was when he came upon the stage. I don’t think it was a square deal. It is his own fault that he did not fight me again. He said that he was not satisfied and the money was promptly put up. He failed to agree on the grounds that his arm was injured. He has made a lot of talking. For while I never defeated a champion, I have stopped and put out several men that he could only make draws with. I will meet him and fight him for going around talking about his lost chances.”
Despite Dixon’s apparent upset at McCarthy’s behaviour, it seems clear that he and O’Rourke were becoming effective at promoting a good fight for a good purse.
The press took interest in the fight and in the growing reputation of George Dixon. The Boston Globe provided an almost daily report on Dixon’s coming fights and his life. On February 5, 1891, the Globe gave its readers a brief promotion of Dixon the boxer. “[He] is a born fighter,” the article read. “He never received a lesson in boxing in his life, and what he knows about the art, he picked up himself. His career in the ring has been remarkable, and but for an unjust decision, he would have a clear record. No colored pugilist has ever gained as many honors in the ring as has Dixon, and in fact, there are but few white men that can boast of a better or equal the doughty colored lad’s record. He has also done the one thing that only one other American has succeeded in doing, won a battle in England.
“Despite his great reputation, Dixon is one of the most modest and unassuming men that ever stepped into the ring. Unlike most men of his calling, he has never become inflated over his successes, and he is just the same today as he was three years ago when he had but little reputation. Unless interviewed, he never talks fight, and he has been known to sit for two hours listening to arguments about fights and fighters without speaking a word. He also stands today as one of the finest development men in the country, and a number of prominent men who are interested in physical culture have been examining him daily at the gymnasium, where he has been training. He has surprised them all by his remarkable ‘build,’ and they all state that it is on only one man of a thousand that the serratus magnus muscles stand out as prominently as they do on Dixon.”
Dixon’s popularity was unusual in that it blurred racial lines. Few Black public figures to that date had ever been so well received by the broader population. As with John L. Sullivan, it seemed the sports-minded public in the early 1890s had an insatiable appetite for Dixon. Later that same February, The Boston Globe offered its readers additional insights into his training.
“About four to five weeks before his fight, Dixon begins to train. The first day he is given a physic, and for the next three days he does nothing except take short walks without sweating. During the remainder of the week, he does light work. The next week his walk is increased and is kept increasing until a couple of days before the battle, when he takes only short walks and punches the ball. Every morning he rises at 7, dresses himself in his sweaters and takes a 15 minute stroll about the streets. On his return he eats an orange and 10 minutes later has his breakfast, which generally consists of rolled oats, as many soft-boiled eggs as he feels disposed to eat, bread and butter and a cup of weak tea. He then takes a rest until 9 o’clock, when he starts out with his companion to do his roadwork. He goes off at an ordinary walk and increases it till he has travelled five miles. Then he starts to return, and during his journey back runs or walks, as he feels inclined.
“On his arrival at the gymnasium, an attendant strips him and rubs him down thoroughly with Turkish towels. He then takes a shower bath of lukewarm water, after which he is again rubbed down and taken to this room. There he receives a hand-rubbing with a preparation of liniment until he is dry. He then dresses himself in dry clothing and goes to his manager’s home, where he eats dinner at 1 o’clock. Sometimes it consists of roast beef, lamb, steaks, fresh fish, potatoes, stewed tomatoes, a little pudding and tea. After the meal, he rests until 3 o’clock, when he again visits the gymnasium to take his afternoon exercise. After punching the light ball 20 minutes, he uses the half pound dumbbell and Indian clubs for the next 20 minutes, and the last 20 minutes he runs around the track. He then goes through the same process of rubbing as he does in the morning. At 6 o’clock he eats his supper, which usually consists of eggs or steak, whichever he prefers. At 9 o’clock he goes to bed, and sleeps as peacefully as if nothing was on his mind.”
* * *
The rematch with Cal McCarthy was set for February 5, 1891. Some three thousand people arrived before 8:00 p.m. to watch the bout at the newly built amphitheatre called the Puritan Athletic Club. Excitement ran high for what had become a grudge match. But owners of the rival Jefferson Club went to court earlier that day to stop the match, believing they had the contract to offer the fight. The judge issued the stay, but no one told the crowd waiting outside the Puritan. Tempers flared. Many of the fans outside, “shivering in the keen westerly wind which whistled through Borden Avenue,” began to “pound and kick the doors.” Not long afterward, police arrived and dispersed the now angry mob, while management spoke to the fighters’ backers.
“I have been instructed by the management,” said a representative of the Puritan Club to Dixon’s and McCarthy’s seconds, “to say that this contest will not take place here tonight on account of legal difficulties. It is not the fault of the management. The directors have done everything in their power to bring this contest off to your satisfaction.”
Back in Boston the next day, Dixon and O’Rourke were angry. “McCarthy is not anxious to fight,” said an agitated Dixon, “and he showed it very plainly. He is talking about fighting with me with only skin gloves, but there is no money in such a battle. If there was, I would readily consent to go at him at that kind of fighting, and I am sure I can whip him with skin gloves as with four or five ounce gloves. It’s the ‘stuff’ [money] I’m after, and had the fight come off Thursday night I would have had lots of it in my pockets this morning.”
When asked about the chances of the rematch happening, Dixon responded, “There are some sporting men in New York who think they can have matters arranged so that we can meet in New Jersey in a week or so, and they are to let us know this afternoon if the battle can be decided without interference in that State. If this match falls through, I am going to take a rest for a year, for I have trained hard four times within the past year, and that is enough to weaken anyone.”
Dixon also directed his anger at the Puritan Club. “The managers of the Puritan Club have not given us anything for our trouble,” said Dixon, “and when O’Rourke spoke to them about the matter, they did not seem inclined to give up, although we were guaranteed a certain amount when we signed the articles.”
On February 9, 1891, the Puritan Club officially declared the match off. Both parties withdrew their stakes. Over the next few days, the intensity of the anger increased. McCarthy publicly complained that Dixon was unwilling to meet him because of a disagreement over glove size. The next day, O’Rourke snapped back.
“Oh! That fellow is trying to make people believe he is the only one that wants to fight,” said O’Rourke, “but we are satisfied that he is looking for a hole to crawl out of in making a new match. When he talks of fighting for a stake with skin gloves, he knows well there is no money for a fighter in such a battle. If some good club will offer a reasonable purse, we will put up as much stake money as McCarthy can raise. The gloves are immaterial, for George will fight him with the smallest-sized hand coverings the club will allow.”
No doubt the public dispute increased interest in the fight. Within days a new venue was found and a new date was set – February 20, 1891. The Hudson River Athletic Club of Jersey City put up a purse of $4,000. McCarthy quickly accepted and suggested a side bet of $2,000. Not long afterward, the date was changed again, to February 27, only to be cancelled a few days later when the city shut down the fight.
Dixon was training on the speed bag when he heard the news. He was visibly disappointed. “It will be a long time before they get me to train again for a fight in that section of New York,” he told reporters. “They have fooled me twice, and then they do not half pay me for my trouble in getting fit. I have not signed articles with this club, and now I suppose they will not give me a cent to pay for my week’s training.”
Meantime, O’Rourke authorized a California club to approve a fight between George Dixon and Abe Willis, the champion bantamweight of Australia, to be set in San Francisco sometime between April and June, 1891. On the following morning, an offer was received from Troy, New York, to host the Dixon-McCarthy fight. The articles were signed on March 6 and the fight was on again.
On the morning before his March 31, 1891, rematch with Cal McCarthy in Troy, New York, George was busy training, taking his morning run along Beacon Street in Boston, when a man working on a paving crew saw him coming along the sidewalk and stepped in front of him. “Hey,” the workman said, “you training for a six days’ race or something?”
Dixon stopped and shook his head. “Look,” he said, “just mind your own business.” He turned and started across the street.
The workman was enraged. He bent down and picked up a piece of paving stone and hurled the stone at Dixon’s head. Dixon saw the movement from the corner of his eye, and his reaction was quick. He ducked and turned toward the man. The workman’s mates, perhaps recognizing Dixon, quickly grabbed the offending worker by the arms and asked why he had done that. But the man just pulled away, saying nothing. Dixon would later make a complaint to the police and a warrant was issued for the man’s arrest.
Later that evening, George Dixon and Tom O’Rourke boarded an overnight train for Troy, New York.
Cal McCarthy and his retinue arrived in Troy before dawn, having taken a Citizens’ Line steamboat from New York City up the Hudson River. After gathering their bags at the dock, the group made their way to The Troy House Hotel in town. There, McCarthy took a bath, ate breakfast, and then took a nap. At 10:00 a.m., he woke and, fearing that he might be carrying an extra pound or so, made his way to a Turkish bath to sweat away the excess weight. When he arrived at the bath he weighed himself only to discover that he was an even 115 pounds. So he returned to the hotel and fell sleep until 2:30. After he woke, he dressed and walked with his trainers to a saloon on River Street, where he and Dixon had agreed to be officially weighed.
“Where’s Dixon?” McCarthy asked as he entered the saloon and approached the scales.
“He’ll be here in a minute,” a man at the scales said.
At that moment, Dixon entered the saloon with Tom O’Rourke.
“Hello, Cal,” said Dixon, smiling. When he reached the scales, he shook McCarthy’s hand. “You look pretty well.”
McCarthy smiled and looked Dixon over. “I’m feeling tip-top, thank you,” he said. “I don’t know that I have any the best of you.”
From behind Dixon, a stern-faced O’Rourke looked McCarthy over and then tapped Dixon on the shoulder and nodded. It was time to get down to business. Both men understood. They stripped to the waist and stood next to the scales. The judge of the scales, “Handsome” Billy Madden, fixed the scales at 115 pounds. McCarthy stepped on first. The brass beam did not move. He smiled. “See what your exact weight is, Cal,” said someone in the group. Madden moved the indicator until the scale tipped at 114½ pounds.
Then Dixon stepped on the scale. As with McCarthy, the scale did not move. But Dixon did not stay on the scale for an exact weight. They dressed as the fight referee arrived and removed three sets of four-ounce gloves from an alligator bandbox. Both fighters and their seconds inspected the gloves and gave their approval. Then, when the weigh-in was complete, the two left the saloon, each making his way to separate restaurants to eat. Dixon had a porterhouse steak, while McCarthy had a double portion of lamb chops, three poached eggs, and tea.
Afterward, both retired to their rooms and slept until they were awakened for the fight.
* * *
At 7:00 p.m., several hundred men stood outside a large, wooden building on the outskirts of Troy, New York. Normally used as bicycle track, the building had been converted into a temporary boxing venue to accommodate the unusually large crowd expected for the anticipated rematch. As the doors opened, allowing the crowd to enter, people streamed down Federal Street toward the building. The Boston Globe noted, “Some of them wore diamonds, and some did not, but those who didn’t have sparklers appeared to be just as anxious to see the contest as were the others.”
The demand for Dixon-McCarthy tickets was so great that counterfeit tickets were being sold at five dollars apiece. The doorkeepers did not discover the fraud until close to two hundred false-ticket holders had entered. By the time of the fight, more than two thousand people were seated and standing in close company, waiting for the bout to begin.
At 8:00 p.m., a delegation of local politicians filed in, smoking cigars and laughing. They walked slowly to their well-placed reserved seats near the ring. The ring itself was well laid out under excellent lighting with good ventilation. The ring posts, noted the Globe reporter, were “heavily padded with cotton covered with red muslin.”
At 9:37 p.m., George Dixon appeared in the hall with Tom O’Rourke just behind him. A wild cheer rose up from the crowd. The men made their way, slowly, through the crowd to the ring.
The betting had long since commenced, with the action heavy and most leaning toward Dixon. At the same time, Cal McCarthy had also entered the room, earning similar cheers from the crowd. Both fighters slipped through the ropes at about 10:15 p.m. and found their stools in opposite corners.
For nearly a minute more, the assembled crowd offered raucous cheers and thunderous applause. At the referee’s instruction, both fighters stood and removed their robes. Dixon wore white trunks. Murphy was in blue. The cornermen put gloves on the combatants, carefully lacing and firmly tying them at the wrist. Time was called at 10:25 p.m., and the two men met in the centre of the ring where referee Jerry Dunn explained the rules.
Dixon and McCarthy shook hands and returned to their corners.
When the bell rang, McCarthy wasted no time, striking first with a left-hand blow to Dixon’s neck. Dixon countered with a left to McCarthy’s eye. The crowd roared approval with each blow. McCarthy again delivered a left to Dixon’s neck and the two clinched. When they broke, McCarthy threw another left to Dixon’s eye and then ducked Dixon’s “deadly right.” McCarthy countered the missed punch with a sharp cut to Dixon’s jaw and yet another to his neck. As the bell rang, the betting in the room moved quickly toward McCarthy.
In the second round, Dixon was quick with his left and caught McCarthy in the ribs. McCarthy countered but missed his target. Dixon smiled. McCarthy lunged with a roundhouse left, and again, he missed. Dixon returned with a right to McCarthy’s stomach and added a quick right-left combination to the head. McCarthy clinched to save himself. But Dixon pushed him off and delivered a stinging right to the jaw that left McCarthy “sprawling in the rosin.” He stood quickly, shaking his head, while the referee checked him over. Then, when the referee stepped away, Dixon made a rush to finish McCarthy off.
But the bell rang to end the round.
In the third, Dixon picked up where he had left off. He delivered a left to McCarthy’s ear and then sidestepped the response. Dixon returned with two more shots, but McCarthy “took his medicine gamely” and the fight ebbed back toward him.
In the fourth and fifth rounds, McCarthy proved adept at slipping punches and applying evasive tactics to stay in the fight. In the sixth, he surprised Dixon with a solid shot to the chin. But Dixon stayed focused and countered with a devastating combination to McCarthy’s head and ribs. In the seventh, McCarthy took to circling the ring while Dixon tried to pin him into the corner, where he delivered hard rights to the jaw.
In the eighth round, perhaps weary from the intensity, the fighters stopped moving about the ring and stood in the centre exchanging heavy blows. Dixon bloodied McCarthy’s nose, while McCarthy drew blood from Dixon’s mouth. By the tenth, McCarthy showed a second wind, offering fine punches, but few effectively connected. Dixon returned with a thunderous right to McCarthy’s jaw, leaving McCarthy staggering backward until he cleared his head and delivered a surprising counterpunch to Dixon’s jaw. The punch clearly registered as McCarthy managed three more blows without Dixon’s response. In the eleventh, McCarthy took the initiative, catching Dixon again and again with rights and lefts. McCarthy’s cornermen roared their approval, while Dixon’s assistants registered their concern.
At the start of the twelfth round, McCarthy pressed on, striking Dixon with a solid right to the chin. Dixon held his ground and took back the initiative by moving in close and pounding on McCarthy “unmercifully.” When McCarthy tried to clinch, Dixon kept the short jabs flying until the bell. In the thirteenth round, the two fighters seemed content to rest, circling and offering few exchanges.
In the fourteenth, McCarthy returned with energy and delivered a stinging shot to Dixon’s chin. Dixon replied with set combinations to McCarthy’s chest. In the fifteenth, Dixon threw a hard left that missed and opened him up to a devastating combination by McCarthy. Dixon’s knees buckled and he appeared “groggy.” McCarthy pressed his advantage until the bell.
In the sixteenth and seventeenth rounds, McCarthy delivered more blows to Dixon’s bleeding mouth. But in the eighteenth, Dixon responded by hitting McCarthy sharply on the nose with a left. He rushed forward and caught McCarthy twice more in the head until McCarthy clinched. In the nineteenth through twenty-first rounds, Dixon regained a decisive edge, pressing and punching, punishing McCarthy, who seemed unable to find an effective response.
Finally, in the twenty-second round, McCarthy came off his stool on wobbly legs. It was quickly clear to all that he was avoiding Dixon until he felt his strength return. But Dixon did not hesitate to strike. He “went at his man like an enraged lion liberated from his cage.” He delivered a devastating combination – a hard right, then a quick left – to McCarthy’s head. McCarthy was stunned and he staggered. Dixon allowed McCarthy a moment to steady himself then rushed in with a hard left, sending McCarthy to the canvas.
McCarthy rose, slowly. He looked with defeated eyes at his corner, but his seconds encouraged him on. So McCarthy stood and moved toward Dixon, hoping perhaps to clinch. But Dixon would have none of it. He delivered another stunning left that again floored McCarthy. This time the referee stood over the prone fighter and counted to seven before McCarthy rose. Once on his feet, McCarthy managed to hug Dixon, who kept delivering shots to McCarthy’s ribs. For a third time, McCarthy fell to the canvas, exhausted.
One of McCarthy’s cornermen sprayed his man with water, and McCarthy revived enough to crawl to the post. Dixon started back to his corner. But when he turned and saw McCarthy back on his feet, he rushed at him, striking with his left. McCarthy fell leaden into the corner. This time McCarthy’s seconds found a towel and flung it into the ring. Referee Dunn picked it up and turned to the crowd. “McCarthy quits,” he shouted. “Dixon is the winner and new world champion.”
What followed was a “perfect storm of applause” as both exhausted fighters were carried on the shoulders of their supporters to their respective dressing rooms.
McCarthy had tears streaming down his cheeks.
* * *
After his victory and the circus that followed the McCarthy fight, George Dixon laid low for a few months. Likely, he spent time at home with Kitty and out on the town in Boston. Although he was mentioned in newspapers across the country almost every day, most of the reporting was in anticipation of a championship fight with Abe Willis, the bantamweight champion of Australia.
As training for the Willis bout, Dixon took a fight with Martin Flaherty in Chicago. Flaherty was from Lowell, Massachusetts, and in five fights, he was undefeated. Flat-nosed with thick shoulders, Flaherty had made a name for himself as a brawler. While Dixon was the recognized champion of the world, the crowd in Chicago was clearly hostile. As the fight began, Dixon realized he could easily dispatch Flaherty, but the local police, concerned about the mob reaction, asked Dixon to hold back for five rounds. Only in the sixth round was Dixon finally allowed to “cut loose.” At that point, Dixon began pummelling Flaherty. Flaherty clinched, and in the tussle, he raised his head sharply and cut Dixon, who began to bleed heavily.
Dixon was furious.
He backed Flaherty into his corner with devastating combinations until the police finally stepped in to stop the fight. The crowd was enraged and made clear their anger at Dixon. Concerned for his safety, Dixon did not stay long. In fact, he and O’Rourke immediately took a train from Chicago to California, where Dixon was scheduled to face Abe Willis.
* * *
The fight with Abe Willis in California was cast as the “first fight for the world’s championship in this country.” The July 27 edition of The Boston Globe noted “the amount of money offered [for this fight] is also the largest that has been offered in this country for men in this class.” To drum up more interest, the paper also said that Willis was considered a great fighter, whose “reputation was heralded throughout his country long before he reached these shores.” Indeed, “he did not confine himself to fighting men in his own class, but he met several good featherweights.”
Abe Willis was born in Woolahra, not far from Sydney, Australia, on June 15, 1868. Like Dixon, he stood five feet three. He was said to have quick hands and a tenacious presence in the ring. He began boxing in 1884 as a bare-knuckled fighter, defeating his first opponent in three and a half hours. In nearly a dozen fights afterward, Willis was said to have lost only three, two to Australian featherweight “Rocks” Griffo and once to Billy Murphy who was, at the time, more than ten pounds heavier.
The wily O’Rourke knew that a victory over Abe Willis would ensure both the bantamweight championship of the world and even bigger purses. He had been so intent on this fight coming to pass that he was prepared to travel with Dixon to Australia to meet Willis. However, the clubs in Australia would not offer enough money to make the venture worthwhile, so Willis sailed to San Francisco and made arrangements for the fight. O’Rourke had said to the interested clubs that it would take an unprecedented $5,000 to the winner and $500 expenses for the fight to happen. The California Athletic Club in San Francisco at first refused, but the demand to see the fight was so great that the club finally relented.
Waiting for the fight to be arranged, Willis gave an exhibition bout in San Francisco. His “showing, on that occasion, did not impress the sports very favorably, but it satisfied the club,” said The Boston Globe. “[Willis] is a good infighter, but from good authorities, it is learned that he does not know how to use his left. In other words, he is nothing more than a right-handed fighter. He is also said to have a bad habit of turning his head around just before he swings his right.”
No doubt George Dixon took careful notes.
The racism of the California Athletic Club was more than obvious in their less than flattering assessment of Dixon as he, like Willis, demonstrated his skills in an exhibition bout in San Francisco prior to the big fight. “The Californians looked him over very carefully, and the majority of them felt as if they would like to express to Dixon their sorrow for him coming so far to get a ‘licking.’”
The spectators were certain that Willis would make “a chopping block” of him. They also said Dixon was “more of a jockey than a fighter.” It is possible that Dixon was holding back, helping the betting odds work in his favour. But it also seems clear that the local sports were colour blind to Dixon’s obvious talents. Few had seen him fight before, and fewer still knew of his relentless and impressive improvement in style and form with each bout.
For the fight, Dixon had little difficulty keeping his weight at 114½ pounds, while Willis, it was said, was “having a hard time getting the weight [he had gained since his arrival] off.” Dixon took to training at a local gym called Neptune Gardens in Alameda, five miles from the city. Willis trained at Sausalito.
A Baltimore newspaper, The Morning Herald, described Dixon’s training on July 19. “George Dixon, champion bantamweight of America, is considered by all who have visited him at his quarters, the best self-trained man that ever stepped into fighting shoes,” noted the Herald reporter in San Francisco. “Tom O’Rourke is ever present, but there is little need of his services. Dixon has several new ideas in training, which will probably be adopted by other pugilists in this city. Although always confident of winning, Dixon never goes into training with the idea of doing up an opponent in two or three rounds. He always prepares himself for a long battle. He is doing so now. Bantams as a rule fight longer than heavyweights. In keeping their arms before them for 40 or 50 rounds the muscles become strained and then cramped.
“Dixon’s methods are to overcome this. His plan is simple. He uses a small pair of dumb-bells, and with one in either hand he faces an imaginary opponent. As he feints, leads and ducks before the ‘spook’ enemy, he advances on one and then the other foot. The weight of the dumb-bells strengthens his arms without binding the muscles.
“Besides running regularly on the rounds, Dixon does considerable leg work in the Neptune Gardens building. Standing on the same spot he gets his legs in a running motion and covers what would be five miles in ordinary running. He times himself by the number of minutes it would take him to cover that distance. He never moves off the spot, however, but swings his arms, throws out his chest and goes through the movements of running without making headway.”
As the interest in the Dixon-Willis fight grew, so too did the odds and the betting. Making the interest even greater were rumours suggesting another venue, the Occidental Club, was likely to take the match from the California Athletic Club. A local bookmaker named Phil Archibald, originally from Australia, had “a large sized bone to pick with the California Club.” It was said that he had long been a backer of the Australians “ever since he left Kangerooland.” In counterbalance, Tom O’Rourke, who was a friend of the Occidental Club’s treasurer and was offered $400 to move the fight there, defended the present site for the bout. In the end, Willis finally said he would abide by the agreement and fight at the California Club.
On the morning of July 27, Abe Willis took a long run over the mountains of Marin County, and after being rubbed down at Ryan’s Hotel in Sausalito, he weighed in at 113 pounds. George Dixon continued to work out at Neptune Gardens in Alameda. Said one reporter of Dixon, he “looks as quick as a bullet and as healthy as a prize pig at a State fair, although not quite as beefy.” At the California Club the seating was arranged and set, and the betting on the fight was now $80 to $100 for Willis.
* * *
On July 28, 1891, the long-awaited Bantamweight Championship of the World took place at the California Club. The final purse was set for $5,000, the largest ever offered for a bantamweight fight, with $750 going to the loser. Both fighters were in excellent shape as they made their way to the club. Dixon travelled to the bout across the bay from Neptune Gardens, “feeling excellent and looking fine,” while Willis arrived from Sausalito early and went right to the California Club.
Said one reporter, Willis looked in “splendid” condition. When asked for his thoughts by a Boston Globe reporter, Willis said, “I know I’ve got a hard man to whip, but I feel as confident of doing it has I have in my past fights. Win or lose my friends can rest assured that I will make the best fight I can, and they will have no fault to find with me. I feel as strong as an ox, and think I can fight all night if necessary.”
The fighters weighed in at the club at 3:00 p.m. Willis tipped the scales at 114½ pounds, while Dixon weighed in at 115. The referee was a veteran of the ring, a gentleman named Hiram Cook. The betting, which had commenced long before the fight, was now unusually heavy, with bookmakers active throughout the day and into the evening. The initial interest in Willis now moved toward Dixon as word of his fights on the east coast began to spread west. Odds of ten to eight in favour of Dixon were easily covered. Tom O’Rourke arrived at the club and quickly found Phil Archibald, Willis’s backer. Archibald wanted to lay a side bet of $2,500 on Willis. O’Rourke, smiling at Archibald, happily accepted.
By 7:00 p.m., a “big, noisy crowd” had already gathered at the club. Prices for tickets had been lowered so that “a portion of the tough element” could enter and watch. A preliminary fight was offered, but it was a weak showing and only made the anticipation for the main event even greater. At 8:30 p.m., Dixon and Willis finally entered. As they met in the centre of the ring where the referee explained the rules, the two looked like “pygmy giants, with hair cropped so closely that they were white-headed.” The two shook hands and smiled, while the patrons went as “quiet as church mice.”
The sharp clang of the bell broke the silence, and the two fighters sprang up from their corners and approached. Dixon showed himself to be cautious at first. He feigned two blows to draw Willis out. Willis responded twice. Then Dixon unloaded a fierce right to Willis’s jaw, dropping Willis to the canvas. The crowd jeered. Though stunned, Willis was quick to his feet, shaking his head and then rushing at Dixon. The two exchanged furious blows until the bell rang.
In round two, the fighters stood toe to toe. Dixon allowed this even though in-close fighting was Willis’s strength. The two clinched, broke, and clinched again. When they broke the second time, Dixon committed himself to a left-hand “half-arm swing” to Willis’s ribs. Willis countered with two sharp rights to Dixon’s face. Dixon just smiled and said, “That’s the way.”
Frustrated, Willis threw more blows to little effect.
In round three, Dixon stepped up his assault, delivering “straight drives from the shoulder, swings, and uppercuts as plentiful as checks in the Chinese quarters.” Willis tried to respond with solid rights to Dixon’s head, but Dixon ducked each punch. Leaning forward, Dixon then delivered a “crusher” to Willis’s jaw. Willis was notably rattled but kept on swinging.
Dixon continued to have the upper hand in round four, using his left hand to devastating effect, landing nearly every punch he threw. Willis, meanwhile, tried to find an opening for his right, but Dixon had studied his opponent well.
He left no holes.
Dixon racked up more points, delivering two forceful lefts to Willis’s jaw. Willis reeled. Dixon stepped in close for “10 or 15 seconds of infighting, buzz-saw fashion.” And by the bell, the punishment on Willis had taken its toll.
By round five, it was clear the day belonged to Dixon. He opened the round with a “hard shot” left to Willis’s neck and another left to the ribs. Willis was “dazed.” Dixon moved to alternate hand combinations to the ribs and then to the stomach. He used a fast right that caught Willis on the nose and followed with a left-hand uppercut to the stomach. Willis was winded and he doubled up. Finally, Willis fell “helpless” to the ropes. He shook off the assault, and then staggered back to the centre of the ring, where he met another left hand to the chest. Willis dropped to a knee, but rose again, only to receive a final left to the jaw. He fell unconscious to the canvas, moving only once before the count of ten was made and the fight was called for George Dixon.
As had been the case after the Cal McCarthy fight, a large crowd of “colored men” gathered in front of The Boston Globe building, waiting to hear the news. When it came, they cheered wildly then “rushed in different directions to tell the rest of the population the good news.”
* * *
At the same time that George Dixon was defeating Abe Willis, John L. Sullivan was in Chicago, touring with his vaudeville group. As an effort to combat his drinking, he was taking a daily injection of bi-chloride of gold. “He will be under the same restrictions as other patients of Dr. Lester C. Keeley,” reported The Boston Globe, “and his disease – for it has been proved that drunkenness is a disease – it is expected will gracefully yield to the gentle influences exerted by Dr. Keeley’s inspiring cure.”
Said Sullivan about the process, “The doc says drunkenness is a disease. That hits me between the eyes, and I wouldn’t mind giving his treatment a crack.” The next day it was reported that Sullivan left for southern California “in a state of helpless drunkenness.” He had been in a fight that night and was knocked down, drawing blood from his nose. “Sullivan was drunk nearly all last week,” read the news report, “but managed to sober up every night for the theatrical performance.”
* * *
Having beaten the American bantamweight champion Cal McCarthy, the British bantamweight champion Nunc Wallace, the Australian bantamweight champion Abe Willis, and the leading bantamweight challenger Johnny Murphy, George Dixon could now lay uncontested claim to the Bantamweight Championship of the World. He had officially become the first Black champion in boxing.
Yet he wanted more.
He now set his sights on another title, the Featherweight Championship of the World.