GLADIATORS M’COY AND CREEDON by Rob Snell

[Mofo2]

GLADIATORS M’COY AND CREEDON READY FOR TO-NIGHTS COMBAT

KID" M'COY FEELS LIKE A WINNER. DAN - CREEDON IS CONFIDENT OF SUCCESS.

To the Editor of The World:

On the eve of the battle I feel like a. winner. My condition is perfect and I have no complaint whatever to make. I moved in from my training quarters on Staten Island to the Hotel Yendome on Wednesday evening, and have been taking things easy. I took a long walk with my trainer, Doc Payne, this morning and another this afternoon. This is really the only exercise I have had since leaving off training yesterday. I may work a little with the gloves to-morrow morning, but the chances are that I have put them on for the lost time until the fight to-morrow evening.

I am well satisfied with all the arrangements that have been made and feel sure that the contest will be brought off without trouble. I am told that Mr. Creedon is in excellent condition, but this does not cause me the least apprehension. I know his ability and respect it, but I think I can whip him, and if i don't accomplish that feat to-night I will give an excellent imitation of a man who is trying hard. I expect the fight to last from eight to ten

rounds. CHARLES (KID) M’COY

To the Editor of Tin World

My trip from Chicago did not hurt me in the least, and the bad weather which greeted me on my arrival in Now York has yet to have any bad effects. I am in the condition of my life and ready to put up the fight of my life. I have trained hard and have no complaint to make on the score of preparation. Down here on the Boulevard I breathe the fresh salt air every

morning and I feel as if I could got out and run at top speed for ten miles at least. It is great, and, after such a stay at Palos Springs, I do not believe I could have made a better move.

Any number of my friends have asked me if I thought I would win. Of course I think so. I believed I had the best chance when I signed the articles, and now I am in shape to make that belief good. McCoy has a great reach, there is no denying that, and is very clever, but he will have the task of his life in keeping me away from him. Both of us know our business and the public will see a good contest. DAN CREEDON

OPINIONS ON THE FIGHT.

What Prominent Sporting Men Had to Say of To-Night's Contest.

"Wherever sporting men congregate the fight was talked about. The topic overshadowed even the mystery of Hamburg's ownership. The good points of each man were discussed, and partisans engaged in warm argument at even the suggestion of a defect in the ring style or make-up of the men.

It was generally agreed that the contest was the biggest thing of its kind that the boxers have attempted to pull off in the vicinity of New York in several years. Aside from the class of the pugilists who are matched, the very fact that there has been such a scarcity of boxing of any kind added interest to the bout and engaged the attention of the general public.

In the cafes and hotel corridors uptown the relative merits of McCoy and Creedon were talked over with an eagerness that was nearly, if not quite, equal to the feeling aroused by the Corbett Sullivan, the Corbett-Mitchell and the Fitzsimmons-Corbett fights.

In the Broadway Hotels.

Around the Broadway hotels frequented by promoters of pugilism groups of sporting men reviewed the performances of the boxers, criticised their methods of fighting und training, and then disagreed, to the betting point, about their merits. The hotels frequented by the promoters of pugilism enjoyed the patronage of some unusual guests. These included the mixed ale scrapping element, anxious to renew acquaintance with the men who make the sport pay, and it goodly number of anxious amateurs, who hung around the thorough-going sports, each hoping to hear something in the nature of a tip that would steady him to back the man of his choice.

There were tips in plenty, but they came from both sides, and the confidence with which they were given simply put the searcher for information in the position that he must guess again.

Betting on the Fight.

The betting on the result was of a very undecided kind. Backers of each man wanted odds, and as a matter of fact odds were laid both ways. Parson Davies with a fancy for Creedon's chances, insisted on getting better than even money for his bet, and was finally accommodated by Billy Edwards, who bet him $300 to $240. The bets made downtown

were at 10 to 8 and 10 to 9 on McCoy, and the price was accepted as established when the news that there was plenty of Creedon money further uptown sent the McCoy men on the search for more against their money. They got some small bets, in which Creedon figured as favorite. So far as the speculation and opinion indicated, the fight is one of the

most even things in the history of boxing, and the sports look forward to a splendid exhibition when the boxers enter the ring to-night.

Here are some opinions of prominent sporting men.

Parson Davies – I like Creedon’s chances, but I don’t regard the contest as a sure thing. It promises to be as fine a contest as anyone ever saw, for both men are dead in earnest and keen to go. Basing my opinion on what I have seen the men do I look for Creedon to win.

I watched McCoy closely in his fight with Ryan and while I must admit he is clever, I cannot see that he has a right to beat Creedon. That the fight will take place there seems to be no doubt. Everything has been properly arranged and the one sure thing That I can see in the match is that it will come off as announced.

Joe Choynski – It looks to me as if Creedon is the better man, and I feel satisfied he will win. McCoy is a clever boxer, but he would have to be something more to have a chance.

George Siler – Two good men are matched and it is so even a thing that I see nothing on which to base a selection. McCoy and Creedon represent two entirely different styles of fighting, and much will depend on circumstances and the course the contest takes.

Frank Kenney – It seems to me nearly a sure thing for McCoy. He is the younger man and has improved steadily. In addition to that he has much the advantage in height and reach.

The Boston Daily Globe

18 December 1897

McCoy’s Bout

Creedon Gives Up After 15 Fast Rounds

Best Contest new york Has Seen

Roars Of Applause at Outcome

Clean and Sceintific All The Time

McCoy’s Quickness Proves Too Much for the Australian

Winner Is Champion Now

NEW YORK, Dec: 17— In a fight for the middleweight championship of the world, at the Long Island City A. C. tonight, Dan Creedon of Australia was whipped in 15 rounds by "Kid" McCoy of Indiana. The fight was fast and scientific from start to finish and was

witnessed by 3500 spectators.

McCoy was a phantom. For 15 rounds he had danced around his antagonist like a will of the wisp. Creedon, burly and heavy chested, had ever shuffled forward hoping to drive in with his shorter arms and settle the fight. He was bleeding from a cut on the right temple. His right eye was bruised and around the ringside the spectators were hollowing hoarsely like a drove of bulls. McCoy's white trunks were red and splashed with blood. His eyes stared fixedly at his opponent and his thin lips were curled in a sneering smile.

Suddenly he darted forward, and his left fist described a swift downward and upward whirl. It caught Creedon flush under the chin. Up went his bullet like head with a snap. It seemed as

If nothing but the tip of his toes were touching the floor. Then he fell with a beefy crash and rolled over on his back. He reached vaguely up and grasped at the ropes. He rolled over on his face and lurched to one knee.

The bald-headed referee stood over him with his arms swinging out the fatal seconds. Nine and Creedon was on his feet, looking blindly for his foe. He located him, went for him and rushed into a clinch, and hung there blindly. A moment later the round ended.

The burly Australian staggered to his corner, still dazed from the effects of that drastic punch. A minister sitting close to the. ring side shuddered, and put his hands over his face and moved his lips in prayer.

The seconds brushed and fanned and molded the stricken man into comparative strength and cleanliness. Then suddenly from Creedon's corner up went a sponge. It was from the hands of the Australian seconds.

Creedon saw it, as in a dream. His seconds bending over him spoke encouragingly. His brother, weeping, kissed him on the bloody cheek. Creedon struck at him savagely.

The referee decided the fight in favour of McCoy. The slender boy walked across the ring with buoyant step and grasped Creedon's limp hand. The spectators cheered and swarmed for the doors. It was a helter-skelter exit and on the lip of every man was the name of McCoy, the middleweight champion of the world.

Place of the Contest.

Seen from the outside, the old building where the battle was fought was a compromise between a barn and a brewery. Inside it was as bare of adornment as the midriff of Jonah's whale. There was a wilderness of bare seats and of skeleton like rafters as gaunt as the scaffolds upon which men are hanged. Sports haunted the outside in groups. They were low eyed and low voiced. They talked of interference and of the purification league and . Then the lights of the battlefield suddenly blazed up and they went inside.

Others followed and as the night deepened a steady stream of pedestrians coiled out of the darkness and into the light of the ringside. The place filled rapidly. The noise increased threefold. There was a constant rasp and rip tickets, a constant influx of square jawed sports, clubmen, curiosity hunters, bankers, brokers and ministers of the gospel. For it is but a step from Christianity to paganism, from civilization to barbarism, from a minister to a sport, from a prizefighter to the man who sees him fight with every evidence of enjoyment, and then goes home and preaches against It.

At an early hour the seats were filled and the aisles were choked with-a struggling human tide. Around the steep slopes of seats facing the ring were the great city's prize fighting faces in a humming, buzzing horde. They rose rank on rank from the lurid glare of the ring lights until the "pale blur of them hung through the blue mists of tobacco smoke like a host of Raphael's cherubs over a deathbed. ...

You could see fight in every inch of them. There was pugnacity in eye, forehead and jowl, in the hard set of mouth, the aggressive flare of nostrils, in the brute like tilt of the ears. You had to- lock between the interstices, so to speak, to find the ministers, the bankers and the men of affairs. But for the cut of their dark chokers and the blaze of diamonds, they would have been lost, swallowed up and forgotten. Above the deep roll and cackle of voices one could catch such sentences as these:

"Hy, Chimmie. who do you pick? McCoy? That's right."

"There sits Jimmy Wakeley talking with Al Smith; I wonder who he is betting

on."

"Holy smoke, "there's Weldon of Cincinnati. He's one of the old guard.

Silier, too. But they're dropping off fast. There ought to be vacant seats here somewhere, for poor Hackett and Billy Norr and others of the boys we have loved and lost. Death is the champion knocker out, after all, Chimmie."

How the Crowd Looked.

Through the veil of smoke one could occasionally catch the quick flash of an uplifted bottle and the customary gurgle and smack that goes with extreme felicity and three fingers. These were not wines of Crete or of Falernia, but plain red-eye from the Bowery, too hot and strong for bubbles to live upon. Through the long row of windows above the tiers of seats a hundred faces were peering, white and curious and still, watching the shifting crowd, the flaring lights and the white square of the arena with mute intensity.

As the time approached for the opening of the entertainment it really seemed that not another person could find room inside. The interior was a murmuring mass of sentimental humanity.

A sudden roar, loud sounds of voices at the outer doors. A tall form pushing toward the boxes. “Corbett ! Corbett ! “ is the cry. It was the man whose solar plexus has been woven into song and story, the man to which all other solar plexus are as naught. This modern exponent of the modern arena smiled and bowed and sat down.

"Hello. Jim!" shouted a sport with a piratical moustache. "Do you want to fight Fitzsimmons again?" "I wish he and I were in the ring instead of McCoy and Creedon," replied the pompadour one.

Notables in the boxes were as thick as peas in a pod. There is caste in prize fighting circles, as well as in society. Big managers will not crony with little managers, and between big fighters and little fighters there is a yawning gulf, and there was little doing between the side seats and the boxes.

Some of the Notables.

The odds In favor of McCoy swelled somewhat as the time approached for the battle. Those who had laid 10 to 8 on the American were willing to give 10 to 7. Nobody appeared to know just why this was the case. There were no rumors to justify it. Outside the doors a tremendous mob was clamouring for admittance. Seven dollar seats were going for $10 as fast as they could be sold, although there was not a vacant seat visible inside. A boutonniere of carnations strayed through the door. It was on the lapel of a. young man of the 400. It was resented from the first. "Take it off, Charlie boy!" somebody shouted. Then the young man was hustled about until the posy was in ruins. He was even forced to carry his cane handle uppermost before he reached his seat.

Close behind chappie came Fred Taral, the jockey, with bets to burn.In front of him was a lightweight prize fighter. Both jockey and fighter were greeted with handshakes and howdy

The scion of gentility met with nothing but scoffs' and contumely. Thus was plainly shown that everlasting something in the human mind which makes a fine sarcasm of civilization. This was the temple of sport, pure and simple. Its devotees bowed as blindly to the fistic god as did the Egyptians of old to their bull-headed idols.

This fight was to be for the middleweight championship of the world, and as such It was by all odds the greatest contest that was ever brought off in public in New York.

That quiet man of craft, ex Inspector Byrnes sat next the ring side with his hat tilted over his left eye and; a cigar in the starboard corner of his mouth. It is curious how a man's ideas will change, with the position he occupies. Mr Byrnes is now a plain American citizen and a

friend of scientific boxing.

John Phillip Sousa sat on the opposite side with his elbow on the ring floor; Charley Klein was with him. Close by was Abe Erlanger. William Muldoon talked quietly with some friends- at one corner of the ring. Wlnthrop Rutherford looked strangely out of place as he clambered up the steep aisle to his seat with a companion. Gen Collis of street upheaval fame, followed by his son Lloyd, came in late, but managed to get seats without going into the limbo of the unoccupied corners.

It was 8.30 when Charley Harvey climbed through the ropes and announced the first pair. These were simply two small pugilistic oysters preceding the roast of the evening. Just after the last preliminary bout Jake Worth came in with a friend and found' a seat in a box near the ring. He seemed to enjoy himself thoroughly throughout the combat.

As the last of the smaller contestants stepped from the arena, a tall, bushy headed man, with a buzzing moustache, made his way through the crowd toward the ring.

"Patrick Jerome Gleason ! yelled somebody with stentorian lungs. The crowd took up the cry and the din was terrible.

Next is Mayor Gleason's Speech and the fight by rounds