The Roosevelt that I know; ten years of boxing with the President--and other memories of famous fighting men

Front matter

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II II

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Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. The Roosevelt that I Know 3

II. Kate Carew's Interview with Me 21

Chapter I

All the world knows Theodore Roosevelt, the statesman; the man who turned the light on the corporate highwaymen.

He has made the "Big Stick" respected.

But the "Big Stick" must be guided by law, not so the fist; wherever you see a head hit it is the fighting rule ; a word and a blow, but the blow first — the reverse of legal practice.

In the following pages I propose to describe Theodore Roosevelt, the fighter, untrammeled by legal restriction ; the lover of fistic encounter, as I know him; the man of brawn aiid muscle, with a genuine fighting spirit and the courage of two ordinary men to sustain its promise. I intend further to describe his methods of attack and defense, and to note the analogy between the spirit he exhibits in boxing and that which has urged him on in those political encounters which have made him famous.

A succession of glove-fights with him, covering a period of more than ten years, in which we have met as man to man, where it was give and take, with no restrictions, gives me the right to speak authoritatively, and I wish to say here that, whether or not he was champion of his class in college, about which there has been some discussion in the press, it is admitted that he was an able fighting man then, ready to take his medicine and try again. I can say that he is the same man now — a man who asks no favors, cool in a fight, determined, aggressive, consumed with the purpose to overcome resistance, to win; a glutton for punishment, as the ring phrase goes. It is no exaggeration when

I say that, in some mix-ups with him, I have been compelled to resort to all the arts and devices that have come to me from years of serious fighting, often to slug right and left to save myself, y

I have noted his career in politics, seen him go for the mark there with the same pertinacity that he shows when boxing. Besistance, discomfiture, hard knocks in one domain as in the other serve only to make him keener, to whet his appetite for the fray. Had he come to the prize-ring, instead of to the political arena, it is my conviction he would have been successful. The man is a born fighter; it's in his blood.

There are some who are easily diverted from their purpose, some who go impetuously forward with dash and spirit which will not be denied, but once the attack seems hopeless they hesitate and fly panic-stricken in hopeless disorder. A few only remain; these, with conviction imbedded in their very souls, cannot be stayed, even though they themselves would will it. They go tumultuously forward, even to the death.

Theodore Roosevelt is of them.

He reminds one of the biblical general who, his men faint-hearted, wavering, at sight of the overpowering on-rush of Philistines, faced the tide undaunted, so firm was his purpose that he furiously laid about him till the last.

Even in death, the Bible tells us : "His sword clave to his hand." That is to say, the hilt of his sword was found to be imbedded in his palm, a sure indication that he never wavered from his purpose of attack.

I have a vivid recollection of my first fistic encounter with Theodore Eoosevelt. The Governor left me in the old billiard-room of the Executive Mansion at Albany, which he had fitted up as a gymnasium for his boys, in order that they might begin their physical education under his eye.

He then went downstairs to don his boxing clothes.

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In a few minutes he returned.

It was the Governor of the State of New York who had left me. It was a fighting man who entered the room. He wore a sleeveless flannel shirt, his khaki Rough-rider uniform trousers and light canvas shoes without heels. First, I was struck by the expression of his eyes, which are large, light blue, placed well apart, aggressive, fearless, persistent. He is about 5 feet 8 inches in height, but his great breadth of shoulders and bulk of body make him seem shorter. His arms are short, but heavy and well-muscled. His head is that of the typical fighter. It is broad and symmetrical, poised on a powerful neck. A plumb-line could be dropped from the back of his head to his waist. That formation shows not only the fighting spirit, but the physical vigor to sustain it. His short, thick body, with its high, arched chest, is sturdily set on unusually strong, sinewy legs.

I noticed he wore no belt, and told him he had better put p?ie on,

He borrowed one from my brother Jerry. After pulling on his gloves he stepped forward on to the mat. Most men, on coming to box for the first time with a champion, present or retired, show some trepidation. There was none of that here.

After we shook hands I studied him carefully. Then I led a left jab, following it up with a faint-hearted right that landed like a love-tap high up on his cheek.

He dropped his hands and stopped.

"Look here, Mike," he said indignantly; "that is not fair."

I was afraid I had done something wrong. "What's the matter, Governor?" I asked.

"You are not hitting me," he said, shaking his head. "I'd like you to hit out."

"All right, Governor," I said, thinking to myself, this man has a pretty good opinion of himself.

We started in again, and I sent in a hard right to the body as he rushed in, and then tried a swinging left for the jaw. He stepped inside and drove his right to my ear.

It jarred me down to the heels.

I realized from that moment that the Governor was no ordinary amateur. If I took chances with him I was endangering my reputation.

From that day I have taken no chances with Theodore Eoosevelt with the gloves.

I've hit him many times as hard as ever I hit a fighter in the ring, without stopping him, and thousands know how hard I can hit.

I want to say, now, that I never saw him wince or show even by an involuntary sign that he was discomfited in spirit, no matter how severe the bodily pain. On the contrary, it met with only that characteristic turning of the head a bit to the side, a grim smile and a determined setting of the bulldog jaw, followed by another rush.

Theodore Eoosevelt is a strong, tough man; hard to hurt, and harder to stop.

From the very first I was struck with the kindly nature of the man. Though pressed with business as he always was, his mind full of problems, with a crowd of importunate officeseekers and would-be advisers forever at his heels, he hailed my appearance with genuine delight, and always found time to inquire after my doings and welfare. Sometimes I thought it was the getting away from the exactions of office, the temporary respite from official cares that my coming signaled, that made me so welcome ; again, that diplomatic intrigue, the wrangling of officials, intemperate attacks of the opposing party, all of which must be settled with words, mere words, stirred his impatient blood to the boiling point. A box on the ear here, a smash in the wind there, I could readily guess, would have suited his impulsive nature far better. In most of his affairs it is the diplomatic "Having the honor to be" — but never doing anything. He must hit somebody, hit him hard, and I thought I turned up opportunely to get ,what was coming to somebody else.

This was my first impression. A mistaken one as I soon learned. However he might have settled political discussions in the ring, or let rivals for a post-office wrestle it out — best two out of three falls to get the job — it was never in his mind to hand out to me the punishment that was theirs. He had come to like me, because he found me an authority in a domain that particularly interested him, because I represented the straightforward method of the real fighting man, who fights because he loves to fight and brings no hard feelings, no animosity into the game.

Many's the time I have been passed through a throng of waiting politicians of high rank, often enough summoned by the sudden bobbing around a door of the President's head, with a:

" Hello, Mike; come right in!"

It seemed to me that though immersed in political conflicts, that kind of fighting never sufficed to warm his blood, for I never saw a man more willing to take a good jolt just for the pleasure of giving one back.

One day while I was waiting in the office for my turn to see the President, I witnessed an incident which proved the truth of my belief that under his rugged, aggressive exterior there lay a vein of kindliness and sympathy.

The last of the long line of visitors was a woman accompanied by a young girl apparently her daughter, who had been introduced to the President by a man whom I took to be the Congressman from their home. She was importuning the President for a favor which, for some reason, he was unable to grant.

The thought flashed through my mind that this woman was trying to get a pardon for her son — perhaps a deserter. The President listened attentively, then shook his head emphatically.

"Fm sorry, madam," he said, "but I can't doit."

"But, Mr. President," she urged, "won't you "

"Madam," he replied, stepping back as she

KQUNO 7L came toward him, "I can't do it. I cannot do it."

As she turned away, very sorrowful, he came toward me. His eyes were sad. The corners of his mouth drooped. His face was flushed deep red. The veins on his neck stood out. He was a picture of distress.

The incident proved the truth of the old rule that a man cannot be a good fighter unless he has a good heart.

The first time I was invited to the White House to box with the President was in January, 1904. I found him the same enthusiastic, simply democratic, kindly man I had boxed with four years earlier at Albany.

I have learned, in my association with the President, though it has been confined solely to sparring bouts, that the really great are never pompous ; but, on the contrary, simple and sincere.

Though he has a quiet dignity that brooks no familiarity, the genuineness of the man, his directness, earnestness, at once puts you at your ease, and the consideration, which seems bred in his bone, warms you to him at the very start.

"Why don't you stay for the reception to-night, Mike ? ' ' said he one afternoon after a tenround bout.

"Why, Mr. President,' ' I replied, "I haven't the proper clothes for anything like that."

"Oh, you mean a dress-suit. Say, Mike, I'll lend you one of mine."

I caught his eye as, with the characteristic movement of the head to one side, he grinned encouragingly at me and, seeing that he really meant it, I looked from his full figure to my own slender outlines and burst out laughing.

"Why, what's the matter, Mikel"

The words were scarce out of his mouth when he caught the reason for my hesitancy — the same ridiculous figure appeared in his mind's eye that I had pictured myself, as wearing his clothes, and he caught the infection, and for some moments we stood facing each other and laughed ourselves hoarse,

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"I'll tell yon what I'll do, Mr. President," I said, when I had recovered, "I'll hire a dress-suit."

So I did, and a disappointing fit it was, though the best I could do — a pinch in the waist and shoulder, and too long in the sleeves and legs. For a moment I determined to give over the idea of the reception, but on second thought I remembered that I had promised to come and that he expected me. I put on as good a face as I could, and feeling very uncomfortable — about as much at home, in fact, as a sheep in a lion's skin — presented myself at the White House and edged timidly into the background, an uncertain and inconspicuous shadow in the gay throng.

I would shake hands with the President and fade away. I thought I would be a temporary, rather than a permanent, exhibit.

He motioned me toward him.

As I advanced, the major-domo stopped me and said, "Name, please."

The President heard him and called, "Oh, there is no need of introducing Mike to me," at the same time reaching out and drawing me toward him. But the President's sharp eye caught me unawares while I was trying to push my shoulders further into the coat, thus to make the sleeves seem not so ridiculously long.

" Hello, Mike!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad to see you."

He must have noted my discomfort and embarrassment, read it in my face; for, leaning over, he whispered, "It's all right, Mike. You look first-rate."

It was a great relief ; my features relaxed and I breathed freer. Indeed, I stayed for some time, enjoying it thoroughly. I could not observe that I attracted any unfavorable attention and, concluding that my appearance was not nearly as bad as I thought, gave the matter no further concern.

On the evening of March 3, 1904, the day before the inauguration, between five and six o'clock, the President and I had a "go" of some ten rounds. He was as happy as a schoolboy as he stripped for the fray.

" After the inauguration to-morrow," he said, "I go out to the Eockies on a hunt for four or five weeks and live the simple life."

He loves the Western mountaineers and plainsmen. "Now, Mike," he said, "we must have a good, long bout this evening. It'll brighten me up for to-morrow, which will be a trying day."

We boxed the ten hard, long rounds. He had improved so much in his practice with me that winter that I had to resort to all the strategy that my experience had taught me. After the fifth round I felt like calling a halt, but did not want to appear to be a quitter. We were having it hot and heavy ; in an exchange I tried to land a right-hand body blow, ducking to avoid a left-hand counter. Instead he struck me a flush right-hander on the top of the head, knocking me sprawling to the mat, The blow jarred me quite a bit. As I got to my feet, he said ;

"That's a good make-believe knock-down, Mike." Evidently he did not realize how hard he hit me.

"Mr. President," I rejoined, "I would not let even you knock me down if I could help it." I felt a bit nettled. We started in again, hammer and tongs, and I kept a sharp lookout for his clever play with the left and follow with the right.

I will say right here I never was more extended with any man I ever boxed with than in this go. At the close he was perspiring profusely, but seemed fresh enough to go much longer. I sat down and began to puff. He was sitting beside me and said, "Mike, did I understand you to say you are going to march in the parade with the Catholic Protectory Band of New York to-morrow? If so, I would like to have you ask Mr. Eyan, the bandmaster, to have his band play ' Garry Owen' as it passes the reviewing stand."

I said, "I will certainly do so, Mr. President, with a great deal of pleasure."

,This is the great Irish fighting air, which was played by Irish bagpipes at the famous battle of Vinegar Hill, in Ireland, against the British troops. The air so inspired- the Irishmen that they repulsed the regular British soldiers with their musketry and cannons, although they had nothing in their hands but pitchforks and pikes; and gained them the victory.

It was to this same tune that Custer led his valiant troop of cavalry to death in the battle of the Little Big Horn.

The next morning I went to the band headquarters, which I had found after an all-night search, and delivered my message to Bandmaster Eyan. He said, "Did the President say that?" I replied, "You may rely upon it." "Well." said he, "I'll play it as he never heard it played before."

That afternoon we marched down the avenue, turned the corner at the Treasury Building, Fifteenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, and the eighty buglers which comprised the boy band began the first stanza of "Garry Owen." The President, hearing them coming, clapped his hands, saying, "Here they come! here they come!" He was so delighted that, when they were passing, he shouted, "Well done, boys! well done!" As I came along in the rear of the band, the President spied me and called out, "Hello there, Mike! How are you, old man?"

Vice-President Fairbanks was on the reviewing stand, and, as I was informed afterward, he inquired, "Who is this Mike?" He was told that it was Professor Mike Donovan, who had been boxing with the President. He said, "Very interesting, indeed."

The bandmaster and the boys were extremely proud of the greeting they received from the President, and so was I.

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CHAPTEE n

KATE CABEw's INTERVIEW WITH MB

I can't give any better story of my acquaintance with Mr, Boosevelt, and my own life, than that given in the World by Miss Kate Carew:

A commanding figure looms over the national horizon. A formidable figure, forsooth — the figure of Prof. "Mike" Donovan, the savant of self-defense.

Through the ruck of news, warlike and peaceful, from the seats of the mighty came on Friday the momentous intelligence that the President of the United States had need of Prof. Donovan.

Letters were told of missives traced by the Presidential pen, wherein the learned professor ^as bidden to repair to Washington after the holidays and apply himself to the congenial task of being punched by the Chief Executive of the nation, and in the meantime to recommend a local savant worthy of the minor honor of being punched by the Chief Executive's progeny.

Hence this hurried narrative of a seance with Prof. Donovan. Not easily was it engineered, for the professor is as modest as he is learned, and he was greatly distressed at the news of the Presidential command having become public through the indiscretion of a friend in such a way as to cast upon him, as he feared, the odium of having boasted of the Presidential friendship. But let it be proclaimed at once that Prof. Donovan is incapable — except perhaps in the exercise of his important art — of doing anything to anger any right-minded person*

Altogether, there were six of us present, but only four really counted — the Professor, the Scientist, Capt. Jack Crawford and I. The two that didn't count were the Boy and the Chaperon.

Take my word for it, it would do any man good to associate with Prof. Donovan. He is as wholesome as a big red apple. I never envied the President of the United States before, but I do now, because he can send for his old "Mike" and have him come. Everybody calls him "Mike" — the President, the Scientist, Capt. Jack Crawford and everybody. I'd like to call him "Mike" myself, and I don't think he'd mind, and perhaps some day — but so far I've only met him once.

Prof. Donovan— -it's unnaturally formal, but I can't help it — Prof. Donovan, then, is bald and snowy and russet-cheeked and as spry as a kitten. His shoulders are broad, of course, and his figure is all that doth become a man and an athlete, and his hands are large and knotty — one of them misshapen from an injury in a fight. But whereas shoulders and shape and fists are the most important things about the ordinary pugilist, the most important thing about Prof, "Mike" is his face.

Such a fine old face Prof. "Mike" has! You might search through many colleges of more esoteric learning than his without finding another professor with such a fine old face. It's as kind a face as you've ever seen, and as simple and as childlike, and yet in a subtle way it's the face of a fighter, too.

It's the face of a fighter who fights without a spark of malice — who can fight a man and love him and be loved by him. And that's the sort of man Prof. "Mike" is. The business of fighting has given him some mannerisms — a curiously alert way of cocking his head to one side, a flashing glance up from under his eyebrows, a certain swing of the body and a dancing quickness in the gestures of his hands — but socially he is the gentlest of men, full of quaint humor and quick sympathy and very courtly to the other sex. Nor is the other sex unreciprocal. It is easy to picture Prof. "Mike" the petted center of a circle of duchesses.

A STRICTLY PERSONAL QUESTION"

I asked him how old he was, and the Scientist interjected: "Whatever Mike tells you, add twenty years to it. ' ' Whereupon the Professor and the Scientist had a verbal sparring match replete with jovial banter and appertaining chiefly to a silver championship belt of Prof. "Mike's," which the Scientist insists upon regarding as the champion liar's belt, at the same time admitting that not till he himself is dead will the Professor be entitled to wear it. However, the squabble ended in a definite statement on the part of the Professor that he is fiftyeight, and has been boxing for thirty-nine years, and his blue eyes danced with pride as he said it. Did I forget to mention that his eyes are blue ? They are very blue, indeed.

I wished to know how he happened to become a boxer.

"Why, I was born for it!" he exclaimed. "Just as soon as I was old enough to put up my hands I couldn't help putting 'em up" — and up went the hands in that dancing gesture I have spoken of.

He went on to tell how his brother Jerry, who seems to have been a famous fighter before him, tried to discourage him from exercising this inborn tendency, and gave him many a thrashing for fighting other small boys, and made him very sore at heart, as well as elsewhere, until one day somebody remonstrated with Jerry, saying, " Jerry, what makes you act so mean to that kid? He'll grow up and be a credit to you if you treat him right, but if you go on pounding him like that, people will think you're afraid of his cutting you out some day." After which the Spartan Jerry ceased from troubling, and the infant Mike made prodigious strides in the art of fighting.

The Scientist questioned him about his first fight, and how he felt over it.

" Golly! I was the proudest thing you ever saw ! ' ' exclaimed the Professor.

"Did you win?"

"No, I lost on a foul, but it wasn't my fault. You see, I didn't know the rules properly, and when the other fellow kept dropping on his knees to escape punishment it made me mad, and I just picked him up and walloped him good, like this"— and the Professor threw his right arm around an imaginary neck, dragged an imaginary head up to the level of his hip and bombarded an imaginary face with his left.

There were more reminiscences of Fistiana, and I wish I had time to repeat some of them. And there were learned disquisitions on the finer points of the art and on the comparative advantages of gloves and bare knuckles. Briefly, a more cutting blow can be delivered with the knuckles, but a harder and perhaps more damaging one with a glove, because the hand is protected from injury, and a man accustomed to boxing with gloves is in great danger of disabling his hands if he become involved in an impromptu fight with bare hands, because his tendency will be to strike recklessly hard.

Moreover, Prof. Donovan's experience goes to show that a boxer's training hampers him in a street fight, because he instinctively observes the rules of fair play, greatly to his own detriment. There was a story illustrating this, and I wish I had time to tell it in his own words. He was set upon by a gang of roughs while walking home from the New York Athletic Club, and having spent the day sparring with young stockbrokers and the like, he was very tired.

" Golly! I was tired," he said. "I was so tired that I walked along with my shoulders bent like an old man."

I could imagine what he looked like — a nice, venerable little old gentleman dragging himself home to a supper of gruel and dry toast.

No feminine pen could do justice to that Homeric combat. Not that Prof. Donovan narrated it Homerically. He was strictly technical, but one could read between the lines that it was a showy affair. I forget how many men in buckram there were, but our Professor had

The oMur knocked down a few of them and never thought of kicking or hitting below the belt, till suddenly he was overthrown by reinforcements and given a terrific kicking. And even then there was fight left in him to such an extent that when a policeman appeared he was in danger of being taken for the aggressor if a sympathetic bystander had not explained that the old gentleman had not started the fight — a climax which the Professor unfolded with much humor.

PARKIES A DELICATE ONE

"What sort of a boxer is President Roosevelt ?" I inquired.

Professor "Mike" cocked a blue eye at me, wrinkled up his scarred forehead and said:

"Did you ever hear Capt. Jack recite that great poem of his, ' Where the Hand of God Is Seen'? No? Oh, Capt. Jack, will you oblige with ' Where the Hand of God Is Seen'?"

Capt. Jack, nothing loath, obliged with

"Where the Hand of God Is Seen," and for some time thereafter nothing was said about the President.

But after a while I induced Capt. Jack to entertain the Scientist, the Boy and the Chaperon with the story of his life, including his opinion of Buffalo Bill and the evils of cigarette smoking, and I drew the Professor away. He looked alarmed.

"Did you ever hear anybody like Capt. Jack?" he said. "Did you ever hear such lovely sentiments, ma'am? By golly! I'd give anything to have his talent. He can talk right ahead without stopping for two hours. I never heard such language!"

Gently but firmly I detached his attention from Capt. Jack, and directed it toward the President of the United States, and when I made it clear that I was not going to try to pump him about Mr. Eoosevelt's letters to him or his projected engagement at the White House, he was greatly relieved and didn't mind saying everything else that was in his heart.

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"But it makes me feel bad, those letters being told about in the papers," he said. "However, the President knows me, and he will know I didn't do it intentionally. I wouldn't have told the newspaper boys about it for the world. You've no idea what a nice man the President is. He's the kindest, best, truest man I ever met. Oh, I've known him and boxed with him a long time. He calls me 'Mike,' and we're great friends."

"Well, you don't really mind if I repeat all the nice things you say about him?"

"Oh, no; not a bit. I couldn't say too many nice things about him."

"Is he a hard hitter?"

"Oh, my golly! yes. He comes right at you hot and heavy. And strong — why, he's got an arm as hard as a rock!"

"Is he a good-tempered boxer?"

"Oh, golly! yes. He wouldn't be such a good boxer if he wasn't good-tempered. Why, he's a happy man. He was born with that smile."

The Professor set his teeth and peeled his lips in an imitation of the much-caricatured Roosevelt grin. "He was born with it, and he's got it in his heart. No matter what happens, that smile is there. I tell you, he's a happy man."

A GOOD POLITICAL PKOPHET

"So yon didn't vote for Parker?"

Professor "Mike" looked at me comically, and if I had been a man I think he would have given me a playful tap on the ribs.

"Ha! ha! Not Mike. Oh, I knew how that election was going to come out. I read a lot, you know. I get a great many papers from all over the country, and I knew that a powerful lot of Democrats were going to vote for Roosevelt.

"And then on Election Day I ran into a party of friends of mine at the polls, all Irish, who had never voted anything but the Democratic ticket, and they said, 'Well, Mike, here goes a bunch of good votes for Ted.'