Judge — June 18, 1932 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

JUDGE UDGING roe SPORTS The out to training laughs! drove the Ts about your other Sunday I Orangeburg to camp of Jack Sharkey. It was a lovely visit Spring day and we only had two blow-outs, three hot dogs and a ticket for beating a red light en route. Yes the whole trip was in the nature of fou. For, and this. will double you right up I know, when we got there the proverbial challenger’s cupboard was bare. I mean for the Sharkey person, there wasn’t any such animal. The poor nerve wracked wretch, feted to the point of nos- talgia by the plaudits of his fans, and crushed and hemmed about by the rabid press, had taken to the tall timbers for a quiet afternoon with his Spengler and Spinoza, What I would infer is that all three of us got there and then turned around and came back to town in time to catch the last four innings of the game between the A’s and the Yanks. For one dollar, and within an hour, we saw more skill, speed, and thrills, than a Mack truck full of Sharkeys and Schmelings will furnish you for twenty three bucks ringside. As a whether I a succés matter of fact I would have entered doubt the sacred portals of the our Pugilistic Pag’ his paces, anyw You see there was a large sign over the gate saying, Admission, one dollar.” Now when I get to the stage where I fork over real dough to witness Sharkey or any other current adayio ist yo ough his own version of Dancing he Dark, I'll send for Mr. Seabury and have my grey matter quizzed by an expert. raining camp stuff neve uries except perhaps in the matter of opu- lence displayed and the amount of free beer for the press. Dempsey always put on a good show, trust Massa Kearns to see to that. Tunney hied himself away to the great open faces of Speculator but once up there the applejack was the real McCoy, to say nothing of the high toned con- versation about camp. The r- age training grind of fighter is dull stuff to assimilate. The usual collection of dumb punch-catchers taking it on the chin for ten bucks a day and free chow, the feeble at- tempts at bag punch- ing by the prima donna, perfunctory mp to witness ci go through 1 rope skipping, exercises in the ring, a welter of snuffling, blowing, and resin shuffling, and so to the showers. The manager and the trainer, and also the press agent hired by the camp, then rush about telling you how good their charge i nd how he is nearing the peak all on account of his being so grouchy and rude to the press. This is another of those things the delicatessen dealers slice up and can only be classed with a few other fatuous ring credos like the one about negro fighters not bein able to take it “downsta south- paws can always be stopped with a right cross, and the old saw about a good big man beating a yood little man, They are now ying that Tex Rickard would have put this fight over with a bang. Given a foreign champion (and a German to boot) we would have suffered through flay waving, the battle of Chateau Thierry, and the agonies of gallant little Belgium. In fact, the whole parade of sucker ballyhoo of which Tex was the complete maestr I doubt it. rd never depression like the present one. always had the great Dempsey protagonist to build his ope around. In his day the fans forked over twenty five nd fifty dollars for ringside pews and gloried in being stung. It was a pleasure for them to be labelled suckers. But let us look at the present line- up for a second. In one corner we have Sharkey, a big, jitter rated clown. He can box fairly well for a big man and that lets him out. (Page Please) comicbooks.com