Three thousand miles away from home with a bad cold, four dollars and fifty-five cents, hotel bill due, not a single friend or acquaintance to turn for assistance. I strolled down Golden Gate Avenue with hands dug deep in my pockets, coat collar turned up and hat pulled down over my eyes, for it had just begun to drizzle rain and the breeze from the sea was biting and penetrating. As I strolled along I saw on almost every side big life-size placards, and pictures of Jimmie Boyles, the Amateur Champion of the Pacific Coast, who was booked to fight that night at the Dreamland Skating Rink.
Well, as I had gone through with almost all my money in the past week, I thought I might as well spend the balance, so I planked down a dollar and gained a general admission to the Dreamland where the fights were to be pulled off that night. There were six round contests on the programme and the big fight between Jimmie Boyles and whoever wished to try him out would be the last one fought.
In 'Frisco at that time they only allowed them to go six rounds, and that night there were some hot six rounders in the Dreamland. It was the first time I had ever witnessed any of the fights in the West, and I enjoyed seeing them pound each other, emphasis on the "pound each other." When the first six fights had been completed the ring manager stood on the platform and announced through a big megaphone that any one who would come up and fight Jimmie Boyles, the amateur champion of the Pacific coast, and stay in the ring with him the six rounds, that a purse of one hundred dollars would be awarded. Jimmie stood proudly leaning against the ropes, at the same time bowing to his admirers, as the yeller made the announcement from all sides of the platform.
Several volunteered, but were ruled out on account of being classed as professionals. For a while it looked as though they were not going to be able to get Jimmie a fighting companion. As I stood there, I thought, "Well, I am a darn long way from home and this chance looks good to me, although I'm not much of a bruiser." Suddenly I raised my hand above my head and yelled to the man on the platform that I would fight his Jimmie Boyles. Those standing close to me turned and looked, while the eyes of the whole audience fell my way. I pushed through the excited mob of spectators and ascended to the platform, where I introduced myself, "Jack Condon from Richmond, Va." I was not long in establishing my amateurship, and after being introduced to the huge assemblage, I repaired to the dressing room.
I was then weighing one hundred and seventy pounds stripped, and when I walked out on that platform in regular fighting costume I felt like a turkey nearing the axe. I appeared wrapped in a brown blanket and took my seat in one corner, while Jimmie sat opposite me. A trainer sat on either side, one rubbing my arms with alcohol, while the other was saying, "Now, kid, don't git skeered, but hit the devil hard. You're goin' to win, for I feel it in the dust. Ah, git out, what are all these pretty muscles for if you can't lick that Jimmie over there with only one hundred and thirty-five to hit yer with?"
The gong rang. I threw aside my robe and walked to the center of the ring. I was so scared I could hardly breathe; there was a great big lump in my throat and my knees were a bit shaky. Those knees of mine did not get very weak till I got right up to that Jimmie and saw his face. He had freckles, and I have always been afraid of a freckled face man. They say they are mean and will fight like the devil; now I know they are mean and also know that they will fight like hell.
We shook hands, and as I prepared to take my position and make a grand stand show, he piled me one right square in the right eye. This stunned me for a moment and I could see only stars. When I regained self-control I was the maddest I have ever been in all my life. I gritted my teeth and went at that one hundred and thirty-five pounder as a buzz saw goes after a knotty log. He was apparently knotty and I intended to cut some of them out. The gong sounded—end of the first round. By this time my eye had swollen so badly I couldn't see from it at all. Five more rounds!
During the second bout I hit that fellow a few good ones and I knocked him down more than once with those big long railers, as they term them back in North Carolina. Along about the fourth round I saw that he was going to get the better of me and put me out of commission if I didn't protect myself. Then I decided to keep away from him as much as possible, and in the sixth round he was chasing me around the ring like one rooster does another in the pit. Whenever he cornered me I would clinch with him, and as a consequence the official would necessarily consume some time in breaking us. I cared not how long it took to separate us, for my game was a time killing one. I only wanted to last the six rounds so I would be able to get my purse, for such was my only salvation.
The very last of the sixth round he forced me to the ropes, and just as the gong rang he drove me a straight from the right shoulder which landed squarely on my eye. This blow sent me over the ropes of the platform and I fell to the floor, twelve feet below. I remember distinctly that terrific punch, but I do not remember having hit the floor. The next morning I was barely able to see, for both eyes were swollen dreadfully and my poor head was paining terribly. Two swollen eyes and a big knot on the head was enough. On awakening my first question was, "Did I win?"