Knuckles and Gloves

by Bohun Lynch

On this occasion Carpentier boxed indifferently in the early rounds, and seemed not to take the occasion seriously. His was the first blow, and it was a good one, which drew blood from the American’s nose. Smith grunted and shook his head, and put in a left in reply. It was clear that he wanted the Frenchman at close quarters, and he kept coming in close and hammering away at the body. Carpentier made a perfunctory effort to keep him at arm’s length, but seemed after a while to be willing to fight Smith on his own terms. He caught the American a very hard smack on the eye, which swelled up so that he was thenceforward half-blinded. Smith even in the third round was a good deal marked, and not one of the spectators imagined for a moment that he could possibly last out the full twenty rounds. In the next round Carpentier boxed very much as he pleased. They exchanged body-blow and upper-cut on the head, but the latter was the more severe, and it was the Frenchman’s. Smith kept on trying to “bring the right across” at close quarters, but Carpentier always protected himself. He seemed to be waiting for a safe opportunity for knocking his opponent out, and did little in the fourth round. Smith kept on leading, though without much effect, but scored more points nevertheless.

After a while Smith began to get into serious trouble, and he held to avoid punishment. This is against the strict rules, and should be regarded as such; but, humanly speaking, when you are getting a very bad time, the instinct to hold your man’s arms to prevent him from hitting you is very strong. If you have the strength it is, of course, much more efficacious to hit him and stop the punishment in that way: but when your strength is going, as Smith’s was, you are prone to follow blind instinct, rules or no rules. Just after this he managed to put in a good upper-cut, but got a hard “one-two” in return—a left instantly followed by right, straight, taking him in the middle of the face. And then Smith woke up, having got what is called his second wind. Throughout the seventh round he gave Carpentier a really bad time. Two fierce blows, left and right, made the Frenchman rock where he stood, and his counters were well guarded or avoided altogether. Carpentier boxed better in the eighth round, but there was no power in his blows, and the French onlookers began to look very glum. For his part, Carpentier wished that he had trained better. He was not himself: the fire seemed to be dead in him. He was feeling desperate: there was no pleasure in this fight. Smith kept on getting under his long arms and hitting him hard at close quarters, hammering away at his stomach. And Carpentier grew weaker and more wild, and wasted his remaining strength on futile swings which clove the empty air. Another hard blow on the jaw and Carpentier staggered. It was all he could do to hold up. He replied with one of his vain and foolish swings, sent with all his remaining power whizzing through the air and missing Jeff Smith by feet. This effort sent Carpentier hard to the floor by the momentum of its own wasted force. It is true that Smith failed to follow up his advantage when the Frenchman rose, but even so the round was decisively in his favour.

The tenth round found Smith strong and hearty, boxing with sturdy vigour if not remarkable skill. Carpentier had recovered a little by now, and, exasperated by Smith’s coolness, rallied vigorously and rained left-handers on his opponent, so that the American was forced to “cover up” with his gloves on either side of his face and his elbows tucked in. Carpentier’s round, but no serious damage done. And the next was much the same, and Smith clinched a good deal, though Carpentier’s hitting was far from strong. Smith’s defence was admirable when he was not holding, but his vigour of attack had been in abeyance for a little while. In the twelfth round he woke up, and drove his right to the Frenchman’s mouth, drawing much blood, and went on attacking. In the fourteenth round Carpentier seemed quite done. He tried once or twice to swing in the hope of knocking his man out, but his blows were weak and Smith was cautious. The American was still the more marked and obviously damaged of the two; but Carpentier looked woebegone and ill. He, too, had a split lip which bled profusely. Just at the end of the round Carpentier did at last manage to put in a right cross-counter which had some strength in it, but before he could follow it up time was called, and Smith had his minute in which to recover.

It was about this time that Descamps declared that Carpentier had smashed his hand at the very beginning of the fight. It may be taken as a fairly safe rule that when a man’s backers make this type of observation during the progress of a contest, they think he is going to lose it. When he has actually lost, they invariably say something of the kind. A smashed hand—a family trouble—an acute attack of indigestion—these excuses and all their manifold variations serve their dear old turn, and are promptly disbelieved at large as soon as they are uttered. It is possible that Carpentier may have sprained a thumb slightly, but it could not have been more than that. The vigour that his hitting lacked was, on that occasion, constitutional. He was not in first-rate condition.

Both men were sorry for themselves. Smith’s eye was quite closed, his opponent was bleeding severely from his cut lip. For a time their efforts were about equal. Carpentier kept trying to knock his man out, Smith defended himself. The spectators could not understand the Frenchman. All the time or almost all the time, he had fought like a man both weak and desperate. And then, quite suddenly, in the sixteenth round there was a change.

I have said that Carpentier is a real fighter: he has the spirit and instinct for bashing, for going on against odds. He was weak, and for a long time he had plainly shown it. And yet somewhere in him there was a reserve of power and an unconquerable will.

To the utter astonishment of the onlookers and of Jeff Smith himself, Carpentier sprang out of his corner for the sixteenth round as though he were beginning a fresh contest. He positively hurled himself across the ring at his antagonist. He landed at once, with a half-arm blow on the head, and blow after blow, mainly with the left, pounded the unfortunate American. Smith was completely taken aback and could only clinch to save himself. It was all that he could do to withstand this slaughtering attack and remain upright.

There was a great uproar amongst the crowd. Yells of delight greeted this great awakening of the Frenchman: and when the next round began every one thought that Smith must soon fall. Carpentier went for him again with animal ferocity. He leapt about the ring after him, sending in blow after murderous blow. Smith reeled and gasped and staggered and backed away after each shattering, smashing right had landed, but he still stood up and fought him like a man. It was a fine show of pluck. The man was badly hurt. Plenty of boxers would have dropped for a rest and even would have allowed themselves to be counted out, but not Jeff Smith. He was, as they say, “for it,” and he knew that he was “for it.” But he would go through with it.

The uproar increased. The spectators wanted to have the fight stopped, but without avail. The fight went on. Smith staggered in, and more by good luck than any sort of management, contrived to land two pitiful blows. His legs were hopelessly weak—he could hardly see, and yet he managed to cover his jaw, and, try as he would, with all his renewal of vigour, Carpentier could do everything he liked with his man save knock him out. It is necessary to make this quite plain. Smith looked as though he must at any moment drop down and stay down from sheer exhaustion.

A minute’s rest. The last round.