It happened one summer that I staged a prize fight. It was my first and last attempt as a boxing promoter.
I was ten at the time and my friend and constant companion, Freddie Arnold, and I were hanging out in my basement, doing nothing in particular, when one of my parents’ friends asked if she could drop off her son for a bit. The boy’s name was Billy White. He was about 7. His father, Cotton White, was a regular bird-hunting companion with my Dad. Cotton had been quite an athlete in his youth and was a Golden Gloves boxing champion.
When Billy came down to join us, I bragged to Freddie about the boxing skills of Billy’s Dad. Freddie was not impressed.
In those days, boxing was extremely popular, rivaling baseball as America’s favorite sport. There were Friday Night Fights on TV sponsored by Gillette, of course, and notables such as Rocky Marciano, Jersey Joe Walcott, Sugar Ray Robinson and Carmen Basilio were constantly in the headlines as boxing stars.
Along about then, another young boy, Johnny Dilley, showed up. Johnny was also 7 and served as our right fielder when we played baseball in the abandoned field. Johnny was a stocky kid, about the same size as Billy, and the thought occurred to me to have a prize fight. Johnny versus Billy. I suggested to Freddie that he manage the corner of Johnny while I would give instructions to Billy and it just so happened that I had two pairs of boxing gloves.
We drew the outline of a boxing ring on the basement floor with chalk and set two stools in opposite corners. We gave the boys their instructions, struck a makeshift bell and the fight was one.
The boys met at center ring, then Johnny cut loose with a right hand square on the nose of the son of the Golden Gloves Champion. Then, Billy did something boxers seldom do. He cried. I mean he really cried. Blood was spurting from his nose like water from a back yard hose and he was bawling to a fare-thee-well.
At that point I realized that my young life was in serious jeopardy. If my mother discovered that I had arranged a fight which bloodied our house guest’s nose, I would be in deep you-know-what. I ran upstairs and got some ice and a cloth, and finally stopped the bleeding, but the crying continued.
Freddie said he had a stash of candy at his house and I sent him quickly on his way.
When Freddie returned, we stuffed Tootsie Rolls, M&Ms and Milky Way bars into Billy’s mouth as fast as we could. He seem satisfied and stopped crying. We unanimously agreed that there would not be a second round. The fight was declared a draw and Johnny Dilley went home.
When our guest’s mother arrived, she asked why her son’s nose and eyes were red, but he couldn’t respond because of a huge wad of Fleer’s Bubble Gum in his jaw, and I volunteered that allergies were likely responsible.
After the dust settled, Freddie said that he thought Johnny Dilley could beat Warren Furrow, another neighborhood kid, in a match. We thought about it for a while, but since we were out of candy, we decided to just go play a little baseball.