City of Lights
The weeks before the match passed slowly for Eugene, who could think of nothing but France. Finally, the departure day—pleasantly cool and sunny—came late in November. Eugene and Brown headed for the Victoria train station. After a few hours of enjoying the train ride and the passing scenery, they stepped off in Dover. The pair headed for the docks and boarded a steamer boat headed for France. Soon they would be in Calais, a small French seaport city only 25 miles across the English Channel.
Eugene found his way to the bow of the steamer, where he stayed for the whole journey across the Channel. He strained for the first glimpse of the land of his dreams. A thrill shot through him as the coastline swelled into view on the horizon. It was France!
After the steamer tied up at the Calais dock, Brown and Eugene made their way with the other passengers down the gangway. Eugene looked around. The longshoremen wore blue denims, striped shirts and black berets—and they gestured wildly and spoke in an unintelligible, wonderful language.
It was even better than Eugene had imagined, but the two travelers had no time to dawdle. They hurried to the nearby train that would take them to Paris. After they disembarked at the Paris train station that evening, Eugene grabbed the Dixie Kid by his arm and dragged him across the platform.
Pointing at the irresistible lights of the city, Eugene said, “I don’t fight for a few days. If I can see some of the sights, I promise I’ll win.”
True to his word, Eugene fought 20 rounds in the Elysées Montmarte arena and beat his opponent, Georges Forrestal, on points. The French audience thought Eugene was a sensation and applauded his boxing style.
After three more days of sightseeing and enjoying the cafés and the French people, it was time for the pair to return to London.
Back home, Eugene pestered Brown for another match in Paris. He had tasted life in France. He knew he couldn’t be happy anywhere else. Efforts, though, for another match in Eugene’s weight class were unsuccessful. Reliving his once-in-a-lifetime experience in Paris every night, Eugene tossed and turned, unable to sleep well. He had to get back to France.
One sleepless night the answer flashed through his mind. If he couldn’t box in Paris, he would work at any job that would get him there. Maybe he could work as an entertainer. A troupe of black youngsters called “Freedman’s Pickaninnies” lived in his boardinghouse. He knew they performed on tours around Europe—and they performed in France.
Freedman’s Pickaninnies were well-known for their comedy routines in which they hit each other with slapsticks—flat boards nailed at one end that made a loud, slapping noise when someone was struck.
Eugene was a natural-born entertainer and soon went on tour with the Pickaninnies throughout Europe and Russia. After the troupe performed to audiences in Paris, Eugene stayed behind. He wasn’t leaving. He was finally in France where he belonged.
By the spring of 1914, Eugene had landed several small jobs and had fought a few boxing matches, making enough money to enjoy his new life. He learned to speak French. And he liked France so much he even changed his middle name to Jacques, the French equivalent of James, his given middle name.
Life was good for Eugene. He hoped his new life would last forever.