Evening star., 1908-01-12
WELL-KNOWN PUGILISTS WHO HAVE
LOST IN THEIR BOUTS WITH OLD
JOHN LEYCORN--DIXONS DEATH
By Clarence L. Cullen.

before he was gathered into the sani-
| tarium. McGovern might have had
$1C0, 900 easily this morning If he had been
able to turn a square jaw toward the
| hard knock he got when Young Corbett
| handed it out to him. But pluck in the
| prize ring and spunk in the world of men
| are two mighty different propositions. So
now Terry goes up and down the world
thrashing walters hither and yon. and
getting himself in bad generally tossing
the few dollars he earns at the rum mill
preparing himself for finish that will
perhaps be no less distressing than that
Of George Dixon.
Last week. up in a little New Eng
land town, Kid Lavigne. a bum of the
beard and an emaciated body and diked
out In rags and tatters-applied for adj
mission to poorhouse for the winter.
He was worse than all in, he was a hobo
of the most out-and-out character. Yet
this Lavigne man, not so many years
ago, was as spick-and-span a chap-a
clean-limbed, dressy fellow with really
bright and engaging face-as you'd care
to meet on Broadway. He had lean
ing toward top hats and fur coats, but,
even so. he wasn't loud or flashy, like
so many prizefighters. He belonged to
the class of really wonderful fighters.
He made all kinds Of big money, and
could have made tens of thousands more.
He had more than the elements of an
education he used mighty good language.
he was fitted to succeed in everyday life
long after his abilities as a fistman were
over. But-that old "openin' wine"
habit got him. and, from that the old
redeye claimed him for it's own. Liter
ally hundreds of men in New York tried
to help Lavigne. He was sent to sani-
tariums, he had clothes put on his back.
he was staked to good homes with decent
fellows. he was built up and started OFF
anew dozens of times-but it was never
any good. He always fell back into the
stagnant pool of rum. Now he's num-
bling his crusts in New England poor
house. although he's still a young man.
Remember Young Griffo, and what
crackerjack scrapper he was? There
have been few boxers in the history Of the
game to compare with that little dancer.
The world was his oyster when he
showed what he had with him. Impor-
tant dead games just weaved around him,
offering him the things in life that are
worth while. The Lady Fortune smiled
upon him. and there wasn't anything
agreeable or luxurious that wasn't within
his craps But-the old juise. That got
him. And the juice didn't act on him as
1t acts upon most men. 1T made a plain
maniac of Young Critic, that is what it
to be confined in straitjacket. He died
in a straitjacket bowling. Yet easily
remember when he first came to New
York from Australia, a soft-voiced little
chap who used the broad English
and who tried to please people by his
manner.
The list could be carried on indefinite
ly. Jack Dempsey was another one OF
them, plucky as a bulldog in the ring,
who nevertheless, didn't have the spine
to stand up against defeat. Life was
all over with him, still q very young
man, just as soon as Fitz had put him
away He couldn't face the music. He
couldn't tolerate the idea that he'd been
OF ba only, he knew. So
he proceeded to drink himself to death.
Bill Rothwell (Young Corbett started
early to block out Wretched pain IoT
himself. That one might have been put
ting them away yet If he'd ever had the
elements Of good behavior in him. But
he always did have the wild idea that he
could fight men and John Barleycorn az
one and the same time. He was well
,of his habits. saw him in the ring the
hast time he fought. He was a joke.
He was hog fat He had really made an
effort to get that fat off of him that
on his bones to stay. He fought like an
elderly German baker, as was to be ex-
pected.
AS a matter of fact. that queer old
thing called the 'sportin life pulls down
the great majority of its main figurantes
the men who do the things in the dead
game world, sooner or later. the star
Jockeys help to illustrate the point. a
good so per cent of them go straight to
the bow-wows sooner or later Run your
eye over a list of the crack jockeys OF
the past twenty years or so and see II
am not right. The huge money is put in
the hands Of the little pinheads. with
nothing but half portions Of sauce tar
tare in the back Of their heads instead
Of brains-how could they have brains.
considering their origin-and they don't
know what to- do with 1t excepting to
toss it after the brides in any old wild.
riotous way that suggests itself to them.
can show you today fifteen or twenty
drunken little men hanging around
Broadway booze caravansaries. who,
only a few years ago, were Jockeys Of
Importance; who had their names in the
papers every day, with pictures of their
weakened mugs, and who were talked
and gassed about by thousands of turf
men. Now, as I say. they'll sort Of sidle
up to you when you drop into these
Broadway groggeries and try to engage
you in conversation, SO that they fon tell
you. rummily. about their one-time noted
conquests in the pigskin. so that you'll
stake them to a few drinks. Melancholy
little weazened persons, these, and you'll
walk away from a meeting with them
with a sort of mourning in your heart
for their misery and utter down-and
outness.