Larry Foley's Gymnasium- "iron pot" by Rob Snell

[Mofo2]

When “Honest Tom†Heeney that indefatigable scrapper who is always ready to take two to give one climbs into the ri.ng to meet Gene Tunney for the championship of the world, he will revive the memories of thirty an forty years ago when other champions of Australia came from

the land of down under in search of championship honors and American gold.

During the decade from 1880 to, 1890 an apparently endless stream of good fighters — and many of them were fully entitled to be called great — poured into America from the country of the kangaroo. It was a subject of wonder how a small a land, in point of population could produce so large a pugilistic output.

Peter Jackson, the only man John L Sullivan ever declined to meet, Robert Fitzsimmons at his weight probably the greatest fighter who ever lived; "Young" Griffo and "Gentleman George" Dawson — all champions of their classes in Australia — headed the list.

On nothing Heeney has shown in his meteoric rush to the front in fistic circles does he measure up to the standard of Fitzsimmons and Jackson, for they were diamonds of the first water, but at least he is the best heavyweight that has come from the land of down under since those giants passed away.

Four-fifths of the fighters who came from Australia in the heyday of boxing in that country were graduates of Larry Foley's Gymnasium — Foley's "Iron Pot"—an annex of that ex-pugilist's White Horse Saloon in Pitt street, Sydney.

A millionaire backer gave it to Foley when he won the championship of Australia from Abe Hicken one-time lightweight champion of England and middleweight champion of America. Soon the "Iron Pot" became the Mecca of aspiring fighters from all parts of Australia and New Zealand.

The presiding genius and influence at Foley's "Iron Pot," the man to whom a great many of these Australian fighters owe at least the completion of their fistic education was an American, Jack Thompson the bookmaker, an uncommonly clever boxer and fighter. As a boy of sixteen he had fought for the preservation of the Union. Later after he had won two bare-knuckle fights in America, he sailed for the Antipodes to join his two older brothers. Joe and Barney, who had established themselves as leaders in the Australian betting ring.

It was to Thompson that Jem Mace sent Bob Fitzsimmons after the latter won the amateur championship of New Zealand, beating Mace's protégé, Herbert Slade, the Maori fighter.

It was on Thompson's advice that Peter Jackson made his first tour of America under the management of Sam Fitzpatrick and it was the same Thompson who after two ineffectual attempts finally got "Young" Griffo to make the voyage to San Francisco.

Bob Fitzsimmons was not overburdened with this world's goods when he arrived in Sydney, and it was Jack Thompson who slipped him a ten pound note and gave him his first showing at the "Iron Pot." It was at Foley's too, that Bob Fitzsimmons met his first really good opponent — Jim Hall. For Hall was a good man at that time, a very different Hall from the man Bob beat so easily at New Orleans three years later.

The idea widely prevails that in the fight at Sydney. Fitzsimmons "lay down." And he is reported to have admitted tacitly, by his silence, that he did so. But as a ringside spectator, we are not inclined to believe that Bob "threw" this fight. Rather we are perfectly certain that the New Orleans affair was simply a frame-up, with Fitz, of course, no party to it.

AT THE "IRON POT

At the time of their first battle in Sydney, Hall was physically perfect, a very clever boxer with a powerful, straight left that carried the kick of a mule. He was unbeaten at the time he knocked out Fitz.

Griffo. probably the greatest defensive fighter that ever drew on a glove, made his first appearance at Larry Foley's "Iron Pot" as a graduate of the "Rocks Push." a gang which had its headquarters in the highest and rockiest part of the old City of Sydney, known as Millers point From their rocky fastnesses the "Rocks Push" used to descend on Sunday mornings, for some of them were guilty of working occasionally during the week, and meet the "Haymarket" gang in battle array. The selected representatives of the rival gangs, the bantams, lightweights or heavies, would divest themselves of everything except their pants.

The gangs fought fairly. It was their code of honor to do so — about the only one they had. The stakes were far from large, ranging from “half a quid," or $2.50 a side to somewhat larger amounts if some members of the gang had been lucky in finding work or money.

The stakes were placed in a hat or cap in public view in the charge of a sentry, who was armed with a bottle often a broken one to protect himself and the coveted treasure. Gloves were not used, but the fighters were required to show their hands, palms up, to make sure they were not carrying a piece of lead to add weight to their blow this was the environment in which which Griffo learned the manly art of self defense. He was the undisputed lightweight champion of the “Rocky Push" when he made his first public appearance at Larry Foley's "Iron Pot." I saw that debut.

It was a markedly successful one. Before he had gone to his corner at the end of the first round Jack Thompson pronounced judgment on the newcomer. His verdict was brief and convincing. "He'll do," was the emphatic assertion of that master picker of fighting prospects. Griffo became part and parcel of the "Iron Pot." There he had all he wanted to eat and drink and every opportunity for a scrap. There was nothing more wanting in the world, in Griffo's philosophy. Ambition? He had none, unless it was to beat any one that was put in front of him in the ring.

Strict training was abhorrent to Griffo. Road work was simply scoffed at, and yet he was always fit and could fight all day. On one occasion we saw him take on four opponents in succession, boxing a quarter of an hour with each — and stopping only long enough to consume four quarts of beer, one for each opponent.

Jack Thompson thought that a view of the world might infuse some ideas into this little fighting animal. So he arranged with Captain Morse to take Griffo to America. Thompson had undertaken a task. It was not until the third attempt that Griffo finally left for these shores. On the first occasion he simply run away and hid until the Alameda had departed. On the liner's next trip Griffo stayed on board until the Alameda had sheered off from the wharf. Then suddenly he hopped off the rail and, without waiting to take off his coat, took a flying dive into the water and swam ashore.

The third time was attended with success, and Griffo reached .San Francisco.

Peter Jackson in the writer’s opinion , the best heavyweight That ever drew on a glove, was a longshoreman working on the Sydney wharves before he took up the fighting game and became a regular at the "Iron Pot" and a good friend of Jack Thompson. Peter had many personal qualities besides his fighting ability that made him the most popular pugilist that ever showed at Foley's. Poor Peter! He was everybody's friend but his own.

In the first year of his fighting career Jackson carried all before him, but the following year he met with an unexpected setback at the lands of Bill Farnan, a Melbourne blacksmith. Farnan had no particular ability as a boxer, rushing in wide open and relying on a pile driving right hand

which he used a la Firpo. The fight took place at Williamstown, a harbor suburb of Melbourne. For the first two rounds Jackson made Farnan look like a novice; but in the third Peter got a little careless and the big blacksmith got in a crushing right which broke two of Jackson's ribs and settled the fight.

Fifteen years elapsed from that day before Jackson, then thirty seven years old and simply a shell, suffered the only defeat in his life, when Jim Jeffries knocked him out in San Francisco. That rib cracking wallop made Peter particularly careful, and when he met Farnun for the second time he gave the blacksmith very little chance to repeat the operation, getting there first with a powerful left that would have knocked the head of any one less sturdy than Farnan. Jackson was a sure winner when the police interfered.

It was after he had beaten everybody who cared to face him in Australia that Jackson, on the advice of Thompson, came to America and fought many battles over a period of three years under the management of Fitzpatrick. All his fights were either victories for him or draws. It

was the disappointment of Jackson's life when John L. Sullivan stubbornly drew the color line and refused to meet him. He had looked forward eagerly to the chance of meeting Sullivan confident of his ability to cope with the rushing tactics of the “Boston Boyâ€.

There was nothing to do but return to Australia. The fighting game was beginning to fall off there and, after a draw bout with Joe Goddard, Jackson returned to San Francisco where his memorable sixty one round draw with Corbett took place. A lot has been written about this fight, most of it praising Corbett’s ability in standing off so formidable opponent, and some of it declaring Jackson an over rated fighter. But here is the story that was told to me by Eddie Graney.

About a week before tile fight Jackson was thrown out of a buggy. His ankle was sprained so badly that it appeared impossible to avoid a postponement. That would have meant a forfeit. There was a good deal of betting on the match and Jackson's friends were anxious for several days, but kept the news of the accident quiet so as to give the bigger bettors a chance to lay off some of their money. However, drastic remedies brought about sufficient recovery to avoid the postponement. Orders were issued to Jackson to save the injured ankle as much as he could

and not to go after Corbett. Everybody knows that his speedy footwork was always one of Corbett's chief assets. He was a very fast man. so Jackson's handicap, under the circumstances, may be easily imagined.

With the exception of a couple of minor battles in Chicago, both of which he won, Jackson had no big engagement from the time of the Corbett draw until he met Frank (Paddy) Slavin at the National Sporting club in London. This bout presented the peculiar spectacle of two Australians fighting in London for the championship of England. Slavin had earned that title by beating the muscle bound English champion Jim Smith at Bruges, in Belgium.

We remember the fight well and can visualize it now. When the two men entered the ring their appearance gave every indication that they were going to put up a fight that was to be a. pippin. It was. Despite long lay-offs, both were in the pink of condition. Each had formulated his plan of battle. Jackson was to follow the precept of his friend and adviser Jack Thompson:

"Keep your right till your opponent is groggy." Slavin was to try to drive home the one murderous punch that was his best asset, a right hand, half swing, half uppercut, that started from his hip. He knew Jackson's weakness, the ribs that were broken by Billy Farnnn years before, and he was determined to break them again. But Jackson relied on his accurate and powerful left to get there first.

Nearly a minute of the first round went by, the fighters creeping near, breaking a bit. and then getting nearer again, fiddling for an opening, when bang! Jackson's left shot out with a force that rocked Slavin to his heels. Another murderous smash as Slavin attempted to rush to close quarters, and the fight was on in earnest.

For nine rounds it was fast fighting, action all the time, Slavin gamely trying to get past the Negro's cruel left that never missed its mark, taking his punishment without flinching and boring in again. Only once did the punch drunk Slavin attempt to fall into a clinch. Then the big Negro pushed him away with the same ease with which Jack Johnson handled Jim Jeffries at Reno and sent him to the canvas with a right hand smash. Not until the ninth round did Jackson begin to use his right. And in the tenth, propping his man into position with his left Jackson shot over a right that finished the fight.

Jackson took no chances and gave his opponent no openings. It was a triumph of scientific boxing, a combination of accuracy, judgment of distance and correct timing over brute force and power.

It was not until six years after his victory over Slavin that Peter Jackson, enfeebled by fast living and the inroads of the tuberculosis to which he eventually succumbed, was knocked out by Jeffries . Ruined financially and physically, he was assisted back to Australia.

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