Billy Miske was a beast, fighting while nursing a damned kidney disease that he knew was going to kill him, yet still fighting at an elite level. But he was one heck of a fighter as well, he defeated and held his own with some of the greatest names this sport has ever known, names like Dempsey, Greb, Gibbons, Dillon, Norfolk, O'Dowd, Papke, Levinsky. He also possessed a granite chin, stopped only once in his career, by prime Dempsey. He's in the International Boxing Hall of Fame and rightfully so. Here is his IBHOF profile in it's entirety.
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Born William Arthur Miske on April 12, 1894 in St. Paul, MN. He began boxing as a middleweight in 1913 and engaged in exhibitions with Fred Fulton, Mike O’Dowd and Billy Papke. Competing during the “no decision” era, Miske met some of the best middleweights, light heavyweights and heavyweights of his time. Among the top men he boxed include Hall of Famers Harry Greb, Tommy Gibbons, Jack Dillon, Battling Levinsky and Kid Norfolk, as well as Bill Brennan and Jack Renault.
In 1918 Miske was diagnosed with a kidney ailment known as Bright’s Disease. He kept his illness a secret from everyone, including his family, and continued to box. In 1920 Miske fought in the only title bout of his career and was stopped in three rounds by heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey. Despite the painful effects of the illness, he kept a busy ring schedule and scored wins over Renault (KO 13) and Fulton (KO 7) in 1922. Following a 1st round kayo over Harry Foley on January 12, 1923, the pain was so intense, Miske retired.
Even with his health deteriorating, Miske convinced his manager to secure one last bout so he could provide a final Christmas to his family. Against all odds, he defeated Brennan (KO 4) on November 7, 1923 and used his purse to buy gifts for his family. He retired with a 48-2-2 (35 KOs), 54 ND record.
On January 1, 1924, “The St. Paul Thunderbolt” died at the age of 29.
Born: April 12, 1894
Died: Jan. 1, 1924
Bouts: 106
Won: 48
Lost: 2
Drew: 2
ND: 54
KOs: 35
Induction: 2010
Billy Miske
Back
Billy Miske and Jack Dempsey shaking hands before their final bout in 1920.
"Before Billy Miske was taken sick—back in the days when Billy really was good—he was a fast, clever man. And he went the distance twice with Dempsey. When Bill had slipped and had lost his speed, Dempsey fought him the third time—and knocked him out. But Jack wasn't fighting a fast, clever man that day."
I love this quote about Billy Miske by the legendary boxing fan and enthusiast Burt Bienstock:
"How do you define "heart?" Soaking up punishment and not giving up in the ring? Or is it the kind of "heart" and bravery that Billy Miske displayed when dying from Bright's Disease and having only a short time to live, Miske to put bread on his family's table and for their last Christmas together, fought Dempsey and other heavyweights, though at times so weakened was Miske, he could hardly stand up...But knowing he was soon to die Billy Miske fought to the end for his family...That too defines "heart" and courage..."
Billy Miske posing with a medicine ball. A medicine ball in boxing is a training method that is used to improve power, core strength, stamina, and technique by performing exercises that mimic boxing movements. These exercises include throwing, slamming, and twisting the ball, which helps build explosive power, develop rotational strength, and condition the body for the impact and movements of boxing. I've seen many boxers bang up it against their rib cage to better prepare themselves to take body shots.
"No fighter wants to get knocked out, but if my time ever comes to get knocked out, I'll take it. The fight game is a tough racket. It's no baby's play and everyone has to take chances.''
Man, that look Jack Dempsey is giving the camera in that photo above is intense, Dempsey could give you a look that was it's own beating, ice cold, emotionless. One of the most intimidating fighters ever.
''You don't know if I can take a punch because I never had to. Nobody hits me with a four-punch combination. I'm not going to Iet anybody put their hands on me four times in a row. My fights are as easy as I make them.''
A new world lightweight champion was crowned on July 17th, 1930 at Yankee Stadium in true championship style and his name was Al Singer.
The 21-year-old from the Bronx knocked out Sammy Mandell in one round.
26-year-old Mandell went down four times, shorn of the belt he’d worn for the previous four years, after only 1 minute and 46 seconds of frenzied action. Though both boxers started the match boxing cautiously, Singer dropped Mandell with a left hook to the jaw in less than a minute of fighting. Three more times Mandell went down to the mat for short counts, scarcely able to raise his hands in defense. The final knockdown came with a crushing one two punch to the jaw.
''The thing is you begin staring real hard at a guy as soon as he gets into the ring. Pin him real good. Never let your eyes leave him. You don't blink, you just stare holes into him. I can learn a lot about my opponent and what he's thinking just by looking at him.''
Some called light heavyweight Jack Dillon "Jack the Giant Killer" for his ability to handle the most unstoppable heavyweights of the day. A prolific fighter who traveled the U.S. and Canada setting up fights as often as he could, Dillon had stamina, strength, and intelligence. He turned welterweight pro in his native Indiana at the age of seventeen, but soon moved up to the middleweight division and fought for two years before being handed his first loss, a ten-rounder with Eddie McGoorty.
In 1912, Dillon scored a third-round knockout against Hugo Kelly, and promptly claimed the world light heavyweight title, uncontested since Philadelphia Jack O'Brien had won it some years earlier. By 1914, Dillon was officially recognized as champion, when he won a decision over Battling Levinsky. Later that year, a referee cut short a Dillon-K.O. Brown meeting after three rounds, saying the fighters were just going through the motions.
Dillon, who did sometimes carry weaker fighters, was apparently affected by the criticism that followed that bout and began to fight heavyweights who were invariably larger. He defeated such big men as Al Weinert, Tom Cowler, and Fireman Jim Flynn. Dillon defeated Flynn twice, knocking him out in 1916 only a year after Flynn had defeated Jack Dempsey.
Dillon lost the world light heavyweight title to Battling Levinsky in 1916 in their ninth meeting. Levinsky employed ring science to avoid Dillon's still powerful punches and won on points. Dillon continued to fight for seven years after losing the title. A workmanlike fighter who did not vigorously seek the spotlight, Dillon's aggressive attacking style against bigger men won him a place in ring history. Dillon left boxing in 1923, not much richer than when he started. He retired to Florida where he lived next door to a small restaurant he owned and ran. He died in 1942.
Jack Dillon posing in the ring. Man, he was built like a sawed-off Mike Tyson. Here's an old article about what he was like in the ring, this is an original New York Times article that was written after his fight with heavyweight Frank Moran, love this stuff.
DILLON'S PUNCHES OVERWHELM MORAN; Indianapolis Boxer Shows Marked Superiority in Every Round Except One. LOSER IS BITTER AT END Declines to Take Hand of Rival When Bout Is Over ;- Dillon on the Aggressive Throughout.
June 30, 1916
Credit...The New York Times Archives
Jack Dillon, the giant killer, smashed, rushed, and ripped big Frank Moran every inch of the way through their ten round bout before 18 people at Washington Park last night, scoring a sensational victory which set the big gathering in a flame of excitement when the Indianapolis boxer completed his crushing task. Shorter by many inches and weighing 85½ pounds less than his ponderous opponent, Dillon was as quick and as punishing as the Bear Cat they call him. He toyed with the blonde Pittsburgher and most of the time had his face crimson with blood.
Every round was Dillon's except the third, when Moran got the Hoosier mauler cornered on the ropes and shot in rights and lefts. Dillon covered himself so well that Moran's punishment did not make even a scratch. By being liberal, one might give Moran an even break in that round, but Dillon finished it in whirlwind fashion. Moran, with his pale face smeared with blood, seemed to feel deeply the humiliation of his downfall, for when the bout was finished and the tigerish little Dillon bounded across the ring to shake the big fellow's hand, Moran climbed through the ropes, deliberately refusing to congratulate his victor. It was the biggest surprise Moran ever got in his life and he made the fearful mistake of underestimating the value of the rugged, aggressive little fighting machine from Indiana. It was the best fight that New York has seen in years, for Dillon insisted that there should be action from the start, and there was.
Crowd Cheers Dillon.
The crowd was in an uproar from the beginning, and after the first round the crowd was for Dillon. He received a big ovation at the end, and ranks higher in the boxing world than ever before. They say Dillon has never been knocked off his feet. Last night he took the hardest punches Moran had and they didn't even shake him. It is easy to believe this proud boast. Moran weighed 204½, while the Hoosier tipped the scales at 169. There was a great contrast as they both appeared in the ring at 10:35. When they stripped for the young army of photographers Dillon was as brown as a berry. His back and shoulders shone like copper plate and knots of muscles stood out on his arms. Moran's white flesh looked soft. He was large at the waist, and he was far from being the finished, well-trained athlete that he was when he gamely took Jess Willard's punishment at Madison Square Garden. Moran had to himself to deliver every blow, and by the time he was ready to get over his slow, clumsy blows, Dillon was dancing away. It looked ridiculous to see a little fellow like Dillon bore in head first, both hands busy, and drive a huge figure like Moran back to the ropes. Dillon was so clever of hand and of foot that Moran was at a perfect loss as to how to fight him.
Moran Hits the Air.
Moran was as wild as a cannibal with his blows, and the greater part of them slipped over Dillon's bronze shoulders or were lost in the space beyond. Mat Hinkel, the Cleveland referee, had to actually pry Moran away from his smaller opponent in the last few rounds, when Moran, tired, bleeding, and hurt, tried to lay all over the little fellow to avoid his wicked uppercuts. It was truly like Goliath and David, for the contrast between the two in the Washington Park ring was almost as great. Jack was surely the giant killer. He has the energy and strength of any 200-pounder that ever put on boxing gloves and is twice as fast. This was the best battle of his career, and for many years he has been waiting for just such an opportunity to flash his fighting talent. Dillon rushed and rushed and Moran backed away. Leaning far back, with his left arm extended far out, awkwardly, and held his right arm back ready to find a landing place. Dillon bored in incessantly under his left arm, planting left jolts to the body, then jumping almost off his feet to plant his crashing right on Moran's jaw.
Hammers Moran Groggy.
Moran smiled at his friends around the ringside for the first few rounds, but later his face was hard set, when he wasn't dazed. In the fifth Dillon ham- mered him into a corner with an unrelenting body attack, and suddenly ripped his right to Moran's face. The blood began to flow from Frank's nose and mouth. The sight of the gore gave the Wildcat renewed energy and he ripped into the Pittsburgher with fury and hammered him viciously on the head and body until Frank was groggy. It was a gladsome sound to him when the bell rang. One round was very much like another. It seemed incredible that a fighter as small as Dillon could make a plaything of a big man like Moran, but as the fight progressed Moran appeared all the more ridiculous. He was a foolish looking sight, as he was compelled to take back water and take the grueling punishment of Dillon. In the later rounds Moran got tired and tried to stall by laying his 204 pounds against Dillon's shoulders. Dillon wasn't tired, for he actually carried Moran's weight several times and beat him back across the ring in the bargain.
Dillon's Partner Wins Preliminary.
The Dillon camp started off with a victory in the ten-round semi-final. Gus Christle, Dillon's sparring partner, out-pointed Zulu Kid. Moran's right-hand punching object. Early in the bout some of the women spectators gasped when Gus opened a cut over the Kid's eye. There were many female sighs before this when in one of the preliminaries, Willie Irish knocked out Hank Ferns in the first round. One of the most nervous spectators was George Considine, the stakeholder, who sat close to the ring with a mysterious- looking package in his hands which contained the wad of money-the $40,000 purse for which the boxers were battling. Near the stakeholder was Manager John J. McGraw of the Giants. He was approached by a newsboy, crying, "Baseball extry, Giants lose two." McGraw told the lad to run along and ped- dle his papers.
Novelty Appealed to Society.
The novelty of the open-air boxing circus hit the fancy of New Yorkers, and most of the notables who are not at the seashore or the mountains motored over the bridge to see the set-to. Thousands of cars were parked outside, and much of the finery of the women and the shantung suits of the men were hidden beneath automobile dusters. The cheap seats were at the far ends of the grand stand in the bleachers, and it was from these crowded tiers that most of the noise came. Here were the real leather-lunged fight fans, but most of their incessant shouts were lost on the night air because they were so far from the ring. To them big Moran and little Dillon looked like small boys. In one way it was like a baseball game, inasmuch as the hawkers of peanuts, popcorn, and lemonade were getting in everybody's view at critical moments of the bouts. It was a classic ring in which the men battled. The squared circle from the famous old National Sporting Club in Twenty-fifth Street came to life again. Here were the same green plush ropes, the same shining brass posts, which Inclosed the National Club's ring when Stanley Ketchel knocked out Philadelphia Jack O'Brien. O'Brien was at the ringside last night, and there was a look of sadness on his face as he recognized the settings. It was in this same ring, too, that Abe Attell and Jem Driscoll had their sensational bout.
THE FIGHT BY ROUNDS.
Details of the Ring Battle at Washington Park, First Round.
Dillon Moran led off with the right. countered with a left to the stomach. Dillon again brought his left to the stomach; In an exchange in the corner Dillon drove right and left to the body, and Moran twice jabbed his left to Dil- lon's face. Dillon brought his left heavily to the stomach. A swift exchange followed, with Dillon the more effective of the two. Dillon's left went deep into Moran's stomach. Dillon continued to force, landing a few punches which stung, but did not badly hurt Moran. Dillon crossed his right to Moran's jaw and then went in close, whipping his left into the stomach and his right to the head.
Second Round.
Dillon walked in close, renewed his activity with both hands, and blocked effectively. Moran swung a heavy left to the jaw, but Dillon rushed and shook Moran with a fusillade to the upper body. In a clinch Dillon uppercut the left to Moran's head, and the Pittsburgh man missed the same punch. Dillon rushed, but could not land, and then played for Moran's stomach, getting home a few light lefts. Dillon time and again put his left to the body and hooked the right to the jaw, but Moran always came back for more.
Third Round.
Moran opened this round by rushing Dillon to the ropes, but could not break through the Indiana boxer's defense. Dillon's left went flush to Moran's head, and Moran, showing the first real fighting ability, crashed a right to Dillon's head, driving the Indianapolis man to the ropes. He worked right and left to the head, but did not seem to hurt Dil- lon. Moran then forced Dillon across the ring and repeated this. Then Dillon came to life and shook Moran with a right to the head. The milling waxed extremely warm. Moran appeared arm weary at the end of the round, while Dillon showed no signs of being hurt. Dillon protected himself in this round with great science.
Fourth Round.
Moran rushed out of his corner to re- ceive a left to the body. When in close Jack played a tattoo to Moran's stomach. A long left hook caught Dillon off his balance and sent him to the ropes, where Moran hit him three times to the head. In a clinch Moran took two left hooks to the jaw, and then Moran put a straight left to the nose. He repeated this performance twice and then missed with the right. Moran missed a vicious right to the head, and was then dazed with a right to the head, followed by a left, which almost turned him around.
Fifth Round.
There were light exchanges for several seconds after the bell, each man boxing cautiously. Both slowed up perceptibly. A right and a left reached Moran's nose and Moran's head bobbed back and forth. From the concussion of Dillon's fists blood was drawn from Moran's nose, and the big fellow had to stand up under a series of punches which shook his frame heavily. Dillon utilized every second in the latter stages of the round with telling effect, his blows landing where they were intended to land, while Moran seemed to have lost all sense of distance. This was the liveliest session of the bout so far.
Sixth Round.
Dillon went after Moran with a vengeance and pumped both hands to Moran's face. Occasionally he shifted to the body. Blood continued to stream from Moran's nose. Moran missed a hard right and rocked on his heels, while he received another battering to the upper section of his body. Moran waited for one punch, and while he waited Dillon peppered his stomach and head with punches, every one of which hurt. Moran got a weak left in on the body, but left himself open to Dillon's left to his nose. Dillon's score of points was very big in this round.
Seventh Round.
Dillon speedily went to his task, and working like a steam engine kept Moran at bay while he found his mark every time he shot out either hand, which was as fast as he could move them. Dillon bored in close and made Moran swing wildly over his head, then he snapped his left a half dozen times to the head while Moran kept his right around the kidneys. Moran's nose received a terrible lacing in an ensuing clinch Moran could not get set for a punch, and every time he led with a hard blow it hit nothing but the air. Moran was reduced to a state of dis- comfort, if not submission, by countless punches to the face in the final stages of this round.
Eighth Round.
He Clinches were much to the liking of Moran at the start of this round. clung to Dillon persistently. Dillon finally broke away and staggered Moran with a right to the mouth. Close fighting followed without much damage. Then Dillon's left followed with great force right to the point of Moran's chin. Moran's eyes became glassy, but he shook his head and came back to get six punches to various portions of the head. Moran was helpless against the wily and clever moves of Dillon, who simply smothered his opponent with blows.
Ninth Round.
Moran saw his only hope in a knock- out and he walked determinedly from his corner and started a left for he head which never landed. He got Dillon on the ropes, but to no avail; he could not break down Dillon's guard. Dillon fought back and both hands moved with such speed that the eye could not follow them. Moran's head went from side to side, when first a left then a right reached its target. Moran mauled Dillon around the ring, but that was all he could do. Dillon made a toy of the big fellow. The fight slowed up. The round ended with a heavy exchange in Dillon's favor.
Tenth Round.
In a harmless swishing at the start of the last round Moran uncovered himself for a moment and allowed Dillon to rip in a few punches to the body. Then the big blonde rallied, but the few punches he did land had no effect on Dillon other than to cause him to unleash another series of punches, some of which landed and some of which did not. Moran's left eye was partially closed and a deep gash cut in his fore- head when Dillon crashed an overhand right to this point. The bout ended with an exchange of punches and with Moran's refusal to accept the hand of the victor.
Jack Dillon posing in the ring. Man, he was built like a sawed-off Mike Tyson. It's not a wonder he was able to bust guys up that weighed 35 more pounds than him.
Joseph William Baksi (Joe Baksi) was a child of the Kulpmont, Pennsylvania coal mines. He was quoted as saying that he never had any intention of being a boxer, but he saw it "as a ticket to a better way of life, out of the mines." He broke into professional boxing in 1940 at the age of 18. He beat nine boxers that year, including the future movie actor Jack Palance (who fought under the name of Jack Brazzo) at the Westchester County Center in White Plains, NY. When he was 15 years old, he left his hometown of Kulpmont, Pa. He broke into boxing in 1940 by fighting in three round matches before main events in New York, Albany and Philadelphia. Baksi was a solid 210‐pounder who was known for his body punching and his ability to absorb punishment. In a 72‐fight career that spanned 14 years, he won 59 fights, lost nine and fought to a draw four times. He scored 28 of those victories by knock out and was himself stopped only once, on cuts against Ezzard Charles. He defeated top fighters such as Tami Mauriello, Lee Savold, Lou Nova and Freddie Mills, and lost close decisions to Jersey Joe Walcott and Ezzard Charles. At his best he was ranked as the No.4 heavyweight contender by the NBA (National Boxing Association). He was inactive through 1952 and 1953 but returned to the ring in 1954, losing a 10‐round decision to Bob Baker of Pittsburgh on May 24th. During the bout with Baker, Mr. Baksi's manager, Leo Feureisen, collapsed at ringside and died in the dressing room a short time later. After the loss of the fight and the death of his manager, Baksi officially retired. He then became a teamster and later an ironworker and a member of the International Brotherhood of Ironworkers.
Much like Tommy Farr, Joe Baksi experienced the hellishness of coal mining, and he got into boxing to get away from the mines. This is one of my favorite photos, coal miner Joe Baksi (right) has a canteen lunch after a trip down the pit with Laurence Plover of the National Coal Board, taken in May 1947.
Joe Baksi was one tough son of a gun, had a iron chin, nobody ever knocked him out, the only time he didn't hear the final bell was when he was stopped on cuts against the great Ezzard Charles. As far as style goes, Baksi was a big, strong, powerful, intimidating guy, about 6'2", 210 pounds, he could be outboxed, but not many opponents could out muscle and outgun him. His MO was to come forward and use his size and power to bust you up with body shots, uppercuts, and hooks, maul the hell out of you, there was nothing cute about his style, it was just straight up brutalization. Just ask fighters such as Tami Mauriello, Lee Savold, Lou Nova, Freddie Mills, and Bruce Woodcock, damn good fighters, about Joe Baksi and what it was like to face him. He was a rough customer.
Like I said, Joe Baksi was a pretty big guy, this is a photo of England goalkeeper Frank Swift comparing hands with Joe Baksi (right) at Brighton in April 1947. Frank Swift had a huge finger span of nearly 12 inches which meant he could easily grasp a ball in one hand. Baksi was in the UK for a fight with Bruce Woodcock at White City at the time this photo was taken. Manchester City’s Swift would tragically lose his life in the Munich Air Disaster 11 years later.
Joe Baksi batters Bruce Woodcock during their fight in 1947, Woodcock was a murderous puncher but couldn't do anything with the bigger and stronger Baksi, Woodcock was floored five separate times before the ref finally stopped it in round seven. You can see Woodcock's eye on the bottom at the end of round four. Baksi was a powerful slugger.
Freddie Mills was one gutsy and tough son of a gun, but couldn't do anything with the bigger and stronger Baksi either. Joe Baksi defeated Freddie Mills by technical knockout (TKO) after Mills retired at the end of the sixth round of their fight on November 5, 1946. The primary reason for Mills' retirement was that both of his eyes were severely cut, a result of the battering he took from Baksi. This is a photo of Baksi and Mills after their fight.
Joe Baksi (middle) with legendary boxing trainer Ray Arcel (far left). To say Arcel is a legend would be an understatement, Ray Arcel trained numerous world champions, including Benny Leonard, Roberto Durán, Larry Holmes, Ezzard Charles, James Braddock, Barney Ross, Tony Zale, and Frankie Genaro. His career spanned over 60 years, during which he trained 20 world champions across various weight divisions, with the exception of the featherweight division. Arcel started training fighters in the 1920s and continued through the 1980s.
Joe Baksi stands over Tami Mauriello after flooring him during their bout in 1944 at MSG. Tami Mauriello was a good fighter, a hard puncher, and had serious guts, Mauriello is the one that went for it against Joe Louis in 1946, landing a solid punch that staggered Louis early in the first round, momentarily hurting the champion and sending him stumbling into the ropes. Although Louis would recover and stop him, you have to admire Mauriello's fearlessness. Baksi would win this fight against Mauriello by unanimous decision, this was the breakthrough fight for Baksi, his first big win, up until this point he had been a solid contender for a number of years. This fight put him on the map and sent notice to the heavyweight division that Baksi was a force to be reckoned with.
One last photo of Joe Baksi, this is the image that was used for his 1951 Topps Ringside card, one of my favorite sets. I like Joe Baksi, like I said, there was nothing cute about his style, he was just a punishing fighter.
''I got this far in my Iife and career not because I was the most gifted athIete, but primariIy through stubbornness and tenacity. That's what separated me from other fighters - that refusaI to give up. This may sound barbaric, but I wouId rather die in that ring than quit. I wiII give every ounce of energy I have in there, fighting untiI there is absoIuteIy nothing Ieft. Your body can do so much more than you think it can; peopIe are just afraid to go to that dark, scary pIace where you don't know what wiII happen, or how much it wiII hurt. I've been there a few times, so I know. And I've never given up, never surrendered. For me, the physicaI anguish is nothing compared to what I wouId feeI the next day, Iooking at myseIf in the mirror, knowing I had given Iess than compIete effort. That to me, wouId be unbearabIe.''
Previously unpublished photo of the legendary Jimmy Wilde in his 60s living in Barry (Cadoxton). He's arguably the greatest flyweight that ever lived, and was nicknamed "The Mighty Atom" and "The Ghost With a Hammer in His Hand" because he was a murderous pound-for-pound puncher. Jimmy Wilde had the longest unbeaten streak in boxing history, going 103 fights without a loss before his first defeat. This streak began his professional career, which was likely much longer than his official record suggests due to unrecorded bouts in fairground booths. His official record is 131 wins, 3 losses, 1 draw, with 99 knockouts.
Kid Chocolate, 1930s junior lightweight sensation and Cuba's first world champion. According to lore, a young Ezzard Charles ran into the Kid, who was in Cincinnati to face Johnny Farr. When asked how many suits he had, the Cuban said, "One for every day of the year."
Man, Kid Chocolate was definitely a sensation, Sugar Ray Robinson famously said that he modeled parts of his boxing style after Kid Chocolate, whom he described as having "beautiful" rhythm, speed, reflexes, and style. Robinson's admiration for Kid Chocolate's elegance in the ring was a significant influence on his own legendary career, and indeed when you watch Robinson on film, you see shades of Kid Chocolate.
Kid Chocolate didn’t walk into history with a shout. He danced in with a grin, hands high, the rhythm of Havana still humming in his bones.
It was the summer of 1931, and Eligio Sardiñas Montalvo—better known to boxing fans, cab drivers, and dreamers from Cuba to New York as “Kid Chocolate”—was just 23 years old. He had the effortless charisma of a jazz soloist, the style of a movie star, and the fists of a street poet. Already a world champion at junior lightweight, the Kid was chasing something no one had ever touched before: a third world title. Featherweight? Done. Junior lightweight? His. Now, he set his sights on the Lightweight and Junior Welterweight king—Tony Canzoneri.
Picture it. Training camp in upstate New York. The humid, pine-scented air clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. In the ring, the Kid glided like smoke through sunbeams slicing into the gym. He was sharp, fast, electric. But he was tired, too. The miles of fighting, the weight of expectation—being the first Cuban world champion wasn’t just a title. It was a burden draped in pride. Every punch had to mean something. Every slip-up echoed back home in Havana, where boys gathered barefoot around radios, waiting for news of their hero.
So when he took a break from training that summer—just briefly—it wasn’t because he wanted to. It was because he needed to. The pressure was relentless. The opportunity was immense. This wasn’t just another fight. If he beat Canzoneri, he’d become the first man to hold three world titles at once. In an era of few belts and fierce gatekeepers, that meant immortality.
The night of the fight came. Madison Square Garden roared like a train tunnel. It wasn’t just about boxing anymore. It was legacy, it was history, it was grit versus glamour.
Fifteen rounds later, the decision came in—a split one. Canzoneri retained his titles. Kid Chocolate, bleeding but defiant, had fallen just short. So close. A whisper away from legend.
But here's the truth: sometimes, a loss doesn’t tarnish a fighter—it defines him. The Kid didn’t pout or make excuses. He adjusted his tie, smiled for the cameras, and promised to come back stronger. And he did.
He retired with a staggering record: 136 wins, 10 losses, and 6 draws. Along the way, he captured the New York State Athletic Commission’s featherweight title, dazzled in every major venue, and brought joy to a generation of Cuban immigrants who saw their hopes reflected in his footwork.
Years passed. The spotlight dimmed. The once-slender frame thickened. The hair grayed. But the mischief in his eyes never vanished.
In 1988, at 78 years old, Kid Chocolate passed away quietly. The last known photograph of him from that year shows a man still proud, still glowing faintly with the afterlight of glory. Wrinkles lined his face like creases in an old leather glove. But look closer, and you’ll still see the fighter, still dancing, still daring the world to catch him.
Eligio “Kid Chocolate” Sardiñas Montalvo may not have captured that third title—but he gave the world something rarer. He gave it elegance in combat. He gave it poetry in motion. He gave it Cuba’s first champion—and one of boxing’s finest gentlemen.
I don't even know what to say, this article about the great Kid Chocolate blew my socks off.
Kid Chocolate Went The Distance
by Jonathan Rendall
Kid Chocolate
Kid Chocolate’s hands bore the legacy of his profession: the knuckles grotesquely callused, the curling fingernails locked in the position of a semi-cocked fist, to the extent that they resembled more the talons of a bird of prey than human possessions.
I was alerted to the possibility that Kid Chocolate might still be alive by Nigel Collins, then editor of The Ring magazine. I was trying to hustle him stories at the time. I was 23. This would probably have been the early part of 1988. I had heard about the Kid Chocolate legend through the Jackie ‘Kid’ Berg story. Berg, a Londoner, had been the first to beat him, in 1930. Previously the dashing Chocolate, whose real name was Eligio Sardinias-Montalbo, had been thought unbeatable. He was also known by American sportswriters as the “Cuban Bon Bon” and the “Kandy Kid.”
Here is a flavour of that time, not admirable, though to be understood in the context of pervading prejudice. It does show, however, the impact that the long-forgotten Chocolate, born in a Havana slum in January 1910, had on American fight circles. It comes from the New York Journal in summer 1930, in the run-up to the Berg fight:
‘There’ll be a hot Chocolate around the old Berg tonight, my lady. I mean the Keed hisself. The sliver of ebony with the ivory smile known in the trade as Kid Chocolate came down from Orangeburg yesterday grinning and chattering away in his hybrid Spanish and ready to fight Jack Berg for who dropped the watermelon. The Keed also has between 100-150 suits depending on the state of his wardrobe at the time of the count; a brown-skinned sweetheart waiting for him beneath the sweltering palms, money in the bank and a good left hand. Practically the world in a paper sack, you might say.”
Ludicrous and hackneyed, maybe, but others in America took more constructive attention. Among them was the adolescent Sugar Ray Robinson, who went on record later as saying that he had never seen anyone box like Kid Chocolate before. It was a slick, moving style backed up by a big right hand and deterrent left hooks when necessary. Not jab-and-move, exactly, but something different. Perhaps like the advent of jazz. Workaday now, but revolutionary then. Robinson began studying the Chocolate style immediately and the two later became firm friends until Fidel Castro’s revolution of 1959, which replaced the despised Battista regime and was soon to leave Cuba cut adrift from professional boxing and boxers – if not, of course, amateur ones – not to mention many other things to this day.
Though Chocolate had a reputation as a dandy womaniser – who was also fond of rum and cigarettes – by all accounts he had a self-deprecating charm and stated that the real pioneer of his style of boxing was his older stablemate, Black Bill (real name Eladio Valdes), a top-notch flyweight who fought and normally beat the best flyweights America had to offer, in perhaps the golden age of that division. Black Bill is said to have been among the first inventors of the art of fighting off the ropes, earning him the sobriquet of “The Man Of Rubber”.
Black Bill was born in 1905, five years before Chocolate. Both were managed by Luis “Pincho” Guttierez and trained by Moe Fleischer for most of their careers. In turn both Black Bill and Chocolate would have been inspired by Kid Charol, a middleweight from Sagna La Grande born in 1901 who fought from 1922-29. The Cuban public had been mesmerized by the spectacle of the Jack Johnson-Jess Willard fight, and in Charol they had their first home-grown hero. His fights were followed feverishly in Cuba, even though Charol based himself mainly in Argentina and would become known as “el gran rey sin corona” – the great king without a crown.
Chocolate turned pro at the tail end of Charol’s career, in December 1927, decisioning the previously unbeaten Johnny Cruz over six rounds in Havana. Black Bill had already established himself in the United States, and after a string of victories, Chocolate followed him over and was an instant sensation. He fought often, sometimes within days. No one could live with him in his natural home of the featherweight division and he was forced to take matches against heavier men. As previously described here, his first defeat was against Berg at the Polo Grounds in Harlem in August 1930 before a sold-out crowd. Berg was 81-4-5 going in, Chocolate an advertised 162-0, although the record books show his unbeaten record to be somewhat less swollen. Berg was a natural light-welter, but had to come down a few pounds to the contracted weight. His trainer, Ray Arcel, attested that Berg had some trouble doing so.
It was a split decision, and there is a photograph of the pair embracing after it was announced. I once asked Berg, who became an improbable friend, what was said. Berg replied: “I went over to him but he couldn’t talk. He was weeping, see. So I just said, ‘Good fight, but unfortunately you got licked’. I wanted to talk to him but I don’t think he liked me much.”
Chocolate won versions of the world featherweight and junior lightweight titles and was generally thought to have been robbed when losing to Battling Battalino for the featherweight crown. He lost to Berg again by split decision in 1932. As with Berg, his nemesis was Tony Canzonieri, who knocked him out in two rounds in 1933, having earlier outpointed him by split decision at Madison Square Garden in an event described in the New York Times as “one of the noisiest and most disorderly demonstrations this arena has ever witnessed, after one of the greatest lightweight championship battles in ring annals.” Again, Chocolate was giving away lumps of natural weight. Even so, the more one pores over the reports, Canzoneri emerges as one of the great pound-for-pound fighters of all time, and clearly a real puncher. No one else did to Berg (whom Canzonieri knocked out in three) or Chocolate what Canzoneri did to them. It is measure of those times that Chocolate boxed again less than two weeks after his knockout defeat by Canzoneri, beating the highly regarded Frankie Klick inside seven rounds in Philadelphia.
Chocolate boxed on until 1938 but did not go down the usual route of decline. Indeed he was unbeaten in his last 30 fights. In his penultimate bout, back in Havana, he eked out all his remaining genius to outpoint Filli Echevarria, a highly talented young Basque fighter whom the Cubans had adopted as their own. It was a fitting homecoming for Chocolate and a huge event in Havana. He finished with an outstanding record of 135 wins (51 inside the distance), 10 losses and 6 draws, most against top opposition.
What is remarkable about the latter stages of Chocolate’s record is that in 1933 he had been diagnosed with syphilis – then an incurable condition that could cause blindness at the least. That he battled on so successfully in the ring suggests – for all the louche baggage – that here was a man for whom the discipline of boxing training was his crucible, a theatre in which he could not let himself down.
Thereafter Chocolate opened a gym at his villa in the exclusive Mirimar district of Havana, playing host to both Robinson and Joe Louis among others. At first – it is often forgotten – Castro’s regime was welcomed by the United States administration. When things changed, why Chocolate did not join the exodus from Cuba, which boxing-wise included Jose Napoles, Luis Rodriguez, Jose Legra et al, is not clear. It was certainly a decision he would live to regret.
Once I reached Havana I seconded two street kids, Emilio and Miguel, to help me in my search among the ruined villas and effluent gutters of this still beautiful but mournful place. One day Miguel, an intentional Eddie Murphy look-alike who had just got out of jail after trying to swim to Florida on an inner tube, said he had found him. When, later, I returned home, London seemed like a metropolis of spoiled children who did not know how lucky they were. I could not get the smell of Havana – rum and effluence – out of my nostrils. I sat down and wrote this account of my meeting with Kid Chocolate. It seems pointless to rewrite something written when memory was still fresh:
‘The house stood at the corner of the square. We approached the square on a wide, rutted avenue which was bordered by large ornate villas like the house. Most of the houses appeared empty and dilapidated, though their grand porches were evidence of a salubrious past. There was a brisk, hot breeze from the coast, and the silent streets now smelled faintly of fish.
The house, its shutters drawn and flaking, also appeared unoccupied, but next door a woman was preparing lunch for her children outside. She said no one had lived in the house for years. She was afraid we’d wasted our journey.
But upon production of Kid Berg’s biography, The Whitechapel Windmill, and a picture of Kid Chocolate, she paused, then ordered us to wait and disappeared into the house. When she returned, she said she was sorry but she had to be careful. His last visitors had come about two years ago, from the government. They were researching a book and took away all his press cuttings. He was very fond of the cuttings. They hadn’t returned them, and he was bitter. But he would see me if I bought him a bottle of rum.
This having been obtained by Emilio, I found myself some 10 minutes later standing before the big wooden door of the house. The lock showed signs of having been forced and the lower part of the door was clearly rotten, but there were signs of activity within, and presently the door inched open to reveal a barefooted, elderly man wearing a torn cotton shirt and a pair of trousers held up by a piece of string. He was so slight in build that at first his form was almost imperceptible in the shadows of the hallway. Behind him were two framed photographs, both nudes, of a beautiful young athlete. They were dated 1931 and signed ‘Kid Chocolate’.
Kid Chocolate took the bottle of rum and gestured to be given a cigarette. Grinning, he took us into a big room furnished only with two chairs. The walls were dotted with boxing mementoes, but some had fallen down and lay on the floor. With the shutters drawn, the light was dim and the air was thick and sour.
Rum was poured and cigarettes issued. Kid Chocolate sat down on one of the chairs and opened his mouth to speak. But rum trickled out instead through his cracked lips stained with tobacco, like lava suddenly spewed from a long extinct volcano. His voice, when it emerged, was a hoarse whisper, each syllable accompanied by the widening of his eyes and a grin, as if greeting each tortured sound like a long-forgotten friend.
But the words did not make sense, even to Emilio. And Kid Chocolate proffered his glass for more rum, groping with his fingers at a cigarette which, an inch past its normal life expectancy, still glowed between his teeth. Taking Berg’s book, he ran his hands across its cover in slow, affectionate strokes. The picture of Berg on the cover seemed to have a soothing effect. Then he turned to the photographs in the book, of the fight at the Polo Grounds, and a fleeting looked of surprising composure and concentration crossed Kid Chocolate’s face, like the shadow of a younger man.
I looked at Kid Chocolate’s hands. Like Jack’s, they bore the legacy of his profession: the knuckles grotesquely callused, the curling fingernails locked in the position of a semi-cocked fist, to the extent that they resembled more the talons of a bird of prey than human possessions.
“Ah…Jack…Kid…Berg,” Kid Chocolate said. “He was the first one to beat me. We fought two times, and the judges gave the decision to him both times.”
“You were unbeaten in 162 fights the first time,” I ventured.
“Three hundred,” Kid Chocolate said. “Fidel LaBarba was the best I fought, but Jack Kid Berg was the bravest.”
“Who was the best boxer who ever lived?” I asked.
“Kid Charol,” he said, without hesitation.
There was more rum and the words began to slur and stick in Kid Chocolate’s throat.
“I had many friends. Pincho, my manager…Jack Kid Berg. He is a good friend. Every year Jack Kid Berg comes on the boat from Miami just to see me…”
Then an extraordinary thing happened. Without warning, Kid Chocolate began to clutch his stomach and howl like a small boy.
“I’m hungry!” he shrieked. “I need my lunch!”
His pleas brought the woman running in from next door, and also a gaunt man in middle age who said he was Kid Chocolate’s son.
“I’m so hungry I could die!” cried Kid Chocolate, convulsing with sobs.
But his son, if such he was, seemed more interested in saving some rum for himself, and the woman, after extracting two cigarettes from Kid Chocolate’s shirt pocket, left with an assurance that she would fetch some food.
“You like the house?” said the son, grinning. “Now he lives here alone, but it used to be a fine house. There was a gymnasium on the first floor, and a ring in the yard.”
As Kid Chocolate sat slumped in his chair, a pool of saliva forming on the cover of Kid Berg’s biography and a huddle of cigarette butts collecting in the folds of his shirt, the son led the way to other rooms: to Kid Chocolate’s bedroom with its urine-stained mattress, half covered by a dirty sheet, and a pile of human faeces on the floor; to the kitchen, where an old fridge stood open and empty, by a table strewn with bones and rusting tins of sardines being picked over by cockroaches; to further rooms, shrouded in cobwebs, which had not been used, perhaps even entered, for years.
From one such room the son emerged, beaming proudly, with a brown bundle under his arm. “Feel it,” he said. “Pure silk.” He unravelled it gingerly, as if in the presence of a religious artefact, and laid it on the floor. It could have been a moth-eaten old dressing-gown, but of course it wasn’t: etched in white letters, transported without blemish, it seemed, across the years, were the words CHOCOLATE KID.
More shrieks came from the front of the house, but by the time we reached him Kid Chocolate had been sedated with more rum and now sat with his head flopped forward, beside the empty bottle and beneath the photographs of himself and Jack Kid Berg, watched by the woman from next door and two youths drawn in from the street by the commotion.
Through this small gathering marched the son, who, gathering Kid Chocolate’s passive body in one arm, began to squeeze it into the old boxing robe with the other. And everyone else in the room suddenly felt the need to avert their eyes, for the impression was that of someone dressing a corpse.’
Now, thinking back to that encounter, I don’t believe Kid Chocolate could have been living like that for very long. I don’t think it would have been humanly possible. He had finally weakened. It was the last waltz. Indeed, some six weeks later, he was dead. He is buried in Havana’s ‘cemetery for significant Cubans’ – somewhat rich, given how insignificant he was deemed during his post-retirement lifetime. Having said that, maybe he was given help, but just drank it away, and there was no more to give.
There is indeed something mournful about Cuba’s obsession with boxing – along with baseball and chess, national pastimes that seem somehow to be disguised expressions of defiance against the straightjacket of dictatorship.
At least Kid Chocolate lived till the age of 78. Kid Charol and Black Bill lived only until 28 and 27 respectively. Kid Charol died of tuberculosis, prompting his manager to kill himself a few months later. A year before Black Bill’s death, Chocolate fought a benefit bout for him at St Nick’s arena. The New York Times reported that it was “for Black Bill, who is now sightless.” Syphilis again. Black Bill had become alcoholic, and took his life by his own hand in a New York tenement.
The national poet of Cuba, Nicolas Guillen, wrote a poem about them all, ‘Ode To a Boxer’:
But above all, I think
About Kid Charol, the great crownless king
And about Kid Chocolate, the great crowned king
And about Black Bill, with his ‘rubber’ nerve
No doubt it reads better in the original Spanish. But “nerve” does seem central for a post-revolutionary Cuban to survive. Upon his retirement from his garlanded career, Kid Chocolate could not have known that his greatest challenge – survival – was still to come. But, as usual, he more than went the distance.
Kid Chocolate was a phenom, he was an exceptionally skilled boxer known for his speed, agility, and two-handed punching ability, making him a captivating ring artist who could fight effectively both inside and outside the pocket. He was celebrated for his rhythm and charisma, with a defensive style that frustrated opponents and lightning-fast combinations that baffled them. His "modern" techniques, including forward head movement and quick left hooks, made him ahead of his time. He was very popular in New York from the late 1920s to the late 1930s, a big-time celebrity there, and he lived in Harlem for many years. His presence in Harlem was so significant that he was a subject of photographs by James Van Der Zee, a well-known photographer of Harlem's residents. Despite his time in New York, he eventually returned to Cuba, where he lived out his life and died in Havana in 1988. This is an actual business card that belonged to Kid Chocolate when he lived in New York during his fighting days.
"The Keed" as Kid Chocolate was known, was a lover of fashion, women, and nightlife, he was often seen dressed in snappy suits, it was said that he had a different suit for every day of the year.
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Billy Miske was a beast, fighting while nursing a damned kidney disease that he knew was going to kill him, yet still fighting at an elite level. But he was one heck of a fighter as well, he defeated and held his own with some of the greatest names this sport has ever known, names like Dempsey, Greb, Gibbons, Dillon, Norfolk, O'Dowd, Papke, Levinsky. He also possessed a granite chin, stopped only once in his career, by prime Dempsey. He's in the International Boxing Hall of Fame and rightfully so. Here is his IBHOF profile in it's entirety.
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Born William Arthur Miske on April 12, 1894 in St. Paul, MN. He began boxing as a middleweight in 1913 and engaged in exhibitions with Fred Fulton, Mike O’Dowd and Billy Papke. Competing during the “no decision” era, Miske met some of the best middleweights, light heavyweights and heavyweights of his time. Among the top men he boxed include Hall of Famers Harry Greb, Tommy Gibbons, Jack Dillon, Battling Levinsky and Kid Norfolk, as well as Bill Brennan and Jack Renault.
In 1918 Miske was diagnosed with a kidney ailment known as Bright’s Disease. He kept his illness a secret from everyone, including his family, and continued to box. In 1920 Miske fought in the only title bout of his career and was stopped in three rounds by heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey. Despite the painful effects of the illness, he kept a busy ring schedule and scored wins over Renault (KO 13) and Fulton (KO 7) in 1922. Following a 1st round kayo over Harry Foley on January 12, 1923, the pain was so intense, Miske retired.
Even with his health deteriorating, Miske convinced his manager to secure one last bout so he could provide a final Christmas to his family. Against all odds, he defeated Brennan (KO 4) on November 7, 1923 and used his purse to buy gifts for his family. He retired with a 48-2-2 (35 KOs), 54 ND record.
On January 1, 1924, “The St. Paul Thunderbolt” died at the age of 29.
Born: April 12, 1894
Died: Jan. 1, 1924
Bouts: 106
Won: 48
Lost: 2
Drew: 2
ND: 54
KOs: 35
Induction: 2010
Billy Miske
Back
Billy Miske and Jack Dempsey shaking hands before their final bout in 1920.
"Before Billy Miske was taken sick—back in the days when Billy really was good—he was a fast, clever man. And he went the distance twice with Dempsey. When Bill had slipped and had lost his speed, Dempsey fought him the third time—and knocked him out. But Jack wasn't fighting a fast, clever man that day."
A few of my favorite Billy Miske photos.
I love this quote about Billy Miske by the legendary boxing fan and enthusiast Burt Bienstock:
"How do you define "heart?" Soaking up punishment and not giving up in the ring? Or is it the kind of "heart" and bravery that Billy Miske displayed when dying from Bright's Disease and having only a short time to live, Miske to put bread on his family's table and for their last Christmas together, fought Dempsey and other heavyweights, though at times so weakened was Miske, he could hardly stand up...But knowing he was soon to die Billy Miske fought to the end for his family...That too defines "heart" and courage..."
Billy Miske posing with a medicine ball. A medicine ball in boxing is a training method that is used to improve power, core strength, stamina, and technique by performing exercises that mimic boxing movements. These exercises include throwing, slamming, and twisting the ball, which helps build explosive power, develop rotational strength, and condition the body for the impact and movements of boxing. I've seen many boxers bang up it against their rib cage to better prepare themselves to take body shots.
Billy Miske with his son. The man loved his family.
Billy Miske striking poses for the camera at training camp.
Another great up close shot of Miske.
This is my favorite photo of Billy Miske, "The St. Paul Thunderbolt", he looks tough as nails.
Prime Ali, effortlessly slipping five punches in a row.
James Braddock, "The Cinderella Man", carrying a log on his shoulder while training for Joe Louis in 1937.
"No fighter wants to get knocked out, but if my time ever comes to get knocked out, I'll take it. The fight game is a tough racket. It's no baby's play and everyone has to take chances.''
Man, that look Jack Dempsey is giving the camera in that photo above is intense, Dempsey could give you a look that was it's own beating, ice cold, emotionless. One of the most intimidating fighters ever.
"The Silk" Michael Olajide, 1980s middleweight contender from Liverpool, England who was known for his flamboyant and outlandish style.
''You don't know if I can take a punch because I never had to. Nobody hits me with a four-punch combination. I'm not going to Iet anybody put their hands on me four times in a row. My fights are as easy as I make them.''
Eric Esch, aka "Butterbean", brutal power.
"I didn’t move very well, but if I could get near their chin, watch out. If I connected, it was over.”
And Butterbean wasn't kidding, if he got near their chin, it was over.
A new world lightweight champion was crowned on July 17th, 1930 at Yankee Stadium in true championship style and his name was Al Singer.
The 21-year-old from the Bronx knocked out Sammy Mandell in one round.
26-year-old Mandell went down four times, shorn of the belt he’d worn for the previous four years, after only 1 minute and 46 seconds of frenzied action. Though both boxers started the match boxing cautiously, Singer dropped Mandell with a left hook to the jaw in less than a minute of fighting. Three more times Mandell went down to the mat for short counts, scarcely able to raise his hands in defense. The final knockdown came with a crushing one two punch to the jaw.
''The thing is you begin staring real hard at a guy as soon as he gets into the ring. Pin him real good. Never let your eyes leave him. You don't blink, you just stare holes into him. I can learn a lot about my opponent and what he's thinking just by looking at him.''
Some called light heavyweight Jack Dillon "Jack the Giant Killer" for his ability to handle the most unstoppable heavyweights of the day. A prolific fighter who traveled the U.S. and Canada setting up fights as often as he could, Dillon had stamina, strength, and intelligence. He turned welterweight pro in his native Indiana at the age of seventeen, but soon moved up to the middleweight division and fought for two years before being handed his first loss, a ten-rounder with Eddie McGoorty.
In 1912, Dillon scored a third-round knockout against Hugo Kelly, and promptly claimed the world light heavyweight title, uncontested since Philadelphia Jack O'Brien had won it some years earlier. By 1914, Dillon was officially recognized as champion, when he won a decision over Battling Levinsky. Later that year, a referee cut short a Dillon-K.O. Brown meeting after three rounds, saying the fighters were just going through the motions.
Dillon, who did sometimes carry weaker fighters, was apparently affected by the criticism that followed that bout and began to fight heavyweights who were invariably larger. He defeated such big men as Al Weinert, Tom Cowler, and Fireman Jim Flynn. Dillon defeated Flynn twice, knocking him out in 1916 only a year after Flynn had defeated Jack Dempsey.
Dillon lost the world light heavyweight title to Battling Levinsky in 1916 in their ninth meeting. Levinsky employed ring science to avoid Dillon's still powerful punches and won on points. Dillon continued to fight for seven years after losing the title. A workmanlike fighter who did not vigorously seek the spotlight, Dillon's aggressive attacking style against bigger men won him a place in ring history. Dillon left boxing in 1923, not much richer than when he started. He retired to Florida where he lived next door to a small restaurant he owned and ran. He died in 1942.
Sick photo of Jack Dillon, this is the photo that was used on the cover of the book written about him.
Jack Dillon posing in the ring. Man, he was built like a sawed-off Mike Tyson. Here's an old article about what he was like in the ring, this is an original New York Times article that was written after his fight with heavyweight Frank Moran, love this stuff.
DILLON'S PUNCHES OVERWHELM MORAN; Indianapolis Boxer Shows Marked Superiority in Every Round Except One. LOSER IS BITTER AT END Declines to Take Hand of Rival When Bout Is Over ;- Dillon on the Aggressive Throughout.
June 30, 1916
Credit...The New York Times Archives
Jack Dillon, the giant killer, smashed, rushed, and ripped big Frank Moran every inch of the way through their ten round bout before 18 people at Washington Park last night, scoring a sensational victory which set the big gathering in a flame of excitement when the Indianapolis boxer completed his crushing task. Shorter by many inches and weighing 85½ pounds less than his ponderous opponent, Dillon was as quick and as punishing as the Bear Cat they call him. He toyed with the blonde Pittsburgher and most of the time had his face crimson with blood.
Every round was Dillon's except the third, when Moran got the Hoosier mauler cornered on the ropes and shot in rights and lefts. Dillon covered himself so well that Moran's punishment did not make even a scratch. By being liberal, one might give Moran an even break in that round, but Dillon finished it in whirlwind fashion. Moran, with his pale face smeared with blood, seemed to feel deeply the humiliation of his downfall, for when the bout was finished and the tigerish little Dillon bounded across the ring to shake the big fellow's hand, Moran climbed through the ropes, deliberately refusing to congratulate his victor. It was the biggest surprise Moran ever got in his life and he made the fearful mistake of underestimating the value of the rugged, aggressive little fighting machine from Indiana. It was the best fight that New York has seen in years, for Dillon insisted that there should be action from the start, and there was.
Crowd Cheers Dillon.
The crowd was in an uproar from the beginning, and after the first round the crowd was for Dillon. He received a big ovation at the end, and ranks higher in the boxing world than ever before. They say Dillon has never been knocked off his feet. Last night he took the hardest punches Moran had and they didn't even shake him. It is easy to believe this proud boast. Moran weighed 204½, while the Hoosier tipped the scales at 169. There was a great contrast as they both appeared in the ring at 10:35. When they stripped for the young army of photographers Dillon was as brown as a berry. His back and shoulders shone like copper plate and knots of muscles stood out on his arms. Moran's white flesh looked soft. He was large at the waist, and he was far from being the finished, well-trained athlete that he was when he gamely took Jess Willard's punishment at Madison Square Garden. Moran had to himself to deliver every blow, and by the time he was ready to get over his slow, clumsy blows, Dillon was dancing away. It looked ridiculous to see a little fellow like Dillon bore in head first, both hands busy, and drive a huge figure like Moran back to the ropes. Dillon was so clever of hand and of foot that Moran was at a perfect loss as to how to fight him.
Moran Hits the Air.
Moran was as wild as a cannibal with his blows, and the greater part of them slipped over Dillon's bronze shoulders or were lost in the space beyond. Mat Hinkel, the Cleveland referee, had to actually pry Moran away from his smaller opponent in the last few rounds, when Moran, tired, bleeding, and hurt, tried to lay all over the little fellow to avoid his wicked uppercuts. It was truly like Goliath and David, for the contrast between the two in the Washington Park ring was almost as great. Jack was surely the giant killer. He has the energy and strength of any 200-pounder that ever put on boxing gloves and is twice as fast. This was the best battle of his career, and for many years he has been waiting for just such an opportunity to flash his fighting talent. Dillon rushed and rushed and Moran backed away. Leaning far back, with his left arm extended far out, awkwardly, and held his right arm back ready to find a landing place. Dillon bored in incessantly under his left arm, planting left jolts to the body, then jumping almost off his feet to plant his crashing right on Moran's jaw.
Hammers Moran Groggy.
Moran smiled at his friends around the ringside for the first few rounds, but later his face was hard set, when he wasn't dazed. In the fifth Dillon ham- mered him into a corner with an unrelenting body attack, and suddenly ripped his right to Moran's face. The blood began to flow from Frank's nose and mouth. The sight of the gore gave the Wildcat renewed energy and he ripped into the Pittsburgher with fury and hammered him viciously on the head and body until Frank was groggy. It was a gladsome sound to him when the bell rang. One round was very much like another. It seemed incredible that a fighter as small as Dillon could make a plaything of a big man like Moran, but as the fight progressed Moran appeared all the more ridiculous. He was a foolish looking sight, as he was compelled to take back water and take the grueling punishment of Dillon. In the later rounds Moran got tired and tried to stall by laying his 204 pounds against Dillon's shoulders. Dillon wasn't tired, for he actually carried Moran's weight several times and beat him back across the ring in the bargain.
Dillon's Partner Wins Preliminary.
The Dillon camp started off with a victory in the ten-round semi-final. Gus Christle, Dillon's sparring partner, out-pointed Zulu Kid. Moran's right-hand punching object. Early in the bout some of the women spectators gasped when Gus opened a cut over the Kid's eye. There were many female sighs before this when in one of the preliminaries, Willie Irish knocked out Hank Ferns in the first round. One of the most nervous spectators was George Considine, the stakeholder, who sat close to the ring with a mysterious- looking package in his hands which contained the wad of money-the $40,000 purse for which the boxers were battling. Near the stakeholder was Manager John J. McGraw of the Giants. He was approached by a newsboy, crying, "Baseball extry, Giants lose two." McGraw told the lad to run along and ped- dle his papers.
Novelty Appealed to Society.
The novelty of the open-air boxing circus hit the fancy of New Yorkers, and most of the notables who are not at the seashore or the mountains motored over the bridge to see the set-to. Thousands of cars were parked outside, and much of the finery of the women and the shantung suits of the men were hidden beneath automobile dusters. The cheap seats were at the far ends of the grand stand in the bleachers, and it was from these crowded tiers that most of the noise came. Here were the real leather-lunged fight fans, but most of their incessant shouts were lost on the night air because they were so far from the ring. To them big Moran and little Dillon looked like small boys. In one way it was like a baseball game, inasmuch as the hawkers of peanuts, popcorn, and lemonade were getting in everybody's view at critical moments of the bouts. It was a classic ring in which the men battled. The squared circle from the famous old National Sporting Club in Twenty-fifth Street came to life again. Here were the same green plush ropes, the same shining brass posts, which Inclosed the National Club's ring when Stanley Ketchel knocked out Philadelphia Jack O'Brien. O'Brien was at the ringside last night, and there was a look of sadness on his face as he recognized the settings. It was in this same ring, too, that Abe Attell and Jem Driscoll had their sensational bout.
THE FIGHT BY ROUNDS.
Details of the Ring Battle at Washington Park, First Round.
Dillon Moran led off with the right. countered with a left to the stomach. Dillon again brought his left to the stomach; In an exchange in the corner Dillon drove right and left to the body, and Moran twice jabbed his left to Dil- lon's face. Dillon brought his left heavily to the stomach. A swift exchange followed, with Dillon the more effective of the two. Dillon's left went deep into Moran's stomach. Dillon continued to force, landing a few punches which stung, but did not badly hurt Moran. Dillon crossed his right to Moran's jaw and then went in close, whipping his left into the stomach and his right to the head.
Second Round.
Dillon walked in close, renewed his activity with both hands, and blocked effectively. Moran swung a heavy left to the jaw, but Dillon rushed and shook Moran with a fusillade to the upper body. In a clinch Dillon uppercut the left to Moran's head, and the Pittsburgh man missed the same punch. Dillon rushed, but could not land, and then played for Moran's stomach, getting home a few light lefts. Dillon time and again put his left to the body and hooked the right to the jaw, but Moran always came back for more.
Third Round.
Moran opened this round by rushing Dillon to the ropes, but could not break through the Indiana boxer's defense. Dillon's left went flush to Moran's head, and Moran, showing the first real fighting ability, crashed a right to Dillon's head, driving the Indianapolis man to the ropes. He worked right and left to the head, but did not seem to hurt Dil- lon. Moran then forced Dillon across the ring and repeated this. Then Dillon came to life and shook Moran with a right to the head. The milling waxed extremely warm. Moran appeared arm weary at the end of the round, while Dillon showed no signs of being hurt. Dillon protected himself in this round with great science.
Fourth Round.
Moran rushed out of his corner to re- ceive a left to the body. When in close Jack played a tattoo to Moran's stomach. A long left hook caught Dillon off his balance and sent him to the ropes, where Moran hit him three times to the head. In a clinch Moran took two left hooks to the jaw, and then Moran put a straight left to the nose. He repeated this performance twice and then missed with the right. Moran missed a vicious right to the head, and was then dazed with a right to the head, followed by a left, which almost turned him around.
Fifth Round.
There were light exchanges for several seconds after the bell, each man boxing cautiously. Both slowed up perceptibly. A right and a left reached Moran's nose and Moran's head bobbed back and forth. From the concussion of Dillon's fists blood was drawn from Moran's nose, and the big fellow had to stand up under a series of punches which shook his frame heavily. Dillon utilized every second in the latter stages of the round with telling effect, his blows landing where they were intended to land, while Moran seemed to have lost all sense of distance. This was the liveliest session of the bout so far.
Sixth Round.
Dillon went after Moran with a vengeance and pumped both hands to Moran's face. Occasionally he shifted to the body. Blood continued to stream from Moran's nose. Moran missed a hard right and rocked on his heels, while he received another battering to the upper section of his body. Moran waited for one punch, and while he waited Dillon peppered his stomach and head with punches, every one of which hurt. Moran got a weak left in on the body, but left himself open to Dillon's left to his nose. Dillon's score of points was very big in this round.
Seventh Round.
Dillon speedily went to his task, and working like a steam engine kept Moran at bay while he found his mark every time he shot out either hand, which was as fast as he could move them. Dillon bored in close and made Moran swing wildly over his head, then he snapped his left a half dozen times to the head while Moran kept his right around the kidneys. Moran's nose received a terrible lacing in an ensuing clinch Moran could not get set for a punch, and every time he led with a hard blow it hit nothing but the air. Moran was reduced to a state of dis- comfort, if not submission, by countless punches to the face in the final stages of this round.
Eighth Round.
He Clinches were much to the liking of Moran at the start of this round. clung to Dillon persistently. Dillon finally broke away and staggered Moran with a right to the mouth. Close fighting followed without much damage. Then Dillon's left followed with great force right to the point of Moran's chin. Moran's eyes became glassy, but he shook his head and came back to get six punches to various portions of the head. Moran was helpless against the wily and clever moves of Dillon, who simply smothered his opponent with blows.
Ninth Round.
Moran saw his only hope in a knock- out and he walked determinedly from his corner and started a left for he head which never landed. He got Dillon on the ropes, but to no avail; he could not break down Dillon's guard. Dillon fought back and both hands moved with such speed that the eye could not follow them. Moran's head went from side to side, when first a left then a right reached its target. Moran mauled Dillon around the ring, but that was all he could do. Dillon made a toy of the big fellow. The fight slowed up. The round ended with a heavy exchange in Dillon's favor.
Tenth Round.
In a harmless swishing at the start of the last round Moran uncovered himself for a moment and allowed Dillon to rip in a few punches to the body. Then the big blonde rallied, but the few punches he did land had no effect on Dillon other than to cause him to unleash another series of punches, some of which landed and some of which did not. Moran's left eye was partially closed and a deep gash cut in his fore- head when Dillon crashed an overhand right to this point. The bout ended with an exchange of punches and with Moran's refusal to accept the hand of the victor.
Jack Dillon posing in the ring. Man, he was built like a sawed-off Mike Tyson. It's not a wonder he was able to bust guys up that weighed 35 more pounds than him.
Great shot of Jack Dillon.
Jack Dillon, aka "Jack the Giant Killer."
SLUGGER FROM THE COAL MINES
Joseph William Baksi (Joe Baksi) was a child of the Kulpmont, Pennsylvania coal mines. He was quoted as saying that he never had any intention of being a boxer, but he saw it "as a ticket to a better way of life, out of the mines." He broke into professional boxing in 1940 at the age of 18. He beat nine boxers that year, including the future movie actor Jack Palance (who fought under the name of Jack Brazzo) at the Westchester County Center in White Plains, NY. When he was 15 years old, he left his hometown of Kulpmont, Pa. He broke into boxing in 1940 by fighting in three round matches before main events in New York, Albany and Philadelphia. Baksi was a solid 210‐pounder who was known for his body punching and his ability to absorb punishment. In a 72‐fight career that spanned 14 years, he won 59 fights, lost nine and fought to a draw four times. He scored 28 of those victories by knock out and was himself stopped only once, on cuts against Ezzard Charles. He defeated top fighters such as Tami Mauriello, Lee Savold, Lou Nova and Freddie Mills, and lost close decisions to Jersey Joe Walcott and Ezzard Charles. At his best he was ranked as the No.4 heavyweight contender by the NBA (National Boxing Association). He was inactive through 1952 and 1953 but returned to the ring in 1954, losing a 10‐round decision to Bob Baker of Pittsburgh on May 24th. During the bout with Baker, Mr. Baksi's manager, Leo Feureisen, collapsed at ringside and died in the dressing room a short time later. After the loss of the fight and the death of his manager, Baksi officially retired. He then became a teamster and later an ironworker and a member of the International Brotherhood of Ironworkers.
Much like Tommy Farr, Joe Baksi experienced the hellishness of coal mining, and he got into boxing to get away from the mines. This is one of my favorite photos, coal miner Joe Baksi (right) has a canteen lunch after a trip down the pit with Laurence Plover of the National Coal Board, taken in May 1947.
Joe Baksi was one tough son of a gun, had a iron chin, nobody ever knocked him out, the only time he didn't hear the final bell was when he was stopped on cuts against the great Ezzard Charles. As far as style goes, Baksi was a big, strong, powerful, intimidating guy, about 6'2", 210 pounds, he could be outboxed, but not many opponents could out muscle and outgun him. His MO was to come forward and use his size and power to bust you up with body shots, uppercuts, and hooks, maul the hell out of you, there was nothing cute about his style, it was just straight up brutalization. Just ask fighters such as Tami Mauriello, Lee Savold, Lou Nova, Freddie Mills, and Bruce Woodcock, damn good fighters, about Joe Baksi and what it was like to face him. He was a rough customer.
Like I said, Joe Baksi was a pretty big guy, this is a photo of England goalkeeper Frank Swift comparing hands with Joe Baksi (right) at Brighton in April 1947. Frank Swift had a huge finger span of nearly 12 inches which meant he could easily grasp a ball in one hand. Baksi was in the UK for a fight with Bruce Woodcock at White City at the time this photo was taken. Manchester City’s Swift would tragically lose his life in the Munich Air Disaster 11 years later.
Joe Baksi batters Bruce Woodcock during their fight in 1947, Woodcock was a murderous puncher but couldn't do anything with the bigger and stronger Baksi, Woodcock was floored five separate times before the ref finally stopped it in round seven. You can see Woodcock's eye on the bottom at the end of round four. Baksi was a powerful slugger.
Here is a short clip from the Baksi-Woodcock fight, and you can see how brutal Baksi was, he just mauls the hell out of Woodcock.
Freddie Mills was one gutsy and tough son of a gun, but couldn't do anything with the bigger and stronger Baksi either. Joe Baksi defeated Freddie Mills by technical knockout (TKO) after Mills retired at the end of the sixth round of their fight on November 5, 1946. The primary reason for Mills' retirement was that both of his eyes were severely cut, a result of the battering he took from Baksi. This is a photo of Baksi and Mills after their fight.
Joe Baksi training.
This is cool, a photo of Joe Baksi that was used on one of his penny arcade exhibit cards.
Great documentary about Joe Baksi.
A couple more photos of Joe Baksi.
Joe Baksi (middle) with legendary boxing trainer Ray Arcel (far left). To say Arcel is a legend would be an understatement, Ray Arcel trained numerous world champions, including Benny Leonard, Roberto Durán, Larry Holmes, Ezzard Charles, James Braddock, Barney Ross, Tony Zale, and Frankie Genaro. His career spanned over 60 years, during which he trained 20 world champions across various weight divisions, with the exception of the featherweight division. Arcel started training fighters in the 1920s and continued through the 1980s.
Joe Baksi stands over Tami Mauriello after flooring him during their bout in 1944 at MSG. Tami Mauriello was a good fighter, a hard puncher, and had serious guts, Mauriello is the one that went for it against Joe Louis in 1946, landing a solid punch that staggered Louis early in the first round, momentarily hurting the champion and sending him stumbling into the ropes. Although Louis would recover and stop him, you have to admire Mauriello's fearlessness. Baksi would win this fight against Mauriello by unanimous decision, this was the breakthrough fight for Baksi, his first big win, up until this point he had been a solid contender for a number of years. This fight put him on the map and sent notice to the heavyweight division that Baksi was a force to be reckoned with.
Joe Baksi arrives in his native Prague, Czechoslovakia, in 1947 to meet relatives following a bout.
One last photo of Joe Baksi, this is the image that was used for his 1951 Topps Ringside card, one of my favorite sets. I like Joe Baksi, like I said, there was nothing cute about his style, he was just a punishing fighter.
''I got this far in my Iife and career not because I was the most gifted athIete, but primariIy through stubbornness and tenacity. That's what separated me from other fighters - that refusaI to give up. This may sound barbaric, but I wouId rather die in that ring than quit. I wiII give every ounce of energy I have in there, fighting untiI there is absoIuteIy nothing Ieft. Your body can do so much more than you think it can; peopIe are just afraid to go to that dark, scary pIace where you don't know what wiII happen, or how much it wiII hurt. I've been there a few times, so I know. And I've never given up, never surrendered. For me, the physicaI anguish is nothing compared to what I wouId feeI the next day, Iooking at myseIf in the mirror, knowing I had given Iess than compIete effort. That to me, wouId be unbearabIe.''
Check out this view inside an active volcano. It's like he's standing on the surface of the sun.
Previously unpublished photo of the legendary Jimmy Wilde in his 60s living in Barry (Cadoxton). He's arguably the greatest flyweight that ever lived, and was nicknamed "The Mighty Atom" and "The Ghost With a Hammer in His Hand" because he was a murderous pound-for-pound puncher. Jimmy Wilde had the longest unbeaten streak in boxing history, going 103 fights without a loss before his first defeat. This streak began his professional career, which was likely much longer than his official record suggests due to unrecorded bouts in fairground booths. His official record is 131 wins, 3 losses, 1 draw, with 99 knockouts.
Kid Chocolate, 1930s junior lightweight sensation and Cuba's first world champion. According to lore, a young Ezzard Charles ran into the Kid, who was in Cincinnati to face Johnny Farr. When asked how many suits he had, the Cuban said, "One for every day of the year."
Man, Kid Chocolate was definitely a sensation, Sugar Ray Robinson famously said that he modeled parts of his boxing style after Kid Chocolate, whom he described as having "beautiful" rhythm, speed, reflexes, and style. Robinson's admiration for Kid Chocolate's elegance in the ring was a significant influence on his own legendary career, and indeed when you watch Robinson on film, you see shades of Kid Chocolate.
Kid Chocolate didn’t walk into history with a shout. He danced in with a grin, hands high, the rhythm of Havana still humming in his bones.
It was the summer of 1931, and Eligio Sardiñas Montalvo—better known to boxing fans, cab drivers, and dreamers from Cuba to New York as “Kid Chocolate”—was just 23 years old. He had the effortless charisma of a jazz soloist, the style of a movie star, and the fists of a street poet. Already a world champion at junior lightweight, the Kid was chasing something no one had ever touched before: a third world title. Featherweight? Done. Junior lightweight? His. Now, he set his sights on the Lightweight and Junior Welterweight king—Tony Canzoneri.
Picture it. Training camp in upstate New York. The humid, pine-scented air clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. In the ring, the Kid glided like smoke through sunbeams slicing into the gym. He was sharp, fast, electric. But he was tired, too. The miles of fighting, the weight of expectation—being the first Cuban world champion wasn’t just a title. It was a burden draped in pride. Every punch had to mean something. Every slip-up echoed back home in Havana, where boys gathered barefoot around radios, waiting for news of their hero.
So when he took a break from training that summer—just briefly—it wasn’t because he wanted to. It was because he needed to. The pressure was relentless. The opportunity was immense. This wasn’t just another fight. If he beat Canzoneri, he’d become the first man to hold three world titles at once. In an era of few belts and fierce gatekeepers, that meant immortality.
The night of the fight came. Madison Square Garden roared like a train tunnel. It wasn’t just about boxing anymore. It was legacy, it was history, it was grit versus glamour.
Fifteen rounds later, the decision came in—a split one. Canzoneri retained his titles. Kid Chocolate, bleeding but defiant, had fallen just short. So close. A whisper away from legend.
But here's the truth: sometimes, a loss doesn’t tarnish a fighter—it defines him. The Kid didn’t pout or make excuses. He adjusted his tie, smiled for the cameras, and promised to come back stronger. And he did.
He retired with a staggering record: 136 wins, 10 losses, and 6 draws. Along the way, he captured the New York State Athletic Commission’s featherweight title, dazzled in every major venue, and brought joy to a generation of Cuban immigrants who saw their hopes reflected in his footwork.
Years passed. The spotlight dimmed. The once-slender frame thickened. The hair grayed. But the mischief in his eyes never vanished.
In 1988, at 78 years old, Kid Chocolate passed away quietly. The last known photograph of him from that year shows a man still proud, still glowing faintly with the afterlight of glory. Wrinkles lined his face like creases in an old leather glove. But look closer, and you’ll still see the fighter, still dancing, still daring the world to catch him.
Eligio “Kid Chocolate” Sardiñas Montalvo may not have captured that third title—but he gave the world something rarer. He gave it elegance in combat. He gave it poetry in motion. He gave it Cuba’s first champion—and one of boxing’s finest gentlemen.
Sugar Ray Robinson with Kid Chocolate.
Kid Chocolate in his prime.
I don't even know what to say, this article about the great Kid Chocolate blew my socks off.
Kid Chocolate Went The Distance
by Jonathan Rendall
Kid Chocolate
Kid Chocolate’s hands bore the legacy of his profession: the knuckles grotesquely callused, the curling fingernails locked in the position of a semi-cocked fist, to the extent that they resembled more the talons of a bird of prey than human possessions.
I was alerted to the possibility that Kid Chocolate might still be alive by Nigel Collins, then editor of The Ring magazine. I was trying to hustle him stories at the time. I was 23. This would probably have been the early part of 1988. I had heard about the Kid Chocolate legend through the Jackie ‘Kid’ Berg story. Berg, a Londoner, had been the first to beat him, in 1930. Previously the dashing Chocolate, whose real name was Eligio Sardinias-Montalbo, had been thought unbeatable. He was also known by American sportswriters as the “Cuban Bon Bon” and the “Kandy Kid.”
Here is a flavour of that time, not admirable, though to be understood in the context of pervading prejudice. It does show, however, the impact that the long-forgotten Chocolate, born in a Havana slum in January 1910, had on American fight circles. It comes from the New York Journal in summer 1930, in the run-up to the Berg fight:
‘There’ll be a hot Chocolate around the old Berg tonight, my lady. I mean the Keed hisself. The sliver of ebony with the ivory smile known in the trade as Kid Chocolate came down from Orangeburg yesterday grinning and chattering away in his hybrid Spanish and ready to fight Jack Berg for who dropped the watermelon. The Keed also has between 100-150 suits depending on the state of his wardrobe at the time of the count; a brown-skinned sweetheart waiting for him beneath the sweltering palms, money in the bank and a good left hand. Practically the world in a paper sack, you might say.”
Ludicrous and hackneyed, maybe, but others in America took more constructive attention. Among them was the adolescent Sugar Ray Robinson, who went on record later as saying that he had never seen anyone box like Kid Chocolate before. It was a slick, moving style backed up by a big right hand and deterrent left hooks when necessary. Not jab-and-move, exactly, but something different. Perhaps like the advent of jazz. Workaday now, but revolutionary then. Robinson began studying the Chocolate style immediately and the two later became firm friends until Fidel Castro’s revolution of 1959, which replaced the despised Battista regime and was soon to leave Cuba cut adrift from professional boxing and boxers – if not, of course, amateur ones – not to mention many other things to this day.
Though Chocolate had a reputation as a dandy womaniser – who was also fond of rum and cigarettes – by all accounts he had a self-deprecating charm and stated that the real pioneer of his style of boxing was his older stablemate, Black Bill (real name Eladio Valdes), a top-notch flyweight who fought and normally beat the best flyweights America had to offer, in perhaps the golden age of that division. Black Bill is said to have been among the first inventors of the art of fighting off the ropes, earning him the sobriquet of “The Man Of Rubber”.
Black Bill was born in 1905, five years before Chocolate. Both were managed by Luis “Pincho” Guttierez and trained by Moe Fleischer for most of their careers. In turn both Black Bill and Chocolate would have been inspired by Kid Charol, a middleweight from Sagna La Grande born in 1901 who fought from 1922-29. The Cuban public had been mesmerized by the spectacle of the Jack Johnson-Jess Willard fight, and in Charol they had their first home-grown hero. His fights were followed feverishly in Cuba, even though Charol based himself mainly in Argentina and would become known as “el gran rey sin corona” – the great king without a crown.
Chocolate turned pro at the tail end of Charol’s career, in December 1927, decisioning the previously unbeaten Johnny Cruz over six rounds in Havana. Black Bill had already established himself in the United States, and after a string of victories, Chocolate followed him over and was an instant sensation. He fought often, sometimes within days. No one could live with him in his natural home of the featherweight division and he was forced to take matches against heavier men. As previously described here, his first defeat was against Berg at the Polo Grounds in Harlem in August 1930 before a sold-out crowd. Berg was 81-4-5 going in, Chocolate an advertised 162-0, although the record books show his unbeaten record to be somewhat less swollen. Berg was a natural light-welter, but had to come down a few pounds to the contracted weight. His trainer, Ray Arcel, attested that Berg had some trouble doing so.
It was a split decision, and there is a photograph of the pair embracing after it was announced. I once asked Berg, who became an improbable friend, what was said. Berg replied: “I went over to him but he couldn’t talk. He was weeping, see. So I just said, ‘Good fight, but unfortunately you got licked’. I wanted to talk to him but I don’t think he liked me much.”
Chocolate won versions of the world featherweight and junior lightweight titles and was generally thought to have been robbed when losing to Battling Battalino for the featherweight crown. He lost to Berg again by split decision in 1932. As with Berg, his nemesis was Tony Canzonieri, who knocked him out in two rounds in 1933, having earlier outpointed him by split decision at Madison Square Garden in an event described in the New York Times as “one of the noisiest and most disorderly demonstrations this arena has ever witnessed, after one of the greatest lightweight championship battles in ring annals.” Again, Chocolate was giving away lumps of natural weight. Even so, the more one pores over the reports, Canzoneri emerges as one of the great pound-for-pound fighters of all time, and clearly a real puncher. No one else did to Berg (whom Canzonieri knocked out in three) or Chocolate what Canzoneri did to them. It is measure of those times that Chocolate boxed again less than two weeks after his knockout defeat by Canzoneri, beating the highly regarded Frankie Klick inside seven rounds in Philadelphia.
Chocolate boxed on until 1938 but did not go down the usual route of decline. Indeed he was unbeaten in his last 30 fights. In his penultimate bout, back in Havana, he eked out all his remaining genius to outpoint Filli Echevarria, a highly talented young Basque fighter whom the Cubans had adopted as their own. It was a fitting homecoming for Chocolate and a huge event in Havana. He finished with an outstanding record of 135 wins (51 inside the distance), 10 losses and 6 draws, most against top opposition.
What is remarkable about the latter stages of Chocolate’s record is that in 1933 he had been diagnosed with syphilis – then an incurable condition that could cause blindness at the least. That he battled on so successfully in the ring suggests – for all the louche baggage – that here was a man for whom the discipline of boxing training was his crucible, a theatre in which he could not let himself down.
Thereafter Chocolate opened a gym at his villa in the exclusive Mirimar district of Havana, playing host to both Robinson and Joe Louis among others. At first – it is often forgotten – Castro’s regime was welcomed by the United States administration. When things changed, why Chocolate did not join the exodus from Cuba, which boxing-wise included Jose Napoles, Luis Rodriguez, Jose Legra et al, is not clear. It was certainly a decision he would live to regret.
Once I reached Havana I seconded two street kids, Emilio and Miguel, to help me in my search among the ruined villas and effluent gutters of this still beautiful but mournful place. One day Miguel, an intentional Eddie Murphy look-alike who had just got out of jail after trying to swim to Florida on an inner tube, said he had found him. When, later, I returned home, London seemed like a metropolis of spoiled children who did not know how lucky they were. I could not get the smell of Havana – rum and effluence – out of my nostrils. I sat down and wrote this account of my meeting with Kid Chocolate. It seems pointless to rewrite something written when memory was still fresh:
‘The house stood at the corner of the square. We approached the square on a wide, rutted avenue which was bordered by large ornate villas like the house. Most of the houses appeared empty and dilapidated, though their grand porches were evidence of a salubrious past. There was a brisk, hot breeze from the coast, and the silent streets now smelled faintly of fish.
The house, its shutters drawn and flaking, also appeared unoccupied, but next door a woman was preparing lunch for her children outside. She said no one had lived in the house for years. She was afraid we’d wasted our journey.
But upon production of Kid Berg’s biography, The Whitechapel Windmill, and a picture of Kid Chocolate, she paused, then ordered us to wait and disappeared into the house. When she returned, she said she was sorry but she had to be careful. His last visitors had come about two years ago, from the government. They were researching a book and took away all his press cuttings. He was very fond of the cuttings. They hadn’t returned them, and he was bitter. But he would see me if I bought him a bottle of rum.
This having been obtained by Emilio, I found myself some 10 minutes later standing before the big wooden door of the house. The lock showed signs of having been forced and the lower part of the door was clearly rotten, but there were signs of activity within, and presently the door inched open to reveal a barefooted, elderly man wearing a torn cotton shirt and a pair of trousers held up by a piece of string. He was so slight in build that at first his form was almost imperceptible in the shadows of the hallway. Behind him were two framed photographs, both nudes, of a beautiful young athlete. They were dated 1931 and signed ‘Kid Chocolate’.
Kid Chocolate took the bottle of rum and gestured to be given a cigarette. Grinning, he took us into a big room furnished only with two chairs. The walls were dotted with boxing mementoes, but some had fallen down and lay on the floor. With the shutters drawn, the light was dim and the air was thick and sour.
Rum was poured and cigarettes issued. Kid Chocolate sat down on one of the chairs and opened his mouth to speak. But rum trickled out instead through his cracked lips stained with tobacco, like lava suddenly spewed from a long extinct volcano. His voice, when it emerged, was a hoarse whisper, each syllable accompanied by the widening of his eyes and a grin, as if greeting each tortured sound like a long-forgotten friend.
But the words did not make sense, even to Emilio. And Kid Chocolate proffered his glass for more rum, groping with his fingers at a cigarette which, an inch past its normal life expectancy, still glowed between his teeth. Taking Berg’s book, he ran his hands across its cover in slow, affectionate strokes. The picture of Berg on the cover seemed to have a soothing effect. Then he turned to the photographs in the book, of the fight at the Polo Grounds, and a fleeting looked of surprising composure and concentration crossed Kid Chocolate’s face, like the shadow of a younger man.
I looked at Kid Chocolate’s hands. Like Jack’s, they bore the legacy of his profession: the knuckles grotesquely callused, the curling fingernails locked in the position of a semi-cocked fist, to the extent that they resembled more the talons of a bird of prey than human possessions.
“Ah…Jack…Kid…Berg,” Kid Chocolate said. “He was the first one to beat me. We fought two times, and the judges gave the decision to him both times.”
“You were unbeaten in 162 fights the first time,” I ventured.
“Three hundred,” Kid Chocolate said. “Fidel LaBarba was the best I fought, but Jack Kid Berg was the bravest.”
“Who was the best boxer who ever lived?” I asked.
“Kid Charol,” he said, without hesitation.
There was more rum and the words began to slur and stick in Kid Chocolate’s throat.
“I had many friends. Pincho, my manager…Jack Kid Berg. He is a good friend. Every year Jack Kid Berg comes on the boat from Miami just to see me…”
Then an extraordinary thing happened. Without warning, Kid Chocolate began to clutch his stomach and howl like a small boy.
“I’m hungry!” he shrieked. “I need my lunch!”
His pleas brought the woman running in from next door, and also a gaunt man in middle age who said he was Kid Chocolate’s son.
“I’m so hungry I could die!” cried Kid Chocolate, convulsing with sobs.
But his son, if such he was, seemed more interested in saving some rum for himself, and the woman, after extracting two cigarettes from Kid Chocolate’s shirt pocket, left with an assurance that she would fetch some food.
“You like the house?” said the son, grinning. “Now he lives here alone, but it used to be a fine house. There was a gymnasium on the first floor, and a ring in the yard.”
As Kid Chocolate sat slumped in his chair, a pool of saliva forming on the cover of Kid Berg’s biography and a huddle of cigarette butts collecting in the folds of his shirt, the son led the way to other rooms: to Kid Chocolate’s bedroom with its urine-stained mattress, half covered by a dirty sheet, and a pile of human faeces on the floor; to the kitchen, where an old fridge stood open and empty, by a table strewn with bones and rusting tins of sardines being picked over by cockroaches; to further rooms, shrouded in cobwebs, which had not been used, perhaps even entered, for years.
From one such room the son emerged, beaming proudly, with a brown bundle under his arm. “Feel it,” he said. “Pure silk.” He unravelled it gingerly, as if in the presence of a religious artefact, and laid it on the floor. It could have been a moth-eaten old dressing-gown, but of course it wasn’t: etched in white letters, transported without blemish, it seemed, across the years, were the words CHOCOLATE KID.
More shrieks came from the front of the house, but by the time we reached him Kid Chocolate had been sedated with more rum and now sat with his head flopped forward, beside the empty bottle and beneath the photographs of himself and Jack Kid Berg, watched by the woman from next door and two youths drawn in from the street by the commotion.
Through this small gathering marched the son, who, gathering Kid Chocolate’s passive body in one arm, began to squeeze it into the old boxing robe with the other. And everyone else in the room suddenly felt the need to avert their eyes, for the impression was that of someone dressing a corpse.’
Now, thinking back to that encounter, I don’t believe Kid Chocolate could have been living like that for very long. I don’t think it would have been humanly possible. He had finally weakened. It was the last waltz. Indeed, some six weeks later, he was dead. He is buried in Havana’s ‘cemetery for significant Cubans’ – somewhat rich, given how insignificant he was deemed during his post-retirement lifetime. Having said that, maybe he was given help, but just drank it away, and there was no more to give.
There is indeed something mournful about Cuba’s obsession with boxing – along with baseball and chess, national pastimes that seem somehow to be disguised expressions of defiance against the straightjacket of dictatorship.
At least Kid Chocolate lived till the age of 78. Kid Charol and Black Bill lived only until 28 and 27 respectively. Kid Charol died of tuberculosis, prompting his manager to kill himself a few months later. A year before Black Bill’s death, Chocolate fought a benefit bout for him at St Nick’s arena. The New York Times reported that it was “for Black Bill, who is now sightless.” Syphilis again. Black Bill had become alcoholic, and took his life by his own hand in a New York tenement.
The national poet of Cuba, Nicolas Guillen, wrote a poem about them all, ‘Ode To a Boxer’:
But above all, I think
About Kid Charol, the great crownless king
And about Kid Chocolate, the great crowned king
And about Black Bill, with his ‘rubber’ nerve
No doubt it reads better in the original Spanish. But “nerve” does seem central for a post-revolutionary Cuban to survive. Upon his retirement from his garlanded career, Kid Chocolate could not have known that his greatest challenge – survival – was still to come. But, as usual, he more than went the distance.
Kid Chocolate was a phenom, he was an exceptionally skilled boxer known for his speed, agility, and two-handed punching ability, making him a captivating ring artist who could fight effectively both inside and outside the pocket. He was celebrated for his rhythm and charisma, with a defensive style that frustrated opponents and lightning-fast combinations that baffled them. His "modern" techniques, including forward head movement and quick left hooks, made him ahead of his time. He was very popular in New York from the late 1920s to the late 1930s, a big-time celebrity there, and he lived in Harlem for many years. His presence in Harlem was so significant that he was a subject of photographs by James Van Der Zee, a well-known photographer of Harlem's residents. Despite his time in New York, he eventually returned to Cuba, where he lived out his life and died in Havana in 1988. This is an actual business card that belonged to Kid Chocolate when he lived in New York during his fighting days.
"The Keed" as Kid Chocolate was known, was a lover of fashion, women, and nightlife, he was often seen dressed in snappy suits, it was said that he had a different suit for every day of the year.