The Sweet Science - A. J. Liebling [39]
When the main-bout fighters entered the ring with their factions, I saw that Weill had decided to act as Marciano’s chief second. He had four subordinates, of whom the smallest, and consequently the hardest to see, was Goldman. One of Weill’s strongest points of resemblance to Napoleon—or, for that matter, to Mr. Pickwick—is what he calls his “built.” He worked from a standing but bending position directly in front of his seated fighter and facing him. As Marciano was in the corner diagonally across from my perch, my only memory of what happened there between rounds centers on the seat of my old friend’s white flannel pants. All I could see of Walcott was the back of his head.
The fight was, as you probably read, one of the stubbornest matches ever fought by heavyweights. When all the lights except those over the ring went out and the bout started, I began to be aware there had been a mistake, and I soon recognized what it was. Walcott, a great, earthen-hued man, mature but sprightly, has a cylindrical torso and a smaller cylinder of a head rising directly out of it. He weighed a hundred and ninety-six pounds, twelve more than Rocky. And the mistake was that he was not imitating Keene Simmons’ imitation of him. Instead he was walking forward, hitting at Marciano and moving him back. In just about a minute he landed a beautiful left hook to the jaw, and the hope of Brockton went down on his left side. Walcott started to walk away, assuming, I suppose, that anything human so hit would take the longest permissible count—nine seconds. But Rocky jumped up at three. (This was the only thing Marciano did all night that Goldman complained of after the fight.) Walcott turned, unable to believe his good fortune, but didn’t get back to him soon enough. The way Marciano came up made me think the hope of Brockton was out of his head. I learned afterward that what had made him bounce was a combination of indignation and inexperience. The remainder of the round was not reassuring to the Brockton rooters, and when the old fellow continued to batter Charlie’s pupil in the second, I was reminded of the remark of a trotting-horse man I know, made in similar circumstances: “The cow got loose and killed the butcher.”
There was a colored man to my right, entirely surrounded by whites. I could hear him yelling, and what he was yelling hardly sounded sensible—though, come to think of it, it may have been. “Don’t get mad, Joe!” he was hollering. “Please don’t get mad!” But Walcott continued to act mad, walking right out to meet Marciano in the third. Half a minute later it was Marciano who was shaking the champion, knocking him back with body blows and punches that did not land clean on the jaw but hit him on the side or the back of his bobbing head. The old fellow gave way slowly, hitting all the time, not breaking away and circling, as he had in other fights. Pierce Egan would have called his tactic “milling in retreat.” The match now seemed to be following the script more closely. Rocky was slowing him down. The old man would go in a couple more rounds. If he started running he might last a little longer. The young fellow kept pounding in the fourth and fifth. At the end of several rounds they continued after the bell, and Marciano usually got in the last punch. At the end of the fifth