THE 21-YEAR PUNCH
it flush; the punch must’ve felt like a brick to the side of his face. Charles collapsed in pieces, first to one knee, then forward onto the canvas, face down. With great effort, he got to his feet, only to topple backward. He was done. At 0:55 of the seventh, Charles was the ex-champion. Walcott, a 37-year-old father of six, was the new one. He’d been taken to boxing’s pinnacle on the wings of the most perfect punch he’d ever thrown. “I knew he was gone when that hook landed on his jaw,” Walcott said. “I felt it.” The left, he said, was his “secret weapon.” In their two previous bouts, turgid 15-rounders won by Charles, Walcott learned he could reach Charles with his left. But Walcott was not known for left-handed power. This time, he had sharpened his left into a knockout punch. “He trained just right and didn’t leave his fight in camp,” said Walcott’s manager, the verbose Felix Bocchicchio. “He took it into the ring and delivered it right on Ezzard’s doorstep.” More than 28,000 customers had gathered that night in Forbes Field for the first heavyweight title fight in Pittsburgh’s history. They’d smashed the city’s record boxing gate set in 1941 by Billy Conn and Buddy Knox. Also, the broadcast went out to 46 cities on the DuMont network, further establishing that a major television audience existed for boxing. Walcott made some history, too, winning the championship on his record-setting fifth try. Moreover, he became the oldest man to win the heavyweight championship. “I kept telling you fellows I would win by a knockout,” Walcott said, “but I guess nobody believed me.” The new champion showered and put on his street clothes and was then whisked away to a victory party at the William Penn Hotel, complete with a police escort and screaming sirens. At one point, he left the party to visit Charles’ room. “I hope I’ll be as good a champion as you have been and a credit to the
game,” he said. “It’s all right,” Ezzard replied. “I’d have been pulling for you if I hadn’t been fighting you.” Indeed, it seemed the entire boxing world was pulling for Walcott on July 18, 1951. He was a familiar face on the heavyweight scene, a likable journeyman with a habit of coming up short in title bouts. Twice he’d lost to Joe Louis, first by a close decision that many felt should’ve gone Walcott’s way, and then by a knockout in 11. Twice he’d failed against Charles, the not-so-popular but skillful champion who had replaced Louis. After 21 years in the business, Walcott had become boxing’s perennial hard-luck figure. Yet there was something going on in the weeks prior to Walcott-Charles III, something in the warm July air that felt … magical. Even as Charles was installed as a 5-to-1 betting favorite, there was an undeniable feeling that Walcott might get it right this time. As any gambler will tell you, stay at the table long enough and you’ll eventually get a good hand to play. He couldn’t fail again, could he? Could the universe keep sticking it to such a nice man as Walcott? In their second bout, just four months earlier in Detroit, Walcott fought well, but Charles was awarded a unanimous decision. The crowd at Olympia Stadium jeered the verdict for six minutes, such was their empathy for Walcott. Long after Charles had returned to his dressing room, the New York Daily News reported that “Walcott remained in the ring – hands raised and cheers raining down on his partially bald, perspiration-drenched head.” If persistence paid off, as our parents and teachers always told us, maybe things would be different in Pittsburgh. If Walcott lost again, then maybe all the stuff about hard work was crap, just like you thought it was. Or maybe Walcott was about to prove it was all true, especially the part about “try, try again.” In his case, it was “try, try, try, try, try again.”
The wave of optimism for Walcott was best embodied at the Rainbow Gardens, a joyous, sprawling spot in White Oak, Pennsylvania, at the border of McKeesport, 11 miles from Pittsburgh. With its many steel mills and raging blast furnaces, Allegheny County had come to be known as “Hell with the lid off,” but Rainbow Gardens gave local families a nice summer respite from the smog and soot. Vacationers could sample anything from a vast swimming pool to a pair of roller coasters. The amusement park had been built in the 1920s and had endured several setbacks, including bankruptcy, the Great Depression, and even a massive flood that nearly destroyed it. Like Jersey Joe, the old park kept coming back. By the late 1940s, it included the latest of America’s post-war distractions – a miniature golf course and a drive-in movie theater. As a publicity stunt, the park’s management arranged for Walcott to set up his training camp in front of their giant movie screen. The Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph reported that more than 1,000 curiosity seekers attended Walcott’s first sparring session. It wasn’t long before the cheery suburbanites and their freckle- faced kids adopted Jersey Joe as one of their own. The growing interest for Charles- Walcott III was palpable, probably because of the unpopular decision in Detroit. Truman Gibson, secretary of the International Boxing Club, attended the contract signing in June and said, “Outside of Louis in his heyday, I’ve never seen such excitement so early before a fight.” The enthusiasm was strongest in the White Oak/McKeesport area, where people lined up daily to watch Walcott work with a quartet of sparring partners: Art Swiden, Ben Skelton, Jackie Burke and Speedy Williams. Seeing a professional fighter up close was probably a novelty for the amusement park crowd. Sure, the Rainbow Gardens management may
ring. The crusty contender always interceded. “Leave them alone,” he said, which drew a cheer from the little ones. “I love them,” Walcott said. “I have six at home. Kids are not young for long. Let them have fun.” Walcott thrived in the carefree, summery atmosphere. He took walks around the park, with no fewer than a dozen kids always following him. He answered all their questions, took pictures with them and even let them make paper crowns to place on his closely shaved head. One of the boys, 10-year-old Jimmy Slater, became Walcott’s personal mascot, carrying his water bucket and running errands for him. The young boy rose early each morning to wave at Walcott as he ran past his house and would sometimes run alongside him. “He’s my good luck charm,” Walcott said. There was a story
Walcott was looking strong as the seventh round approached.
miles away, drew small crowds, but the attendance at Walcott’s camp grew larger every day, especially once Walcott demanded that children get in free. By July 11, the Post-Gazette announced that 1,600 people were crowded into the training area to see Walcott, including “700 kids who were his guests.” On the 14th day of his stretch at Rainbow Gardens, the Sun-Telegraph estimated Walcott’s final public session was attended by a whopping 3,500 people. This number may have been exaggerated, but there was no denying Walcott had suddenly become a star. Not accustomed to their fighter’s newfound popularity, Walcott’s handlers would try to shoo the kids away if they stood too close to the
Walcott used to tell about Jack Johnson. The former heavyweight champion happened to be training in a Merchantville gym where a group of admirers, including a teenage Walcott, then known by his real name of Arnold Cream, tried to meet him. Johnson brushed past the crowd, not bothering to sign one autograph or say hello. Walcott never forgot his disappointment and vowed to never treat people that way. As the summer revelers gathered around him every day at the park, Walcott lived up to the pledge he’d made years earlier. When Walcott had a break from training, he’d visit the nearby Oakmont Country Club to watch that summer’s PGA championship, or he’d visit a local church. He took part in the
have considered Walcott as just a special summer attraction that would be gone in a few weeks, but he wasn’t just some dumb fighter flexing his muscles. Jersey Joe was preparing to throw a punch 21 years in the making – a punch to undo his past hardships: the time spent hauling garbage to make ends meet; the run-down shack he’d once lived in with his wife and kids; the relief checks and paltry paydays. His sufferings drove him forward like a wind. Charles’ public workouts at a high school gymnasium in Ligonier, 40
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