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Authors: Chad Dundas
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filled their mansions with stray dogs and cats. Then there were women who just wanted her to read
Frankenstein
so they would have someone to talk with about it. They had petitions for her to sign, newsletter subscriptions to push, donation plates to pass after the coffee was served. Nine times out of ten there was a sales pitch hidden somewhere in the slogans, the hymns and all the sisterhood.
These women embarrassed her, and she sensed the feeling was mutual. Her membership in groups quickly assumed a recognizable pattern. She would go to a few luncheons or sewing circles and at one of them she would drink too much or whisper too many jokes to the lady next to her and would not be invited back. That was fine with her, she told herself, and it was this acceptance of herself as a loner that eventually led her to admit there was nowhere she felt more at home than at a gambling table.
She began scouting out every racetrack, gaming hall, and card game in the city. Thinking back on it, the memory of those carefree days filled her with longing but also a sense of dread. It had been the best time of her life, but now it seemed like sheâd known all along that something was lacking. It was undeniably less exhilarating to bet on the ponies or the ball game when there was no riskinvolved. If she dropped five or ten dollars on a race or a boxing fight one week and then won it back the next, it didnât really matter. The triumphant lift she felt from winning and the stab of regret she got from losing were both dulled. They had so much money, the money became meaningless. To compensate, she bet bigger and bigger, but it still didnât give her the same thrill as the nickel and dime bets sheâd made with her father as a girl, when every penny seemed like a fortune. She typically won more than she lost, but the times she went back to Pepper needing more, he always had it for her.
Toward the end, something changed. During what turned out to be the last six months of his title reign, Pepper was withdrawn and quiet. With newspaper reporters or in public he was boisterous, full of jokes and brags. At home she could hardly squeeze a word out of him. At first she assumed Blomfeld was having trouble finding worthy opponents for him. The general consensus in the press was that Pepper had already bested every lightweight worth his salt and now promoters were resorting to booking him opposite bigger and bigger men or against two-bit bums on the undercard of more important bouts. She knew his reputation as a drawing card and his salary were suffering because of it. Over time she realized something deeper was troubling him. She asked him over and over what was the matter, but he refused to say.
When they booked him to face Whip Windham in Pittsburgh during the fall of 1916, everything fell apart on them. To prepare for the match, Pepper spent days and sometimes nights in the private gym above Blomfeldâs butcher shop. He became choosy about who he allowed around him, training only with his closest, most trusted friends. A week before the match, he called her late at night from the hospital to say his leg had been broken by Fritz Mundt during one of their regular grappling sessions. Everyone swore up and down it was an accident, but Moira felt Fritz must have betrayed them. Nothinglike it had happened before, and the only way she could make sense of it was to assume someone had gotten into the big manâs ear, and into his pocketbook.
She begged Pepper to pull out of the match, but he wouldnât hear of it. He said there wouldnât be enough time for Blomfeld to find a replacementâthat heâd have to cancel the whole show, which would only mean hard times and lost money for everybody, including the undercard wrestlers who were counting on making a payday. Real men and champions didnât pull out of matches, he said, and that was that.
He could barely walk from the dressing room to the ring on the night of the
Frankenstein
so they would have someone to talk with about it. They had petitions for her to sign, newsletter subscriptions to push, donation plates to pass after the coffee was served. Nine times out of ten there was a sales pitch hidden somewhere in the slogans, the hymns and all the sisterhood.
These women embarrassed her, and she sensed the feeling was mutual. Her membership in groups quickly assumed a recognizable pattern. She would go to a few luncheons or sewing circles and at one of them she would drink too much or whisper too many jokes to the lady next to her and would not be invited back. That was fine with her, she told herself, and it was this acceptance of herself as a loner that eventually led her to admit there was nowhere she felt more at home than at a gambling table.
She began scouting out every racetrack, gaming hall, and card game in the city. Thinking back on it, the memory of those carefree days filled her with longing but also a sense of dread. It had been the best time of her life, but now it seemed like sheâd known all along that something was lacking. It was undeniably less exhilarating to bet on the ponies or the ball game when there was no riskinvolved. If she dropped five or ten dollars on a race or a boxing fight one week and then won it back the next, it didnât really matter. The triumphant lift she felt from winning and the stab of regret she got from losing were both dulled. They had so much money, the money became meaningless. To compensate, she bet bigger and bigger, but it still didnât give her the same thrill as the nickel and dime bets sheâd made with her father as a girl, when every penny seemed like a fortune. She typically won more than she lost, but the times she went back to Pepper needing more, he always had it for her.
Toward the end, something changed. During what turned out to be the last six months of his title reign, Pepper was withdrawn and quiet. With newspaper reporters or in public he was boisterous, full of jokes and brags. At home she could hardly squeeze a word out of him. At first she assumed Blomfeld was having trouble finding worthy opponents for him. The general consensus in the press was that Pepper had already bested every lightweight worth his salt and now promoters were resorting to booking him opposite bigger and bigger men or against two-bit bums on the undercard of more important bouts. She knew his reputation as a drawing card and his salary were suffering because of it. Over time she realized something deeper was troubling him. She asked him over and over what was the matter, but he refused to say.
When they booked him to face Whip Windham in Pittsburgh during the fall of 1916, everything fell apart on them. To prepare for the match, Pepper spent days and sometimes nights in the private gym above Blomfeldâs butcher shop. He became choosy about who he allowed around him, training only with his closest, most trusted friends. A week before the match, he called her late at night from the hospital to say his leg had been broken by Fritz Mundt during one of their regular grappling sessions. Everyone swore up and down it was an accident, but Moira felt Fritz must have betrayed them. Nothinglike it had happened before, and the only way she could make sense of it was to assume someone had gotten into the big manâs ear, and into his pocketbook.
She begged Pepper to pull out of the match, but he wouldnât hear of it. He said there wouldnât be enough time for Blomfeld to find a replacementâthat heâd have to cancel the whole show, which would only mean hard times and lost money for everybody, including the undercard wrestlers who were counting on making a payday. Real men and champions didnât pull out of matches, he said, and that was that.
He could barely walk from the dressing room to the ring on the night of the
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