Robert Fitzsimmons was in all respects the opposite number of Jem Corbett. He was in the great tradition of fighting blacksmiths. A rough, simple soul, who was perfectly content to be a prize-fighter. Three or four years younger than Corbett, a Cornishman by birth, he had emigrated to New Zealand with his people, as a lad. His first successes were won in amateur competitions organised by Jem Mace, the old bare-knuckle champion. Later on he went to Sydney and learned under Larry Foley, himself a pupil of Mace. In 1890 he moved to San Francisco, and for some years he carried all before him. He beat Peter Maher, Jem Hall, Joe Choynski, and Dan Creedon. Then, in 1891, he knocked out Jack Dempsey in thirteen rounds, for the World’s Middle-weight Championship. Fitzsimmons was just short of six feet in height, and, at the time of his fight with Corbett, he had filled out from the middle-weight limit of 11 stone 4 lb. and was now slightly over 12 stone. His is another name that will never be forgotten so long as men talk of boxing.

The match between these two was of great importance at the time, and (this is so seldom the case) it is important to look back on: for it was a fight between two strong men, both of great reputation, with somewhat similar records, but perfectly different methods. It was a match between an intensely scientific boxer and a rugged fighter, who had, however, a kind of skill or shrewdness not closely related to conventional boxing science, which carried him very far. Fitzsimmons was, indeed, a more remarkable man than Corbett.

In order to explain Fitzsimmons to the best of my ability, it will be necessary to make a small excursion into autobiography. 134

Just before Christmas of 1908, Fitzsimmons came to England on a music-hall tour. He was due to arrive in London one Sunday afternoon, and it occurred to me to meet him at the station and ask him to box with me. It would be an interesting experience. I went to St. Pancras, and waited until the regular interviewers had finished with him. I was not anxious for any one to overhear my curious request. Just as he was getting into a taxi with his manager, I asked him if he would put on the gloves with me that night. He needed a good deal of persuading, but in a slow, unsmiling way he was a good-natured fellow, and after a while he consented. Accordingly we met later on in a private room at the National Sporting Club, and boxed two rounds. The only other person present (it being Sunday night, the club was, officially, closed) was Fitzsimmons’s manager.

It is not affectation to describe this encounter as a real pleasure. Making due allowance for the self-complacency an amateur (in all senses of that misused word) would feel at taking on a great champion, I can honestly say that I enjoyed those two rounds for their own sakes. Of course, I knew perfectly well that he wouldn’t “eat” me; but quite apart from any competitive spirit, which, in this case would have been absurd, boxing is a definitely enjoyable pastime.

I emerged from the encounter with a black eye, and—for the first time in my life—a bleeding nose, but my experience had been extremely interesting. Fitzsimmons was taller than I, much heavier, and far longer in the arm, but I found him quite easy to hit. I suppose I can’t quite exclude the “competitive spirit” after all, let alone my amateur self-complacency, for I was delighted at sending in one really hard straight left which took Fitzsimmons on the mouth and sent his head right back. If I say, with all diffidence, that it was a respectable blow, it is only to emphasise the fact that my opponent’s head, driven back, sprang forward again exactly like a steel spring. In fact, you could always hit Fitzsimmons, but it wanted a Jefferies to hurt him, as we shall see later on. He was an awkwardly made man, hard and angular, with a back and shoulders phenomenally developed. 135 His very long arms may be compared to wire-bound bamboo, and unlike the arms of heroes in fictitious boxing stories, with no biceps to speak of and indeed no special show of muscle at all.

Fitzsimmons was not a first-rate boxer, because he had never learned to defend himself, but he had an almost infinite capacity for taking punishment, which was his title to genius in the ring.

The great fight between Fitzsimmons and Corbett for the championship took place at Carson City, Nevada, on March 17th, 1897. No love was lost between the two men, who refused to shake hands at the beginning. Bad feeling in sport is, no doubt, deplorable, but as in this case it does not necessarily spoil sport.

It was evident that both men were nervous and showed the utmost respect and caution for one another. Fitzsimmons led off with the left, and Corbett ducked. This lanky, raw-boned, skull-faced man troubled him. Fitzsimmons’s eyes were like those of an ill-tempered horse—fierce and cold. And they were merciless. The American missed the more comfortable and open ruffianism of some of the men he had fought, or the full-blooded and jovial savagery of John Sullivan. Nevertheless, he got in the first blow, and thereafter paid most of his attention to his man’s body. Before the first round was over his confidence returned, and his greater skill in ducking and slipping and getting away was manifest. In this, as in most of the subsequent rounds, Corbett showed himself by far the better boxer, and he was well ahead of his opponent on points. Other things being equal, the better boxer wins. But other things in this battle were not equal.

Let us try to put ourselves, so to speak, in Corbett’s shoes. He must have been quite satisfied that he had won the first round on points, and we may be sure that his seconds did not fail to hearten him. He began the next round with his full confidence, and attacked. Fitzsimmons replied, and they fell into a clinch. Indeed this round was spoiled by much hugging and holding, though once Corbett broke away to put in two quick hard lefts on his antagonist’s head which see............