Ordinary readers of this column will know that I usually write about British boxers and their stories, but from time to time I like to wander around the Atlantic and cover some of the more intriguing aspects of the world championships in massive weight and its prosperous history. When I was first interested in these championships, in 1973, there were only 24 masters, and as a 15-year-old I watched, with great interest, like the latest of them, Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier I George ForemanThey were involved in their titanic fight for superiority. Inspired by their feats, I wanted to learn more about their predecessors, so without the internet that will support me, I started to Newcastle Central Library and asked for a related copy of the local newspaper for the third quarter of 1927. On these pages I could read how the second competition between Jacek Dempsey and Gene Tunney was submitted at that time. I saw granular materials from the fight on television and knowing that it was the richest fight in the history of sport and the one that contained the most controversial incident, a long number, fascinated me more than any other, and it still fascinates me.

Recently, spending an intriguing day, browsing the collection of my good friend Larry Braysher, I came across a photo that caught my attention, and I play it here [see facing page]. Dempsey and Tunney fought twice in Philadelphia and Chicago, and both competitions were scheduled for 10 rounds. I think that even to this day these are the only two championships that will be questioned at this extremely compact distance. Partly for this reason I assumed that Tunney, a defense master, simply poured his rival and despite the fact that he was infamously for about 14 seconds in the fight against Chicago in 1927, he basically held himself because of the damage, and withdrew from a basic victory, as he did in 1926. It certainly looked like the way I saw.

In recent years, the film of this fight has been colored, but neither the original nor this novel film material reveal the real range of damage that Tunney’s eternal and true stab on Dephore’s face. This is the accompanying photo certainly. You can see that needy Jack has some mess. I suspect that the photo was taken during the ninth or 10th round. At that time, Jack was a compact period of success, when, not going to the neutral corner on Tunney’s floor in seventh place, the count began only after Tunney was already on canvas for about five seconds.

Tunney replied perfectly, knocking on Dempsey in eighth place, then gradually defeated him in the last six minutes. I should have read the boxing messages more carefully, because their duel report stated that in the ninth round “Tunney ripped the lion and his right on his face so speedy that Dempsey fell into the clinic and the master seemed to be bathed in the blood, but he was Deppssey, because he was practically non -volatile. In the last round the report added that “Dempsey was mercilessly driven all the time and was practically on his feet when the last gong passed.”

Dempsey was in a very needy condition when the fight ended, as shown in the photo, and if 15 rounds were planned, not 10, I don’t think Dempsey could go full distance. In my opinion, Gene Tunney was one of the most underestimated heavyweight masters and one hellish warrior.

About two weeks after the fight, the Film Film came to Great Britain and in the whole it was shown in the cinemas of the length and width of Great Britain.

There was a time when every boxer from Great Britain who wanted to impress his trail in the game needed to fight in London. The city was home for the National Sports Club, which at the beginning of the 20th century ruled British boxing with an iron fist. From 1909, he issued championship belts with eight weights, and every boxer who wanted to fight for the national crown (then extremely prestigious than now) would have to do it at the headquarters of the Covent Garden club at 43 King Street. Every British who hoped that he would reach great time, does not dream, does not dream without showing his goods in London. In January 1912, an undefeated 19-year-old from Tylorstown in South Wales knew that it was time to do this. The kid learned his trade at the boxing stand before he graduated from Millfield Athletic Club in Pontipridd for duels in which the loser did not get a purse. He fought in the evening and at weekends, working as a miner on the face of coal during the day. He proved the phenomenal Hitter, and few of his opponents heard the last bell, but in London he was still unknown. The kid was called Jimmy Wilde.

His debut in London was in the ring, an interestingly shaped combat room on the eastern side of Blackfriars Road, just behind the bridge south of the city. The former chapel was built round (“so that the devil would not have corners to hide”), but it had square projections that made it multilateral. The place was open for less than two years, but its owner, the former weight master, Dick Burge, made a quick invasion to establish the ring as the most vital British diminutive room.

Jimmy’s opponent was the nephew of the prevailing British champion and Europe Matt Wells, who fought at Nipper Nom de Guerre Matt Wells. After returning to Wales, Wilde, a bunch from Colliers to prepare for a fight, and went to Herne Bay in Kent for additional training. The couple was to weigh in the 7th place (98 pounds) in the afternoon of the fight, but Jimmy’s opponent did not show. He suspected that it was because Matt Wells’s Nipper was much above the agreed weight. Jimmy was fine in him.

Dick’s wife, Bella Burge (who took over the ring after Dick’s premature death in 1918), was terrified by her first look at the pale Welsh boy with a skeletal frame. She begged her husband to dismiss Jimmy’s fight and save the boy from killing. When he did not do this, she begged: “If he can survive one round, pull him out, pay him and send him home!”

The fight did not survive the round, but it was not Wilde brought to slaughter. Boxing news informed: “Welsh was not there to delay the matter. He pushed one in the face that Nipper tried to counteract, but Wilde carefully, and before Nipper could find him, winning him on the left and right to the head. After Nipper came very much.

“Down went Nipper. He fought three times on his feet, only to be sent again among the thunderous applause of observers who were enthusiastic by a great demonstration of the skills given by little Welsh.”

“I’ve always thought about the fastest way to complete the fight,” Wilde wondered later.

But this time there was an additional encouragement. He had to return to Wales to start changing Collier at 7 am the next morning, and if the fight went through the whole 10 rounds, he would leave the last train home.

“Malta Championships” may seem like a unlikely slogan of a fight on a macula of a wasteland at the eastern end of London between Mancunian and Cockney. Nevertheless it was a description A Boxing news The writer used in 1953, looking back at the fight, which took place last year at the Mile End Arena between the featherweight prospects Skinkiss and Sammy Bonnici. Although the conversation about the championships was a hyperbola, both had connections with Malta, who was then a British colony.

Skinkiss was born in Bury in 1931, and two years later he moved to Malta, where his father, a British soldier, published. The family lived there for a decade, leaving the country torn torn to the war in 1943. Then they spent four years in South Africa, but returned to Great Britain and settled in Manchester in 1947. Skinkiss soon joined the Lily Lane boxing club. He won the youth titles for three years, and in 1950 he won the crown in the northern featherweight of the north. After losing in the ABA semi -final in 1950 to this year, Peter Brander, the state decided to change the codes.

Skinkiss [pictured above] I turned around in March 1951 under Jacek Bates, and he had 20 fights in his first year as a professional, winning 15, losing three and attracting two against solid opposition. He really scored in his second London competition, when Ko’d Sidcup from Charlie Tucker Sidcupa in three in West Ham Baths in front of the live television audience live in February 1952. “The next morning his name was on the lips of every fight of the fight,” Ron Olver Bn remembered. At that time, however, the state lost to Teddy Peckham, Johnny Butterworth and Freddie King. He says a lot about the competitiveness of the era – and focus on science, not to preserve unbeaten records – that he was still considered a decent perspective.

On the other hand, the Bonnici was born in the capital of Malta, Valletta, in 1930 and came to Great Britain as a child, the family settled in Stepney, Eastern London. His first boxing taste was during national service and reached the final of the 1950 Army Championships. In July 1951, he turned to professionals with Jim Pettengell and had 16 matches in the first year, starting with mixed success, but finding his form in early 1952 with wins over good people, such as Jackie Turpin, Johnny Mollo and Freddie Hicks.

Boxing news Bonnici vs Skinkiss Eight-Rounder, dedicated to almost the full side, which took place on July 22, 1952, our reporter writes colorfully: “On the night, which was sizzling enough and stuffy for Spain, the droughty Tieless shirt was sweating, and he decided and fell in love and supported his skills and science, he ever went to skills and science. Master. “

The Bonnici was Matador and Skinkiss the Bull. From the very beginning, Londoner put in a boxing class when a man in Manchester was constantly bored, knowing from the stage halfway that he needed a knockout. In the last round he was in trouble, but the clever Stepney Lad remained on his feet to receive the verdict.

The Bonnici strengthened his superiority, again beating Skinkiss four months later. After her career, Stan reached the trajectory down. Sammy was still impressed by defeating the highest innovators, such as Teddy Peckham, Allan Tanner, Boswell St Louis, South African master Alby Tissong and British pretenders Dai Davies and Bobby Boland. But the bonnites had to feel as if he was walking in the water. Although he was a British citizen, he could not box the British title because he was born abroad. Sammy spent the last two years of his career in Australia. He liked this place so much, he stayed there and married the Australian.

“Being Southpaw and a contractor,” reflected Ron Olver, “Sammy was not a cup of tea at the ticket office. But his record shows that he defeated one of the best. He wonders what could happen, allowed him to fight for the British title.”