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 seemed to stagger him. in the next round he came in close and put in a hard right over the 136 heart, which drove his man back. fitzsimmons glared and showed signs of anger, and made a futile rush at corbett which must have pleased him greatly. to see evident signs of temper in your opponent inspires confidence. you feel that if he really loses his temper he will lose his head and become wild. practised boxers seldom do this, because they know that with a fresh and still vigorous man real “wildness” means a speedy downfall. but fitzsimmons never lost his head in that sense. he may have been angry in a way of speaking, but he could keep a hold on himself. as though to remind him that he must not charge like that, corbett stopped him again and again with hard counters on the ribs. in the fourth round the pace of the fighting became furious, fitzsimmons still being somewhat reckless, hitting much harder than corbett but not nearly so accurately. in the meantime the american avoided nearly all the punishment intended for him by the most graceful and polished footwork. both men were by now a little winded and fought slower through the next round. corbett again showed himself markedly the better boxer, landing blows with both hands and getting away out of distance without any trouble. there was a little clinching, and then a hard left from corbett made fitzsimmons’s nose bleed. he was now perfectly happy. he felt that it was only a question of time and he would have his man well beat.

fitzsimmons’s wife, who was present at the ring-side, was now heard to urge her husband to attack the body. but in this sixth round, before he could act successfully on that good advice, corbett came in close and sent a whizzing upper-cut to the cornishman’s jaw which sent his right foot tapping involuntarily in the way that always happens with a jaw-blow just not hard enough or accurate enough to knock a man down. just after that corbett landed again and fitzsimmons fell, remaining down for nine seconds. corbett’s heart must have glowed. true, the nearly beaten man rose and managed to fend off his opponent’s triumphant attack for the rest of the round. but corbett went back to his corner not greatly disappointed. it was no doubt a pity that he couldn’t finish him off at once: but surely the effect 137 of that knock-down blow would be felt at the end of the minute’s rest. surely—and yet—would it? there may likely have been a subconscious shadow of doubt in corbett’s mind. he was himself tired, and, though his seconds whispering to him took his immediate victory for granted, they were just a little anxious. the seventh round found corbett dashing in to complete his work. right and left again and again he smashed into fitzsimmons’s face, bruising and battering, almost pulping it so that hardly a feature was distinguishable. but the effort tired him, and he failed to land a blow on the vulnerable jaw. with a man so reckless of defence as fitzsimmons, it was, as already explained, easy enough to land a blow—just a blow and another. but to land that blow where no hardihood can stand against it, that is, at the side of the chin, is another matter, and calls for thought and guile. and the cunning though not yet the strength seemed to have gone from corbett. when a boxer is worn out it is often his forethought and ringcraft which give out before the actual force of his blows. and fitzsimmons must have looked horrible, soaked in blood and with ferocious eyes and the iron hardness of his limbs still full of spring and vigour. with his long arms swinging, he slouched round the ring watching his opportunity. in the eighth round corbett sent a driving left straight to his mouth and split his lip so that more blood flowed, and again and yet again corbett stopped his furious rushes with straight blows, so that fitzsimmons battered himself upon them by flinging forward his own weight. but it seemed impossible to hurt this thin, awkward man. and corbett grew more and more cautious, and in his heart more hopeless. his footwork was still a miracle of speed and neatness, and he kept dancing in and away again, dealing out to his opponent a series of hooks and swings and upper-cuts which must have defeated a man of even his own build and lasting power. but footwork should be economical and never for show, and corbett was using his feet more than was necessary, and adding, in this way, to the whole encounter’s great total of fatigue. and so it went on till the fourteenth round—fitzsimmons bashed about, staggered sometimes, out-boxed and out-generalled 138 in every round, but still strong and agile and ferocious. corbett, weighed down with infinite weariness and unmarked.

it was a hard test for him, as it is for any man in like case. his very arms were an intolerable weight, he was sick with weariness. and—he was unhurt and was faced by a virtually beaten man. and now he dragged his feet and his pace was gone from him. he could not see a moment ahead. he could only do the simple things. he could lead with his left and did so. and fitzsimmons dodged the blow and they fell into a clinch, and the cornishman grinned wickedly over his shoulder. his moment had come now and he was quite sure about it. they broke away, and fitzsimmons came in again, sliding his feet along the boards with an almost reptilian movement. with his left foot foremost he sent a hard left to corbett’s mark: then whipped his feet over, left behind right, almost in one movement, and shot his right up from below to the jaw. the american’s face was seen to go gray. his great body seemed slowly to crumble and he went down. as the referee counted the seconds he struggled to rise. but he was paralysed—out.

when at last he did manage by an heroic effort to find his feet again he lost his head and wildly threw himself at his antagonist. seconds and officials leapt between the men and held him away. great strength and an abnormal capacity for endurance had beaten one of the finest boxers who ever claimed the championship of the world.