12 Sports Aces, January 1943 — page 55: what you’re looking at

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

KILL THE CHAMP! : 53 FO Or Orr- Sr Ger Orr Grr Gre SorGorG rr Oo Ber Gor Gor Gre Gor Grr Oro or Qor Por Ber Her Oe- Gor Gor Gor Gro Ser Grr GreHs Ger Sor Per Gee Gre Greer Grr Goo Orr Grr Grr Orr her Gor Or Gri Grr Ore Pro Hor Gee Ger Ger GrrGrrGrrGees | him, He saw half a dozen frantic cops leap toward him to protect him. “Get the kill-erazy kid!” It was a roar now. The roar of an in- furiated mob. Rowdy didn’t see the bot- tle coming. It was an empty. It caught him back of the ear and he began to fall. He knew he was going out. That didn’t matter. He knew only that he had won the title and that they hated him. He did not know why. Until unconsciousness gathered him in, that bothered him. Then he was out and nothing bothered him for a long, long time. CHAPTER IT VERYTHING was white. The -bed, —/ the ceiling, the walls of the room, He turned his head. Half a dozen monkeys were making faces at him. He blinked. Somebody had set a vase of fresh pansies on the table beside him. The room smelled like flowers, It smelled like a veterinary’s kit. It was a hospital room and it smelled like hell. | Frosty was there. Frosty was grin- ning. “Hi, champ!” It was daylight. Rowdy said, “What time is it?” “Noon. You got conked by a bottle. They can’t hurt the champ, though. You'll be out in a couple of days.” Rowdy blinked a couple of times and things were clearer. He remembered some- thing. “They hate my guts.” He said it bitterly, one syllable at a time, unbeliev- ingly. “Why?” Frosty grinned. Frosty was a thin guy. He had cruel eyes. “Sure they hate your guts—you lucky devil. That’s what we want, ain’t it? Next time you fight, they’ll pay a million to watch you get killed.” Rowdy reached out and = grabbed Frosty’s tie. His knuckles turned as white as the bedroom walls, “Listen. They hate me.” He twisted the tie and Frosty pur- pled. “Why ?” Frosty snarled, “Don’t be silly. You ecouldn’t get into the Boy Scouts on. the strength of the way you won that title! You know what I’m talking about.” Rowdy was bewildered. He said, ‘“‘You’re driving me nuts. Tell me why they hate me.” | Frosty said, “I don’t feel like talking. I got a morning paper. I'll let you read it,” | Rowdy took the paper. He held it at arms’ length and fastened his eyes upon his picture. He started to read and his brain began to ache. ; CHAMPION BY A FLUKE Last night Rowdy Madden won the heavy- weight ehampionship’ of the world, Last night kill-erazy Rowdy Madden became the most loathed man in boxing history. Marty Allen, the ex-champ, was making a last swing around the eountry before enhist- — ing. He was fighting without pay, risking his title to pour money into the Army Relief Fund. He was tired last night, but even at that he was a far better man than the loud- mouthed kid who had threatened to kill the champ. Marty Allen had Rowdy Madden whipped. He had him on the canvas, bleeding. But when Marty came in for the kill, he slipped in a pool of blood. A thousand times during his career champion Marty Allen hag re-— fused to swing at a fighter who has lost his balance. Marty Allen might have expected this kill-erazy kid to do the same for him. He didn’t try to protect himself from Rowdy Madden’s killer gloves. He tried to save him- self from falling. But Rowdy Madden had been boasting. He’d been promising the champ a whipping. He couldn’t do it fairly. And he didn’t want to eat ‘his words. So, when the champ slipped the challenger let him have it. The commis- sioners ean do-nothing about it. Legally Rowdy Madden was right. Morally, he was wrong. He’s the new champion—and a more unpopular champion never lived. Rowdy Madden will never last long. He isn’t fighter enough. His only chance is to make a tour of the bushes himself, to fight in the minor leagues until he learns more about the game. In the meantime, champion Marty Allen is through with the ring for- ever. A head wound, according to latest ad- vices, had injured Marty Allen’s optic nerves so that he will be in semi-blindness the rest of his life, | Thus a great champion has reached the end of the trail. There will be no enlistment for Marty Allen now. There will be nothing but oblivion left for him in the fight game. His family has a small monthly income from an annuity Marty established. But there is nothing else. Marty Allen was generous with his money. He never turned down a hard luck stery. But today he’s living a hard luck story of his own. Here’s a salute to a great fighter—a fighter who, although -he’s no longer champ, will —cGomicbooks