12 Sports Aces, May 1943 — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

THE PUNCH PROFESSOR 51 OO re Os Oo B11 BH G + Soe Oo Ges Gs Os Gee vere re ee P+ B01 O41 har OG Goo ooh oo G Ges Geo Boo 1 Os0 11 O00 e+e Oe 1 Oso Os Ses Cer Sor Pes Sor Ber Ge oiwe Ges Ser Gas Grr Bre Sor er Pre Bee Ger+-O-> ° mouth were tight. In front of him was the sports sheet of an evening paper: Club fighters usually do not rate much space but tonight at East Side Sporting Club, a man who does merit a line or two makes his ring debut. Matty Rourke, the scion of another Rourke of the twenties, will step out against Buck Dowe. We don’t know how many guns: Rourke carries nor what caliber they are, but we remember seeing big Mat Rourke im action ~ and he was a fighter. Big Mat went out under a cloud. We wonder if the cloud will loom so big around this young Matty Rourke that it will blot out his fistic light... Matty Rourke ran his tongue over dry lips. He’d made no effort to hide the fact that he was Mat Rourke’s son. He was proud of it. He’d dropped the Brian from - his name the day he learned the truth. ‘He’d gone to the University where he had earned his degrees and paid for his new diplomas, seen to it that the records read, Mathew Rourke, Jr.. He was proud to go into the ring as Mat Rourke’s kid. It was the first step in his drive to erase the cloud from Mat | Rourke’s name. Spike Babb came in, gianced sharply at the young fighter. “Well, this is it, lad,” he said, “This is the start. I’ve taught you all I could but there’s some things you'll have toe learn in the ring. This boy Buck Dowe is no pushover, He’s not a Fancy-Dan nor he ain’t strictly a slugger. He’s just a run- of-the-mill club fighter, but he can absorb plenty of punches and keep throwing them back. Don’t get careless. Keep - throwing leather al] the time, but wait for an opening for the right. Then tab him.” “T’ll throw plenty of leather,” Matty _ paid quietly. “Every punch I throw from now on is aimed at Battler Alders and B. J. Benson. Alders is the one I want. The quicker I wade through these tryout fighters, the sooner I get Alders! I’ll tab Dowe, all right.” PIKE BABB fiuttered about Matty like a fussy little terrier pup as they went down the aisle. They got a hice greeting from the crowd and it warmed Matty. As they were about to cimb into the ring, Tim McCarty grasped Matty’s arm. . “Hold it a minute, doc,” Tim said. His big face was flushed with anger and his eyes were gray pinpoints. “We've been jobbed, Spike,” he said-to Babb. “I smelled something, but they were cute enough to cover it to the last minute. They claim Buck Dowe fs sick, can’t fight: They’ve rung in Rocky Stone as a substitute!” Spike Babb came as near swearing as he ever did. “Rocky Stone! By Judas, the lad afn’t ready for no battler as tough as Stone! They can’t do it! We refuse to go on, get the promoter! They ain’t—” “We are not refusing to go on,” Matty Rourke interrupted quietly. “But Rocky Stone is high up on the list, lad! He’s about the last trial horse for a heavy before he hits the big time! He’s ’way, *way too experienced for your first fight!” Fim McCarty said, “It’s Benson. Rocky Stone is owned by one of the Benson clique and this promoter must be in with them. They’re figuring to stop you before you get started.” “Fine.” Matty’s tone was still unruf- fled. “I must be on the right track if Benson is that scared of me.” He climbed into the ring. “It’s all right, Spike. Rocky Stone doesn’t look too terrifying ta me. Let’s go.” Rocky Stone was well named. He was a barrel-chested man with a stubble of black beard covering his face, and short stubby black hair bristling on a bullet head that seemed set directly on his thick shoulders without benefit of a neck. He stalked flat-footedly across the ring and his powerful hairy arms dangled to his knees. He looked like a hunk of man hewed from discolored stone. The referee called them to the center of the ring. Rocky Stone glowered at the clean-cut streamlined youngster, sneered: “A pretty boy, huh! I don’t like your looks, fella!” Matty Rourke eyed Rocky Stone si- lently. Stone’s crack did not bother him. Spike and Tim had warned him that a favorite old dodge of fighters was to try to talk a man’s goat loose. Matty listened te the instructions. comichbook (E(0)