Kindned Spirits

AFTER it was all over, after heavyweight champion Jack Johnson had left Stanley Ketchel horizontal, seemingly lifeless, on the canvas, a few teeth newly dislodged; after the referee had tolled the count of ‘ten’ under the big sky of Colma, California; after the crowd, disappointed, streamed out of the Mission Street Arena, the two combatants rendezvoused at a gambling hall to shoot craps. It was only fitting. In the ring, Johnson, over 200 pounds, and Ketchel, the reigning middleweight king, were comically mismatched; outside of it, they were kindred spirits, two reckless sporting men with unbridled desires: for action, for women, for liquor, for cars.

When they met for the heavyweight title on October 16, 1909, boxing remained outlawed throughout most of the United States, and its amoral ethos was closer to the unruly spirit of medicine shows and carny mid-ways. And the Johnson-Ketchel battle might have been better suited for a stage than a ring. From the beginning, this matchup, which was a prelude to the Jack Johnson-Jim Jeffries extravaganza the following year, was as counterfeit as a goldbrick. But it ended legitimately, violently, when Ketchel either agreed to an authentic finish for the sake of verisimilitude or when Ketchel betrayed Johnson halfway through their swindle.

By late 1909, the Great White Hope Movement was still in its infancy and had not yet produced a saviour that would galvanise the paying masses. As heavyweight champion, Johnson had thus far produced an uninspired reign. Since winning the title from