He telephoned home, then had supper at a café across from the Ledger office. A full hour before the fight was scheduled to start, he carried his equipment to the armory, setting it up close to the arena.
The building began to fill. Other photographers and reporters from various newspapers began to take their ringside seats. Among the late arrivals were Luke Frowein and Clyde Deems, both veteran photographers for the Globe.
A sports writer from the Ledger slumped into the empty seat beside Flash.
“Wouldn’t waste many films if I were you,” he said with a yawn. “Gezzy is expected to take the kid in three or four rounds.”
By fight time the armory was packed. The buzzing rumble of the crowd arose from behind a blanket of murky tobacco smoke. A gray-shirted referee climbed into the ring to test the ropes.
With tolerant good humour the crowd sat through the first two preliminary bouts, but when the third dragged itself out into a clinching match, the customers began to call impatiently:
“Give us Gezzy! We want Brady!”
At last the main bout was brought on and Flash watched the ring with alert attention. He took only one picture during the first three rounds because the experienced Gezzy made the youngster look very bad. The older fighter feinted him out of position, made him miss by wide margins, and kept up a steady tattoo of stinging left jabs which had Brady bewildered.
And then it happened! The writers said the next day it was only a lucky punch, but Brady connected with a slashing left hook to the point of Gezzy’s chin. The older boxer folded at the hips and toppled to the canvas in a limp heap.
Flash clicked his camera just as the blow landed. He took another shot as Gezzy made a pathetic attempt to struggle to his feet at the count of ten. The fighter fell back and rolled over, his face ashen and still in the blinding glare of the ring lights. Flash got a shot of that, too.