Swinging Blow Behind the Back: One of the most scientific as well as one of the prettiest and most effective blows I know of is the ‘Swinging Behind the Back’ blow. It is really a counter blow for a left hand body punch, but accomplished in such a manner that one scarcely realizes how it is landed. In the cut, which shows the blow, you will observe that my sparring companion has landed his left hand upon my body. He has also avoided a left hand blow aimed at his face by slipping his head to the right, but carelessly has pushed his head too far forward which gives me the opportunity to land with my right, by swinging behind my back. In cut No. 3, which shows the left hand blow, I warned my readers not to push the head too far forward. You now see why the head should be kept just beyond your opponent’s left elbow.
– George Dixon, “A Lesson in Boxing” (1893)
In the summer of 1906, George Dixon was asked to make a fight film for the American Mutoscope and Biograph Company. Fight films earned huge windfalls for big-name boxers by showing championship bouts around the country. And though Dixon was well past his prime, the producers thought there might be a few dollars in the project. As always, Dixon needed the cash, so he accepted the offer. One wonders, too, if he perhaps wanted some visual record of his work in the ring. In either case, the film producers induced him to put on the gloves for a three-minute, two-round film.
From the set position of the camera, the bout was staged in a ring no bigger than ten feet by ten feet. Behind the ring, on two sides, ran two rows of live spectators. All were men, most in dark suits and bowler hats. A few wore long mustaches. All were white. Behind these men ran another two rows of painted spectators. The painted spectators were similar in appearance to the live fans, presumably to give the film a greater sense of depth and realism.
In the opening moments of the fight film, an emcee stands in the centre of the ring. He wears a long jacket, tie, and dress pants. Though a silent film, he briefly addresses the cameraman then announces the fighters. Behind him, in the centre of the ring, lie two sets of leather gloves. The emcee raises his right hand to the far corner, and introduces Dixon’s opponent, Chester Leon, an unknown fighter with no professional record. Leon, wearing light trunks, nimbly jumps through the ropes and takes his seat on a stool. He is followed into the ring by two handlers, both wearing white shirts, suspenders, and dark pants.
The emcee then raises his left hand to the near corner where Dixon appears. His back is to the camera. He wears dark trunks and a white belt. His handler also enters. He, too, wears a white shirt and black pants held up by suspenders, and his black hair is parted neatly down the middle.
Both Leon and Dixon take their seats. Towels are laid on their shoulders, and leather gloves are tied onto their hands. A referee replaces the emcee in the ring. He wears a white shirt and black tails. He nods at the audience, and then, while the fighters are prepared, he tests the ropes. After this, he invites the fighters to meet in the centre and offers instructions.
The two fighters are mirror images – both are the same height and are thin, muscular, and agile. They nod at the referee, shake hands with each other, and return to their respective corners. The seconds leave the ring.
A bell sounds to start the bout.
The two fighters approach, their heads back, their gloves up. Each uses a high front step before delivering a blow. They close in and exchange punches. But the blows are not crisp or well delivered. Instead, they are roundhouse punches that give the fight the feel of a street brawl or schoolyard scrap rather than a professional boxing match. Dixon throws alternating lefts and rights, before clinching, breaking away, and starting the looping punches again. Leon proves little better, mostly ducking beneath Dixon’s blows and leaning into a clinch. When the film is stopped on a single frame, Dixon still appears impressive physically. But in motion, his movements are slow, and he is flat-footed.
After a few seconds more, following a flurry of wild, roundhouse swings by both fighters, Leon is suddenly down. At first, it appears that Leon was struck by a lightning fast blow, but when the film is rewound and reviewed slowly, it is clear that Leon took a dive.
No doubt, the dive was scripted for the film, a staged hint of Dixon at the height of his powers. Leon stays down for a count of six then rises. The fight continues. The two pugilists dance slowly around the ring, exchanging more looping punches that rarely connect.
The film then cuts to what appears to be the end of the round. After a few moments on the corner stools, the seconds leave the ring, and the fighters stand ready for round two. Dixon seems sharper now, perhaps finding some of the old magic in the rhythm of the movement. He dodges punches, delivers combinations, and pushes Leon back into the ropes. Yet the punches lack bite, perhaps by design or by agreement.
Then, almost suddenly, the fight ends.
The two shake hands and the referee sends each fighter to his respective corner. Dixon turns and looks for a moment in the direction of the camera. When the film is stopped in that moment, Dixon’s face looks weary and older than his thirty-six years. Then, when the film starts again, the image of the two fighters cuts abruptly to black.
It’s over.
The three minutes of film are a sad cinematic final word on Dixon’s career.
And, in a sense, the fighter in the film was already dead.
* * *
Of George Dixon’s last professional fight in 1906, no written account remains. Perhaps this is just as well. It was a sad conclusion to an extraordinary career, a final forgotten bout for a once great fighter, a fighter whose every round in the ring as champion had been described in rapturous detail.
His last fight came on December 10, 1906, against an unknown fighter from Rhode Island. His name was Monk The Newsboy. Monk The Newsboy fought in only twelve professional fights, of which Dixon was his tenth. He brought with him a record of three losses, three wins, and three draws when he entered the ring with Dixon in Providence, Rhode Island, at the Lymansville Athletic Club. The fight lasted fifteen uneventful rounds, after which Monk The Newsboy was declared the winner. The loss for Dixon must have been decisive.
It is impossible to know what may have been going through Dixon’s mind in the dressing room after the fight. But after nearly a thousand professional fights, and after winning championships in three weight classes, George Dixon, one of the greatest boxers ever to enter the ring, finally hung his leather gloves on the hook by the door for the last time. He left the dressing room with his bag on his shoulder and never returned as a professional fighter.
Officially, George Dixon fought in 150 matches, winning 69 (with 38 knockouts), losing 29, and drawing 52. In truth, however, an accurate count of his fights in the ring would be far higher. The Police Gazette reported that Dixon had fought in more than a thousand bouts, but this is almost certainly a tabloid exaggeration. Still, Tom O’Rourke claimed that Dixon fought in more than eight hundred bouts, which seems plausible. If true, hardly a week went by in George Dixon’s twenty-year career as a boxer when he did not enter the ring.
It was then, and still remains, an unparalleled accomplishment.
* * *
Not long after Dixon hung up his gloves, John L. Sullivan happened across him. Dixon was begging for money in the streets of New York. Sullivan was genuinely happy to see George and the two chatted about old times.
“I’ve blown my luck,” Dixon finally told Sullivan.
“So did I once,” John L. offered in return. He reached into his pocket, retrieved what money he had and handed it to Dixon. “But I cut out the drink, and I’ve got it all back.”
Dixon took the money and nodded. “I’m afraid it’s too late to shift now,” he said. “I know I’m all in and that the end is near.”
John L. Sullivan put his hand on George Dixon’s shoulder, nodded in understanding, and they parted company for the last time.
* * *
In January 1907, The Post-Standard of Syracuse, New York, wrote, “George Dixon refuses to stop fighting or, rather, he is compelled to keep on fighting. The thousands of dollars that Dixon earned in the ring were all squandered in riotous living, and George must fight to keep alive. Dixon does not remember how he squandered the money. In fact, his ideas as to how his finances dwindled are very hazy.” Whether this article referred to the December fight with Monk The Newsboy or whether Dixon was fighting in other unrecorded exhibitions for what money he could get is uncertain. But given that his survival still rested on his fists, it is hard not to think that he engaged in some backroom bouts for a few dollars.
Six months later, a New York Tribune article ran under the headline, “George Dixon Down and Out.” Dixon had attended a benefit for Terry McGovern, who himself had fallen on hard times, becoming “demented.” During the evening at Madison Square Garden, Dixon slipped into the dressing room of boxer Harry Harris and asked for “10 cents for the cab fare home.” He explained to Harris that he was “flat broke and without a hint as to where his breakfast was to come from.”
Harris was moved by Dixon’s plea and handed him a five-dollar bill. Then, leaving his dressing room, he went into the crowd and shared what he had just learned with men he knew. The “sports” quickly assembled and began to gather money. So, too, the group, which had been auctioning cartoons by New York artists, auctioned one particular cartoon for Dixon. A “Wall Street Broker secured it at $1,100.” In another ten minutes, an additional $400 was added to the total. The money was then placed “in the hands of a committee with instructions to dole it out to Dixon at the rate of $25 a week.”
The next day, The Trenton Times also ran a short piece under the headline, “George Dixon is a Wreck – George Dixon is a physical wreck. When the former feather-weight champion put up his hands in an exhibition at the McGovern benefit, expressions of pity were heard on all sides. The little fellow does not weigh more than 110 pounds and his movements in the ring indicated extreme weakness. He went on to help McGovern in the hour of need without a dollar in his pocket, but when he left the Garden, he had nearly $600, the result of the generosity of old admirers. Dixon’s plight was a matter of general surprise. He blew a fortune in his palmy days.”
In November 1907, the San Antonio Light noted, “George Dixon, the former featherweight champion, who is now said to be practically ‘down and out,’ has received an offer from Joe Gans to serve in his new hotel [in Baltimore], which he is building. Gans, who is now on a tour of Minnesota and other northern states, wants Dixon to take charge of the bar in the establishment. The hostelry will be called ‘The Goldfield’ in honor of the Nevada town in which Gans defeated [Oscar ‘Battling’] Nelson.”
Unfortunately, for reasons never made clear, the arrangements for Dixon to take over the bar fell through.
In mid-December 1907, George Dixon spoke with a sports reporter from the Evening World. The reporter found him near a saloon in New York. He asked how he was doing.
“I was a foolish boy,” said Dixon. “I spent or gave away all I got. But I don’t see any of the people I helped willing to do much for me. The only people who stand by me at all now are the people I never did anything for.”
The reporter noted that Dixon “had drifted into the tide of homeless wrecks that swirl around dark corners and deserted lonely places. Men who used to know him pulled their hats over their eyes and hurried by when they saw him. Toward the end, it must have seemed to Little Chocolate that every one he met was hurrying by.”
Another sports reporter from the San Jose Evening News also remembered seeing George Dixon about this time. “One night I shall never forget,” the reporter recalled, “[was] a dreary, cold, rainy night on [the street]. After the pub was closed, the crowds were winding their way home through the drizzle. Little George Dixon stood alone on the corner, tears streaming down his cheeks. He seemed to be fighting some imaginary opponent. Even then, his movements, as he engaged his phantom foe, were the poetry of motion.”
This fight would be Dixon’s last.