Fingy Conners & The New Century Read online

  A few days later back in Boston, the champion’s concerned manager Jimmy Wakely visited the Michael Sullivan home on Parnell Street. John L. was there in disastrous physical shape, shaky on his pins from “incipient paralysis.” He was sluggish, dyspeptic, short-winded and grotesquely fat. Furthermore he was in a desperate state of depression that bordered on neurosis. He was unable to keep food down and he continued his heavy drinking. All involved were compelled to agree that John L. was a complete wreck.

  Wakely had engaged the services offered by renowned wrestler and spartan tyrant Bill Muldoon as a physical coach. Wakely persuaded John L. to leave Boston and join Muldoon on his farm in Belfast N.Y. to begin training for the momentous fight ahead. When John L. staggered off the train in Belfast accompanied by Wakely and Johnston, trainer Muldoon was on the platform to meet them.

  Muldoon couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Appalled at John L.’s having ballooned up to 240 lbs., Muldoon experienced second thoughts. He was doubtful he could accomplish the miracle expected of him by his employers and he told them this right then and there on the platform. The men looked panic-stricken for a few moments. Muldoon suddenly conceived a challenge and proposed a wager.

  “I will accept no fee if Sullivan should lose to Kilrain, but if he should win, my fee will be $10,000,” he announced.

  Wakely and Johnston agreed to Muldoon’s proposition on the spot without any hesitation, and as the departing locomotive’s coal smoke enveloped the group, they shook on it.

  With grim resolution Bill Muldoon, who believed with a religious conviction that the human body was a sacred temple, imposed one final demand. He pivoted to stand face to face and nose to nose with the defending champion, so close in fact that he could feel his own hot breath ricochet off Sullivan’s face as he spoke.

  “John L. Sullivan, you must obey me without question or argument or you can just turn around right now and get back on the next train,” he demanded.

  John L. accurately read the dead seriousness in Muldoon’s forbidding grimace.

  “By the way, when’s the last time you saw your own dick?” Muldoon asked him in a shaming tone.

  John L. looked down at his enormous belly which hung prodigiously over his belt. “All right, Mr. Muldoon. I am all yours. No arguments,” promised the Champ.

  At first John L. was so weak upon his arrival in Belfast that he took to his bed. He was unable to keep any solid food down at all, save for a few spoonfuls of oatmeal. Muldoon was sympathetic and solicitous, never leaving the champ’s side. He knew that before he could begin repairing John L.’s thrashed body he would first have to rebuild his self-confidence and spirit.

  The pugilist was placed under virtual quarantine. No visitors were allowed for the first few weeks who had not been pre-approved by Muldoon. John L. drank nothing stronger than milk and ate gruel and the most basic of foods in small portions. Coffee and tea were forbidden, as well as cigars and all alcohol, save for an occasional ale.

  Muldoon slept in the same room as Sullivan because he didn’t trust him. As soon as he felt better, John L.’s promises predictably began to fall by the wayside. There were but two saloons in the small town. Muldoon had approached the proprietor of each tavern and warned that they would have him to personally deal with if they should ever serve John L. Sullivan a single drink.

  One evening, Muldoon, distracted by his wife’s having suddenly taken ill, was given the slip, and John L. sauntered into one of the town saloons. The barkeep thought twice, then figured that between the two, he’d rather incur the wrath of Muldoon later on than that of Sullivan at that particular instant, and poured him a whiskey. John L. had finished his second drink and was just starting on his third when Muldoon stalked in. Without uttering a single word and entirely devoid of facial expression the trainer pointed to the door. Sullivan thought for a moment, then put the drink down and walked out the door into the black night. The two walked back down the road to the farm in complete silence.

  John L. started up the porch steps, but Muldoon gently took hold of his elbow and guided him instead around to the barn, still wordless. Muldoon stripped himself to the waist, then stood there waiting until Sullivan got the message and did the same. Then he laid into the Champ, twisting his arm behind him, back-heeling him and slamming his great heft to the earth. Muldoon’s victim strained his neck to look around and assess his livid face, contorted with anger and contempt.

  “All right, Bill,” he gasped. “I won’t never do it again!”

  The rebellious incident was Muldoon’s signal to commence fulfilling his agreement in earnest: the real work of rehabilitating John L. Sullivan had begun.

  ...

  John L. had warned his cousins when they’d asked to visit him that if they expected to spend any time with him in Belfast they would have to keep up with and train alongside him: Muldoon’s orders.

  JP was apprehensive, what with his foreshortened leg making running any more than a few yards unmanageable. Michael Regan was an enthusiastic member of the Mutuals but hadn’t ever actually been an active participant in any of the clubs’ athletic contests, and himself was overweight by thirty-five pounds or more to boot. Only Jim Sullivan was up to the task fully, his being compelled to run daily in order to corral law-breakers, but he did wonder just how serious his cousin was about his claim of “getting into the best shape of my life,” for John L. had left in his wake a sorry history of fully celebrating his every victory by partaking of all life’s most damaging pleasures as reward.

  Bill Muldoon’s farm lay nestled postcard-pretty just a few short minutes’ walk from the Belfast Hotel. It quartered horses and contented cattle along with two barns and a spacious cottage painted snow white, surrounded by lilacs and red-edged white peonies in bloom, with thick lawns as green as Ireland itself. Skirting three sides of the house a wide shady veranda furnished with easy chairs, a porch swing, hammocks and potted geraniums imparted the welcoming appearance of comfort and ease. A line of young maple trees shaded the house from the hot sun of late spring.

  Bill Muldoon was himself a champion wrestler and athlete, handsome and fit, his mature rosy cheeks indented with boyish dimples, eyes brilliant blue. He was an enthusiastic fan of John L., and when he’d first heard that the Champ was intending a comeback, he formed the idea of responding to an overpowering calling. Muldoon would offer his farm and his expertise as a trainer in a quest to restore the Champ to fitness and his rightful station in the athletic world.

  John L. liked to complain that Bill Muldoon was a harsh taskmaster who he nonetheless obeyed unquestioningly in his pursuit to preserve his title. But truth be told, concerned townsmen at all odd hours had more than once come knocking to fetch Muldoon to drag Sullivan out of one of the saloons where he’d escaped while Muldoon was distracted by other business, or soundly slept.

  At a bit past eight o’clock on the morning following their arrival, the Sullivan brothers and Mike Regan mounted the two stairs to the Muldoon porch and knocked on the screen door. Bill Muldoon came to the door and greeted them like the intrusion he believed them to be, informing the men they were late.

  “Yous shoulda been here by six.”

  He invited them into the cool interior nonetheless. The sun was already hot.

  “We already finished our two-mile run and had our breakfast. Your cousin is gettin’ his rubdown now. It will still be a few minutes yet. Have yourselfs a seat and I’ll go tell him you’re here.”

  Muldoon disappeared into the back of the house as the men turned to the sound of a knock at the screen door. Not knowing what else to do, JP hopped over and asked the young lady standing there if he could be of service. He opened the screen door a foot and accepted a letter of introduction that she handed to him.

  “I am Nellie Bly, from the New York World newspaper. I’ve come to interview Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Well, I’m Mr. Sullivan, Miss Bly. How lovely of you to have traveled all this way just to see me,” effused the First Ward’
s candidate for Alderman with face straight. Jim and Regan joined in the farce, nodding affirmatively in an official manner, expressionless.

  Bly was taken aback for a moment, confused by the sight before her of a slight man of average height, thinning reddish hair and unusual taste in footwear. She looked down at the enormous orthopedic shoe. The men all laughed.

  “Didja see the look on that young gal’s face?” the Alderman would later joke whenever retelling the story.

  Five uncomfortable minutes later, Muldoon appeared with John L. He enthusiastically shook hands first with his cousins and then with Mike Regan, the men all smiles and shoulder punches. Nellie Bly remained seated. She was then introduced to cousin John L. by the Alderman.

  “Mr. Sullivan, I would like to shake hands with you, also,” Bly said to the Champ, standing at her chair. John L. stepped forward and took her hand in his, the unmistakable look in her eyes not at all unnoticed by the other men present. Nellie ogled the imposing presence of the Champ, for some reason having anticipated seeing him outfitted in training togs rather than his cheviot coat and vest and slippers. As she accepted his grip, she took a good look at his hands. She wrote later they were smaller than she’d expected for such a large man. Although quite thick, the fingers were straight and shapely, the closely trimmed nails oval and pink. She later confided in the visitors from Buffalo that she had been as impressed by John L.’s height and his broad shoulders as she was his gentle manner.

  “I came here to learn all about you, Mr. Sullivan, so will you please begin by telling me at what time did you get up this morning?” asked Nellie Bly.

  The three visitors shouldn’t have been at all surprised by the reporter’s presence, considering the great international interest attending the upcoming bout. But they had arrived naïvely expecting to have John L. all to themselves, or at least, not to have to share him with some upstart female and be compelled to curtail their language and manners because of it. They had envisioned a manly weekend free from the social constraints demanded by the presence of more delicate company.

  Nellie Bly unleashed an avalanche of questions on the Champ, questions both insightful and inane, but mostly the latter. The Buffalo group excused themselves to “go have a look around the farm.” John L. gazed longingly after his cousins, betraying in his eye who he’d prefer to be spending his time with at that moment. Bly was the third newspaper person to visit that week, and her questions were identical to all those of the previous male reporters.

  “Be ready at half past ten, lads,” John L. called after them. “We’ve got our 12 mile run-and-walk to tackle then. Care to join us, Miss Bly?”

  John L. well knew what her answer might be even before she demurred.

  ...

  JP roused a bit now and then in his hospital bed as he relived the explorations of that lovely day in his delirious miasma; the Muldoons’ big dogs rolling over lazily onto their backs in the open barn doorway in expectation of belly-rubs as the men stooped to oblige them while discussing the future bout; a shrieking fight between two roosters breaking out; huge horseflies buzzing menacingly around the neighing steeds, their tails wildly swatting against the winged villains’ landing and biting. Everything was permeated by the pungent essences of the Upstate hinterland.

  “Interesting how much better shit smells out here in the country,” JP recalled saying to his concurring companions.

  “That’s because it ain’t human,” replied Mike Regan, citing personal experience.

  Nellie Bly wanted to know how much the Champ had earned so far in boxing. He replied that it was close to $600,000, give or take. What did he wear in the ring? “Knee pants, stocking and shoes, and no shirt.” What did he eat? “Oatmeal for breakfast, hot meat and bread for dinner, cold meat and stale bread for supper.”

  He added “I used to smoke the livelong day, but since I came here to Bill Muldoon’s, I haven’t seen a cigar. Occasionally Mr. Muldoon gives me a glass of ale, but it doesn’t average one a day,” or so the Champ claimed.

  When the time came for their run, Mrs. Muldoon took over the entertaining of the famous Nellie Bly on the veranda as John L. changed into training clothes. JP and Mike Regan followed lazily in their distant footsteps as John L., his cousin Jim, and Bill Muldoon went galloping off into the pasture followed by the dogs.

  “I weighed 240 when I arrived here, Jim,” wheezed his cousin, “and now I weigh 215. By the day of the fight I will weigh in at 195,” said the champ, already out of breath. “Muldoon keeps an eagle eye on me, him and his missus.”

  Ninety minutes later, the champ’s route almost completed, JP and Mike Regan short-cutted across the pasture to the end of their circuit to meet up with the joggers a quarter mile from the house, where by that time the three had had their fill with running and slowed to a lazy amble. The larger dog, a huge handsome mastiff mix, had backtracked to rejoin the two laggards, JP and Regan, early on, he deciding not to follow his master the entire 12 miles. The bulldog on the other hand completed the entire circuit and looked desperate for water.

  The group walked casually along the dirt path, crossing from side to side to take advantage of whatever shade was available. Fallen leaves crackled beneath their feet, dust was swirled up by their shoes, and a crushed squirrel, pregnant, the victim of a heavy dray’s wheel, lay disemboweled among her unborn in the dusty track, flies laying their eggs inside her and her little ones. The dogs sniffed and tasted the mess thoroughly, then moved on.

  “Just how many of these reporters have come out here to see you so far, Johnny?” asked cousin Jim as he and Muldoon avoided stepping on the squirrels.

  “Too many, that’s for damn sure,” coughed John L. “But this bout has piqued interest like never before, and I can’t fight forever, Jim. I’m gettin’ old, cousin! I got to look to the future and try my hand at other things. The more famous these reporters can make me now, the more opportunities I’ll have once I retire from the ring. So, I’m willin’ to talk to ‘em all, time permittin’.”

  JP and Regan caught up to, but lagged behind, Jim and John L., talking training with Bill Muldoon. Neither shy nor retiring, Regan asked how much Muldoon was charging the champ for his services.

  “I don’t make any money by doing this, Mike. I was anxious to see John L. do justice to himself in this coming fight. It was a case of a fallen giant, so I thought to get him away from all the bad influences and to get him in good trim. I do admit I’ve had to fetch him a time or twice from the saloons after he sneaked away. He’ll gladly tell anyone willing to listen that the training is ten times worse than the fight itself. And he might be right. This is the healthiest place in the country for him right now, and Belfast is one difficult town to reach. Just ask the reporters! Both of these things are desirable for training. On his journey down here he had secured a private railcar, yet there were more people entering his car than any other. Next time, when we all go to New Orleans for the bout, we’ll keep our car’s doors locked and none but John L.’s backers and representatives of the press will be admitted.”

  Nellie Bly met them on their return at the top step and started in with a hundred questions for both John L. and Bill Muldoon. Having already exhausted poor Mrs. Muldoon, the lady of the house was relieved to have the indefatigable journalist out of her hair. The World’s famous reporter had to get back to New York City soon.

  “Mr. Sullivan is the most obedient man I ever saw,” Muldoon boasted to her as if reciting from a memorized script. “He hasn’t asked for so much as a whiskey or a single smoke since he came here and he takes what I allow him without so much as a murmur. It is a pleasure to train him.”

  Muldoon had learned a thing or two about public relations during his own years on the mats.

  ...

  As the Alderman’s lovely dream coincided with the hospital’s lunch hour, his stomach began to growl. The sisters were late with his soup and bread. With the scent of the coming meal filling the air, the Alderman’s mind wandered through the white
cottage inventorying the Muldoons’ simple treasures. The bucolic surroundings were in brilliant contrast to those of Hamburg Street in the filthy First Ward with its perpetual industrial stench and round-the-clock haze of soupy gray air.

  In the Muldoons’ unembellished den was a welcoming rattan lounge for afternoon naps and rocking chairs for pleasant company. The walls were lined with photographs in frames, more than a few of Modjeska, with whom Muldoon had traveled. There was what appeared to be a bar, with a bare rack behind it on the wall, emptied of what may have been bottled spirits so as not to tempt John L.

  Apparently free of modesty, there were quite a number of photographs of a younger Bill Muldoon himself in the nude, posed in the manner of classic Greek statutes of antiquity, as befitted his then-enviable physique. There were scrapbooks and albums scattered about, filled with photographs of famous athletes, including a number of the great naturalist strongmen Hakenschmidt and Sandow, the men intimidating due to their unusual beauty, if such a word be used to describe a man.

  The two famed naturalists were exceptional in this regard, not resembling any human male form that anyone had ever actually encountered in real life outside of an art museum. In their photographs they truly exceeded the classic standard that had been preserved in the ancient sculptures of Greece and Rome, sculptures that had lately been disparaged by scoffing modern critics as representing nothing more than idealized fantasy versions of the actual humans who had posed for them.

  Hackenschmidt’s photographs especially countered this assumption, giving credence to the possibility that the men and women represented in ancient sculptures, rather than representing some idealized imaginings of the artist, were perhaps in truth depicted accurately as they truly existed at the time after all.

  Scrapbooks brimmed with Muldoon’s professional history to the point of spilling over, containing news clippings of the wrestler’s athletic conquests. Additional books on the Muldoons’ shelves, leather bound, bore authors’ names such as Yeats, Bryant, Longfellow, Whitman and Shakespeare.