GREAT FIGHTS OF OLD TIMES

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 35, 4 May 1927, Page 13

GREAT FIGHTS OF OLD TIMES

JOHN GULLY BECOMES CHAMPION OF ENGLAND

Upon a time lived a boy who dreamed wonderfully v of the great things he would do when he was a man (says a writer in an English sporting journal). Now this bov promised himself three things: No. 1: He would become a champion of England. No. 2: He would own a horse which should win the Derby. No. 3: He would become a member of Parliament.

His parents were humble folk keeping a small inn; he had neither friends nor influence and consequently any ordinary person, dowered with that somewhat mixed blessing termed Common Sense, would have done their utmost to curb the lad’s folly, to whip such egregious nonsense out of his head and set him to some useful and common-sense job.

And yet this strange bov. soaring above all difficulties, actually became a famous champion, owned a Derby winner, and represented Pontefract in Parliament. For besides his hale, strong body, he possessed those divine attributes without which success cannot be—sincere faith in himself, un swerving lovalty to an idea, and unshakeabTe determination.

And his name was John Gully. But our business is merely with his fistic prowess, and no fighting-man eve 'owed a more indomitable spirit than Tohn throughout his brief pugilistic career, a courage backed by that same resolute determination which eventually transformed his boyish dreams to such triumphant reality. Surely never was finer exhibition of endurance and courage than in his desperate, uphill battle with that peerless fighter Hen Pearce, the “Game Chicken,” whose terrible blows felled him in nearly every set-to, yet he fought on resolutely until the fiftyninth round.

CHALLENGE FROM LANCASHIRE Take a peep at him as he staggers from his corner—a dreadful shapebattered out of recognition, covered' with bk ’ half-blind, his bruised and shrinking flesh up-borne by his unconquered spirit. He raises his swollen fists, he will fight on—O yes—but his friends and backers interpose, insisting he shall do no more—his shapeless head is bowed at last and Pearce is declared victor; the Game Chicken is Champion still.

Two years elapse, and poor, brave Pearce, whose unhappy life is to end at the early age of 32, has retired through illness and John Gully becomes virtual Champion of England. Five feet eleven and a half of rugged manhood, tipping the beam at thirteen and a half stone.

From Lancashire to challenge his title comes one Robert Gregson, a comely young giant as remarkable in many ways as John himself and a worthy opponent in every sense. TIME!

Behold them as they front each other on this 14th of October, 1807, at Six Mile Bottom, near Newmarket. Hear the multitude roar as sedate John, serenely grave, salutes the six foot two and 15-stone that goes to the making of smiling, good-natured Bob.

And now, all being ready, time is called and there ensues such a fight as eyes have rarely seen. They begin cautiously and a deal of sparring takes place until, spying an opening, John lands heavily on Bob. who instantly counters, and closing, they fall. In the second round Bob Gregson’s great strength is very manifest, but John meets this with all the science he knows and, feinting Bob to an opening, drives in a smashing blow that makes the blood fly and Gregson is down, and the odds soaring. During the next four rounds is desperate give and take, foot to foot. John is forcing, for Big Bob is shaken, but his strength is prodigous and in the seventh he fights through John’s guard and drops him with a flesh-splitting blow under the eye, a blow so terrific that for some seconds the champion lies unconscious and is borne to his corner, bleeding profusely and halfblind. CHIVALROUS GREGSON But he is up and ready at the call, and now is fought round eight, wherein Big Bob truly plays the game in its noblest sense, giving an exhibition of that magnanimous spirit of true sportsmanship which lifts even prizefighting to a high plane and is as much a joy to chronicle as to see. For how, full of confidence, Bob goes after the champion, who either stops or counters with great skill, wherefore Bob closes, whirls him aloft in mighty arms, drops him to the trampled grass, and then. . . . instead of falling upon and crushing his prostrate antagonist beneath his own ponderous weight (as was then the rule). Bob Gregson stands back, suffering the shaken man to rise. . . . “Bravo, Bob!" say I, as shouted many another as was so fortunate to witness this chivalrous act. GULLY’S BAD TIME Round nine finds John perfectly cool, his distorted visage grave, his one good eye serene as ever, and Bob, becoming a little unwary, is promptly krKjcked to his hands and knees. But i : n the 11th and 12th Gully is weak, his blows feeble, and then—out flashes Bob’s long arm, his great fist cracks against Gully’s forehead, grassing him heavily Gully’s friends are in despair, the odds are on Gregson, his name is is roared until the welkin rings. But John Gully, calm and gravely serene, preserves implicit faith in John Gully, though all the world should doubt—yes, even after the dreadful punishment of Round 15, when he is on his knees from sheer weakness. In the 16th he is knocked down. In the 17th his face becomes ghastly to behold. In the 18th he is thrown heavily. But in the 23rd is a desperate rally and, though very weak and halfblind, he is determined as ever, fighting blow for blow. LAST ROUND OF ALL Comes the 25th round, and as they reel, panting, smothered in their own and each other’s blood, none can tel! which is the more beaten and exhausted. Ten more rounds they fight, stumbling, falling, grasping painfully, sick with fatigue, every move a painful effort; and thus they endure to the 36th and last. As they come up for this final round they stagger like drunken men, and, reeling to an fro before each other they know the end is near, and each wills his failing energies to the final, agonising effort that shall mean victory.

The watch mg thousands are awed and dumb, sound is heard but the

shuffle of unsteady feet, the groan of laboured breathing, the thud an J* smack of blow and counter. Both men are equally hurt, equally spent, equally courageous; it needs but the heroism to force outraged nature to the extremes! of endurance. O gallant Bob Gregson, will it be thou? Thy great body shrinks, thy mighty arms droop—roase thee. Bob: What of thee, John Gully? Thy battered face, serene no longer, ’-s convulsed with a sudden agony—art done. John? THE FALLEN GLADIATOR Xo, bv heaven—his is the agony of final ’ effort. . . every aching muscl ■, every pain-racked nerve he forces to obey his iron will: He rallies, lurches forward—strikes! And Big Hob is down, helplessly a-sprawl. . . Time is called and John comes staggering in replv, but poor, gallant Bob lies inert. Gully is indeed Champion of England, the great fight is lost and won, Johm