THE BOBCAT BOB MONTGOMERY AND THE GOLDEN AGE OF BOXING By Nigel Collins
the boxers. Gangsters such as Frankie Carbo, Blinky Palermo and Felix Bocchicchio were omnipresent and dangerous. And yet! Many of the fights and fighters were magnificent. Have you ever thought that, despite their countless sins, the villains must have known something about running the sport? A few days prior to the sighting at Dyce Reilly’s, I had interviewed Montgomery at promoter J Russell Peltz’s office in Philadelphia’s Museum District. Bob had been retired from the ring for approximately 35 years when the interview took place. He wasn’t a lightweight anymore, but so what? Bob didn’t have to worry about stepping on the scales. His days of making weight were history. He was a chubby, jovial man who laughed easily and was always delighted to talk about his boxing career. Sitting in Peltz’s office, surrounded by boxing ephemera, Montgomery was relaxed, maybe even thinking back to his glory days. He had an astonishing memory, especially for a man who had fought 97 professional boxing matches. He remembered the date of every bout, the opponent, the venue, the result and the purse – especially the purse. It seemed like a trick at first, but Bob was for real, a beer-washed phenom, a mnemonist without portfolio. In 1935, Montgomery followed his older brother Tom to Philadelphia. Bob was just 15 when he left the family farm in Sumter, South Carolina, and hitchhiked 582 miles to Philly. The brothers were part of the Great Black Migration (1917-1970) traveling north in search of work and a better life. The Migration served as a northbound pipeline for southern boxers, as it did for a multitude of other strivers. Montgomery was born February 10, 1919, and spent his formative years in a segregated state but nevertheless spoke affectionately of his boyhood. “It was nice down there,” said Bob. “It was me, my brother Tom and seven
A fter watching the fights at the Blue Horizon, I got in my car and drove south on Broad Street, heading to Center City. I hadn’t gone far when I noticed an elderly man walking on the sidewalk going in the same direction. Despite having his back to me, I knew who he was. I slowed down, pulled over to the side of the road and lowered the window. “Hey, champ, want a ride home?” Two-time former lightweight champion Bob Montgomery turned, smiled, opened the door and settled into the passenger seat. “Thanks.” We chatted most of the way, and when we got to Pine Street, he said, “You can let me off here.” The last time I saw Montgomery was in 1989 at Dyce Reilly’s Irish Pub, a cozy luncheon spot patronized by Philadelphia businessmen. He was sitting on a barstool, wearing a snazzy brown velvet outfit and matching hat. I didn’t approach him because I knew why he was there. Bob was taking numbers for the street lottery, and I was making sure that what I had been told was true. Bob gave me the side-eye, and
in less than a second I was out the door. I loved the way he was still hustling, still self-sufficient, still feeling like the champ somewhere inside. He was a survivor of what many consider the “Golden Age” of boxing, the 1930s and ’40s. It was a time when boxers fought as often as possible. The pay was pitiful, but it was better than nothing. Montgomery’s busiest year was 1939, when he fought 19 times. Boxers back then were a different breed. I’m not saying they were better compared to today’s lot or vice versa, but the entertainment quotient was heavily in favor of the period in which Montgomery fought. Back then, there were so many boxers, so much happening, it wasn’t unusual to see a good fight. It was expected. Today, not so much. Waiting doesn’t heighten the anticipation; it makes people forget there is a fight. In the Golden Age you couldn’t forget. The newspapers and radio were all over the sport. There were always fights the fans wanted to see, and, by gum, they usually got what they wanted. And quickly, too. Yes, mobsters were deeply involved in the fight racket, and if anyone was going to get screwed, it was usually
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Illustration by Chris Wormell
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