BUNGLING

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 246, 7 January 1928, Page 5

BUNGLING

In San Quentin Penitentiary, in California, there is a man who is serving a life-sentence for murder. Or perhaps it is only a term of 15 or 20 years—which, in his case, amounts to the same thing. The man’s name is Norman Selby. He was famous in pugilism as Kid McCoy. Now, this name may convey nothing thrilling to you. You might have a mental picture of a boyish, happy-go-lucky yoisng fellow who was—just a pug, but in that case you are mistaken. This man was a freak. He was a lathy chap, Cft lin tall. The record book says sft llin, but I think my figures are correct. He weighed list 61b. He was never quite good enough for Bob Fitzsimmons and they never fought each other, but McCoy was in many ways as great a fighter. And mentally he was a giant. His favourite knock-out punch was a twisting, jarring left-hook. It was styled “the corkscrew.” A number of burly heavyweights fell victims to that four-inch jolt; among them were Peter Maher, Jim Savage, Joe Choynskl and Dan Creedon. McCoy was a sensational fighter. In the ring, he was a picture of easy grace. Erect and relaxed, his arms moving continually in bewildering feints, he was always cool and calculating. What he lacked in ruggedness he was amply compensated for by a brain that functioned with the speed of lightning. His was a meteoric career. Nor was he less spectacular after his retirement from the game. The man had a way with men and women; especially with women. He was married eight times, and eight times he was divorced. He was a man with "a kink” in his brain. Ordinarily, when we meet a professional pugilist, we find a man who is above the average in self-confidence and in determination. His style of fighting depends on his physique, his temperament, and on his experience. McCoy’s style was just what might have been expected of such a freak as he was. None of the usual adjectives will serve to . describe McCoy. There was no slam-bang, slatherum-whack about that chap. When the gong rang he would rise from his chair, and, as cool as a surgeon who is preparing to operate, he would glide to the ringcentre and would begin his deft gloveplay. Behind his half-closed eyes a busy brain was working. His teasing left plays forward and back, tricky and tantalising. His opponent sees an opening. He leads a stabbing left,

followed by a power-charged right. McCoy stops the left with the paint of his hand. A quarter-turn to the right lets the second clout go by. McCoy's reply, a ripping uppercut, splits a lip or closes an eye. while his victim wonders where that thunderbolt came from. He realises now that he will have to be more careful. The game progresses. McCoy, balanced to a nicety, sways like a reed in the wind, his eyes alight with a merciless glow. His foeman is not to be trapped again. He, too. starts feinting. McCoy’s lips curl in faint sneer. He is too old a bird to be caught with chaff. Suddenly there is a volley of snappy blows, lefts, and rights, from every angle. The foeman reels to the ropes. McCoy glides stealthily toward him. McCoy’s practised eye and his sure instinct tell him that the time is not yet. A less • astute tighter might have met that waiting half-arm jolt, but McCoy glides away to the ring-centre. Utterly nonplussed, the opponent begins to force the fight. It is like hitting at a will-o’-the-wisp. He is trying to watch for that deadly "corkscrew.” Tucking his chin under his left shoulder, his right elbow close t« his side, his right glove nesting against his temple, he begins to attack with his left. He has foiled McCoy’s "corkscrew punch.” McCoy seems disappointed. Apparently, he has lost heart. His opponent is encouraged. He presses forward, harrying the ghost-like McCoy before him. He jabs left —and lands! McCoy wavers. Now the right! Missed! Ouch! Damn that corkscrew! What's happen ed? Ah-h! McCoy has broken his left hand! McCoy’s quick grimace of pain was the only sign he gave of injury. Now let’s see what this wily old ringgeneral will do in this predicament. It will not be surprising if he wins, even now. Stopping lefts, and backmoving rights, McCoy is kept busy. If he has a bit of luck, he may go the distance. He is penned in a corner. There is a rush, and a swish of gloves, a sidestep, an exchange, a baulk, a stabbing jolt McCoy evades a swing. His opponent sees a blinding flash, hears a shattering crash. He falls on his face, and the fight is over. McCoy had got an opening for his "corkscrew.” Cool, calm and cynical. McCoy glides to his comer. That was only a trap. McCoy hadn’t hurt his hand after all' His second: That was pretty work. Kid! McCoy: Rather clumsy. I’m afraid. I should have got him with the first I one.