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Authors: Sarita Mandanna
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the bone to pain. There’s that right- hand punch of his too: Moran calls it Mary Ann – on account of it bein’ such a knock-out and all.
Jack on the other hand, just be Jack. Motorin’ around Paris in fancy cars, eatin’ hard and liquorin’ harder, gold teeth flashin’ as he crack jokes ’bout his consumptive condition.
Even still, there ain’t the littlest doubt in my mind over who goin’ to win. Moran, he been on a good run – sixty-nine professional fights, thirty-nine wins, thirty-one knock outs, sixteen losses and fourteen no-decisions, but he ain’t never been up against ‘Giant’ Jack Johnson before.
See, I grown up somethin’ like Jack done, on dockyards and such. Ain’t nothin’ like sluggin’ it out every mornin’ on the docks just for the right of showin’ up and doin’ your job, that toughen a boy up right quick and proper. After you been in a few Battle Royals, where you and a bunch of other kids been blindfolded, and you gotta slug it out among yourselves till only one of you is left standin’ – well, a boy learn to move mighty quick after that, and he sure learn to hit hard.
Moran might be tough, but he ain’t never met nobody like the Giant before.
Soon as the fight was announced back in March, I been of a mind to watchin’ it. I made my way to Philly and steady hung ’bout the docks, and by and by, got myself a gig on a four-masted vessel headed for France. We docked at Le Havre earlier this week and soon as I could, I hightailed it to Paris. The skipper, he told us just where to room in the 12th, the landlady bein’ an old acquaintance of his and all, and here I am, with a ticket to the ‘Fight of the Century’, as the papers been callin’ it.
I ain’t got much left on me after payin’ for the ticket, but there one thin’ I got to buy prior. If you seen any pictures at all of Jack outside of the ring, then you know that along with a likin’ for white women, Jack, he got a thing for black top hats. I’m hankerin’ for one just like his, to wear to the fight tomorrow night. I stop a few men on the street and ask where I might find a hat fine as theirs. The wonder of this city – ain’t nobody seem to find my request outta hand. They all point the same way, towards Chappelerie E. Motsch on Avenue George V.
The shop, it real frou-frou, like everythin’ else on that street. Big gold letterin’, glass and marble everywhere, and nothin’ like I ever shopped in before. I pass it twice, first on this side of the street, then that, before I feel up to walkin’ inside. That hidden music I hear, well in this part of the city, it ain’t jazz no more but full-on opera, the kind you feel like you be needin’ a monocle and a moustache to understand. I don’t feel much better once I get up the nerve to enter – there’s marble as far as I can see, and everyone speakin’ in low, Sunday church sort of voices as they bend over the hats. I fiddle and fidget and feel like a fool, wonderin’ just what I’m doin’ in this rich man joint. My nerve starts to fail me proper and I nearabout turn and jump out that door, when a salesgirl asks if she can help me.
I tell her, bashful like, and she warms some when she hear the French fallin’ from my tongue. She say they mostly do custom fittings, and I tell her I ain’t got that much cash or so much time, but I gotta have a hat just like the Giant’s for the fight tomorrow.
‘ Ah, la boxe !’ She shakes her head. ‘Why are you Americans so crazy about this boxing match?’
‘Boxin’ match? This ain’t just no boxin’ match!’ I say hotly, settin’ her straight. Forgettin’ all ’bout bein’ bashful, I tell her ’bout 1910, when the Giant fought Jeffries in Reno. I’d have been right there watchin’, ’cept I been in this bit of trouble with the law at the time. I followed that fight all the same, round by round. It was telegraphed live, and all around the world and every corner – Times Square in New York,
Jack on the other hand, just be Jack. Motorin’ around Paris in fancy cars, eatin’ hard and liquorin’ harder, gold teeth flashin’ as he crack jokes ’bout his consumptive condition.
Even still, there ain’t the littlest doubt in my mind over who goin’ to win. Moran, he been on a good run – sixty-nine professional fights, thirty-nine wins, thirty-one knock outs, sixteen losses and fourteen no-decisions, but he ain’t never been up against ‘Giant’ Jack Johnson before.
See, I grown up somethin’ like Jack done, on dockyards and such. Ain’t nothin’ like sluggin’ it out every mornin’ on the docks just for the right of showin’ up and doin’ your job, that toughen a boy up right quick and proper. After you been in a few Battle Royals, where you and a bunch of other kids been blindfolded, and you gotta slug it out among yourselves till only one of you is left standin’ – well, a boy learn to move mighty quick after that, and he sure learn to hit hard.
Moran might be tough, but he ain’t never met nobody like the Giant before.
Soon as the fight was announced back in March, I been of a mind to watchin’ it. I made my way to Philly and steady hung ’bout the docks, and by and by, got myself a gig on a four-masted vessel headed for France. We docked at Le Havre earlier this week and soon as I could, I hightailed it to Paris. The skipper, he told us just where to room in the 12th, the landlady bein’ an old acquaintance of his and all, and here I am, with a ticket to the ‘Fight of the Century’, as the papers been callin’ it.
I ain’t got much left on me after payin’ for the ticket, but there one thin’ I got to buy prior. If you seen any pictures at all of Jack outside of the ring, then you know that along with a likin’ for white women, Jack, he got a thing for black top hats. I’m hankerin’ for one just like his, to wear to the fight tomorrow night. I stop a few men on the street and ask where I might find a hat fine as theirs. The wonder of this city – ain’t nobody seem to find my request outta hand. They all point the same way, towards Chappelerie E. Motsch on Avenue George V.
The shop, it real frou-frou, like everythin’ else on that street. Big gold letterin’, glass and marble everywhere, and nothin’ like I ever shopped in before. I pass it twice, first on this side of the street, then that, before I feel up to walkin’ inside. That hidden music I hear, well in this part of the city, it ain’t jazz no more but full-on opera, the kind you feel like you be needin’ a monocle and a moustache to understand. I don’t feel much better once I get up the nerve to enter – there’s marble as far as I can see, and everyone speakin’ in low, Sunday church sort of voices as they bend over the hats. I fiddle and fidget and feel like a fool, wonderin’ just what I’m doin’ in this rich man joint. My nerve starts to fail me proper and I nearabout turn and jump out that door, when a salesgirl asks if she can help me.
I tell her, bashful like, and she warms some when she hear the French fallin’ from my tongue. She say they mostly do custom fittings, and I tell her I ain’t got that much cash or so much time, but I gotta have a hat just like the Giant’s for the fight tomorrow.
‘ Ah, la boxe !’ She shakes her head. ‘Why are you Americans so crazy about this boxing match?’
‘Boxin’ match? This ain’t just no boxin’ match!’ I say hotly, settin’ her straight. Forgettin’ all ’bout bein’ bashful, I tell her ’bout 1910, when the Giant fought Jeffries in Reno. I’d have been right there watchin’, ’cept I been in this bit of trouble with the law at the time. I followed that fight all the same, round by round. It was telegraphed live, and all around the world and every corner – Times Square in New York,
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