Yangles on the Big Fight

PAUL CALLICO

Including a prediction that Maxie Baer will knock Primo Carnera into the middle of Christmas Eve

■ A "Yangle" is something you look for in important prizefights. It is everything outside the actual physical meeting between the protagonists—their connections, their ambitions, their social positions, their politics, religion, wealth, personal likes and dislikes, favorite colors and basic metabolism.

A is matched to prizefight with B—"But here's the angle on it." says a constituent, "Ya gotta git all the yangles. As manager once had a girl, and B's Mother done her a favor. B ain't fought a left hander in years and he don't fight good in Detroit so they're takin' the match to Cincinnati. But that's where the Lavender Mob hangs out. Ya gotta figure in that angle too."

I am now prepared to offer you a discussion of some of the "Yangles," that must be taken into, consideration when Maxie Baer and Primo Camera fight one another in the Madison Square Garden Bowl in Long Island City this June, fifteen rounds to a decision, for the heavyweight championship of the world. If it were just a brawl between a couple of ruffians I would bring this essay to a close by advising you that Baer will knock Camera right into the middle of next August, and go out and play myself some golf. But there are the yangles. Ya gotta figure in all the yangles.

There is, for instance, the intricate and delicate angle of the ownership of the two stupids and that is one that might he said to imply far-reaching consequences. Omnia Camera est divisa in partes duo. Fifty per cent belongs to himself, and fifty per cent to one Luigi Soresi, an Italian banker, an honest and dignified gentleman. But the Signor cuts his fifty per centum up the middle, banking twenty-five under his own name, and paying over the other twenty-five to one Will Duffy, professional fight manager and night club proprietor who has just emerged, or will emerge shortly, from the Government Quod where lie has been languishing in durance vile for some boyish escapades with his income tax. None of us should turn up our noses at Will for this. The only reason most of us aren't with him is because, as luck will have it. we ain't been caught yet.

Uncle Will Duffy's twenty-five per cent is subject to many disbursements, I hear. They include such quaint characters as Big Frenchy De Mane a burly fellow on whom the snatch was put by Mad Dog Coll, a playful mischief-maker who shortly afterwards was rubbed out while he was busy getting a wrong number in a drugstore telephone booth; also Mr. Owen Madden one of the Tenth Avenue liquor barons who has been returned to our midst only recently from a Post Graduate course at Ossining where he was sent due more to a political cabal than any real public sentiment that he had not made sufficient restitution there for some early pranks with policemen and private citizens. The actual truth about Owen was that at the time of his return up the river he was brewing the only potable beer in all Manhattan and right minded citizens wept at his removal. His only rival, Dutch Schultz used too much yeast. Do you begin to grasp the ramifications of the Yangles? We have but begun.

I believe there are one or two more original and sometimes irascible parties who cut in on Bill's twenty-five percent. Unlike the innocent share-holders in common stock these parties like to hang around and see how the business is run and to protect the interests of their investment, namely, Da Preem. Some of their notions about protection are a little vague and alarming, and constitute still further angles.

Maximilian Adalbert Baer, too, is heavily incorporated. His chief proprietor is a fluttery individual from the Pacific Coast by the name of Ancil Hoffman, a worried, kindly man who must be studying to be the warden of a state bug-house, otherwise how could he stand so much of the company of the affable lunatic whom he manages. There are I believe others, prospectors who maintain they have staked out prior claims on the person of the handsome Baer and who are constantly at law to prove it and get a share of the swag. Another angle! One thing may be said of Master Ancil. Neither he nor his fighter, Baer, has ever been involved in a smelly or questionable engagement. The same cannot be claimed for the heavyweight champion of the world and his sub-board of directors.

The promoter of this prizefight is a gentleman, a scholar and a bridge-player, Mr. John Reed Kilpatrick, the incumbent president of Madison Square Garden, a position which, since the passing of Tex Rickard, has been somewhat similar to the tenure of a Cuban dictator, and exposed to as much sniping. Mr. Kilpatrick is a son of Yale and, still named as all-time, All-America End, is a man of tremendous personal charm, considerable social standing and implacable justice and honesty. He not only sees the other fellow's side of a question but proceeds to do something about it.

• His co-promoter on this venture, due to the curious angles of this fight will be the ex-heavyweight champion of the world, former bar room brawler and far west saloon bouncer, William Harrison (Jack) Dempsey probably the most truly popular and beloved man in the United States next to the President. Dempsey fought for Rickard exclusively during his last years of active service and when Rickard died, stepped into his shoes as the last of the showy, colorful, gambler-promoters. He had learned his lesson from a master. It was he who exclusively promoted Baer from a coffee and cakes fighter on the Pacific Coast to his present position of pugilistic eminence as the knocker-out of Max Schmeling and chief pretender to the throne of Camera, the heavyweight boxing king of the world.

Again, the Yangle. Whereas it was Madison Square Garden which created Camera world's champion by staging the CarneraSharkey fight last spring, and who therefore held the contract on Primo's future services, it was Dempsey who promoted the Baer-Schmeling fight and thereby won himself a signed contract to stage all of Baer's subsequent brawls. Baer's dramatic knockout of Schmeling and Camera's visually stimulating feat of lifting Sharkey out of his shoes with an uppercut, created what is known as a public demand for a meeting between Camera and Baer for the title.

But Primo was bound to the Garden by contract and Baer tied up with Dempsey. Camera needed Baer worse than Baer needed Camera. There was no one else for Primo to fight. His fifteen-round engagement with the small and aging Loughran in Miami had proven to be a terrific fiasco from every point of view and had damaged the Great Oaf's prestige to the point where he had to fight a dangerous opponent to draw any money whatsoever. Result—the Garden had to cut Dempsey in on the promotion of the fight to get Baer's contract.

Another angle—if Baer wins he will be the first free-lance heavyweight champion in years because he refused to sign a continuing contract. Rickard always had the challengers in his pocket should they become champions because they always had to come to HIM. In this instance, the promoter holding the champion's contract had to accept, the challenger's terms, a situation unprecedented in the history of prizefight promotion. In the old days an angle such as this might have had a very definite bearing on the outcome of the fight.

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No crooked judges and referees were necessary either. There were no truly crooked referees and judges. But all boxing officials were political appointees and no one in the world has a keener nostril and a finer scent for the unspoken desires of his benefactor than a political appointee. Many a fighter who voted or talked the wrong ticket and who associated with the wrong people has found himself on the short end of a close decision. That's a Yangle.

When Camera goes into battle be will go with the blessings of Bernarr MacFadden and Physical Culture Magazine. Baer will carry on his shoulders all the hopes of the cheroot smokers, stay-up-lates, connoisseurs of lovely ladies, and coffee drinkers. One lives right, the other lives wrong. One is a great big child of nature, the other the product of artificiality. For the sake of the Boy Scouts of America and the Y.M.C.A. Camera must win. For our sakes, Baer must triumph.

It used to be said of the late Harry Greb that be could say to a lady, around seven or eight o'clock—"Looka, baby, I got a kind of a date down town to belt the ears off a guy for some dough, but do not go away, just put on a kimono or something and read a good book for a little while and I will be back."

He would then knock off a beer or whiskey and go on down town to the fight club where he was scheduled to appear, duly belt the ears off a guy in twelve rounds and return to his lady.

For years until be died, Greb was the standby of the vast army of dissenters who hadn't eaten spinach when they were children, who never went to bed before three o'clock, who smoked big black stogies and drank Red Eye, who lived and loved violently and who hoped that they might get away with it. Most of the athletes who won games and got their pictures in the paper went to bed at ten o'clock at night, were teetotalers, never slugged their mothers, did not smoke or chew, maintained a dignified austerity in the presence of cuties and chorus girls and in general had a terrible time in return for being permitted to receive the sterling silver trophy from the bands of the local congressman or Chamber of Commerce.

Playboys like Greb and, now, Max Baer, who fly lightly from coryphee to coryphee, from beer to whiskey and from whiskey to strong seegars, who fill their lungs with sweet essence of night club, which is a mixture of stale tobacco, gin-fumes, and "Mon Boudoir," who never seem to go to bed and who live violently are always a ray of hope to the boys who have managed to escape the Sunday School Book and the Y.M.C.A. Secretary.

If Baer will only up to Camera and bang him on the potato and lay him away in the refrigerator it will be a great thing for all the bad little boys.

And there is another angle. These same two young men once staged a whirlwind fight for the motion picture. "The Prizefighter' and the Lady." Neither one would submit to having the other named the winner of the phantom brawl, for business reasons. The scenario was changed and the fight ended in a draw. During the course of the battle the script called for Master Baer to make a number of trips to the deck. This be did with heart-rending realism, coming back strong in the last round to batter the giant Camera all over the ring and earn one of those Madison Square Garden draws.

While I have no reason to suspect Baer of anything shady, there is nothing in Camera's past record to lead me to believe that someone might not approach Baer in an attempt to get him to do his movie stuff all over again and give the folks in New York a treat. They tell me that both boys made excellent film actors. This is hardly reassuring. I would have them a little less adept at pantomiming a good fight. Maybe I am funny that way.

Some of their ring traits must be taken into account in an examination of the angles. Baer, for instance, is always turning his head and looking down into the front ringside seats to see if one or all of his current sweethearts have arrived yet. Some day some smart fighter will time this anxious glance and smack him across the other side of his face and lay him away. We playboys hope it won't be this time.

Primo is very sensitive about the size of his feet and may be kidded into bridling and blushing at which time be may be struck a violent blow on almost any part of bis anatomy.

Due partly to their own unaided efforts and partly to astute management, in former days, both Camera and Baer are stony broke, Da Preem having a few more piastres than Baer. Ibis is an angle that guarantees considerable sincerity in their efforts against one another. Primo is just passing through the big, red, shiny automobile stage and has discovered that money is for something else than to permit his managers to have a good time. Until be acquired Signor Soresi to watch bis money for him, the managers were spending it faster than he could make it. Primo trusts Soresi but the presence of Broadway Will and his henchmen makes him a little uneasy and, any time be can get bis big grabbers on any loose cash, he spends it quickly before they can. I hear rumors that of late he has been whinnying, pawing the ground and beating his chest in the presence of fluffy things in skirts, but for the sake of the Boy Scouts I have agreed to suppress this angle. I must not forget that this fight is between Bayard and the Bum, and may the best Bum win.

Well, there you have most of the Yangles on the big fight. And, knowing them I am still happy to inform you that Baer will knock Camera into the center of next Christmas Eve and deliver him all done up in white paper and tied with red ribbon, with a Merry Christmas to all from your devoted old Uncle Paid.