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SHOWMAN
of us such a natural. I wanted a heavyweight champion for a theatrical attraction. If, in order to get one, I had to take a rising youngster and make a champion of him, well and good. You only had to see Corbett walk on a stage to see that he was a natural actor. He'd already made a big hit as an amateur in S. F. playing Armand Duval in "Camille," and it was no surprise to me when, on his first real stage appearance— singing "Ta-ra-raboom-de-ay," in a very pleasant baritone, as cool as any old-timer born in a prop-box— he showed he could have got over without his pugilistic prestige to excite curiosity. There was no more need for apologizing for him on the stage than for apologizing for his after-dinner speeches. In both jobs he was as smooth and self-possessed and at home as he was in the ring. So it made a great deal of sense that, as soon as he was well started as the crucial attraction of "After Dark," I should start a man writing a play for him at the same time I was starting after a fight with John L. Sullivan. I know it sounds all twisted, but the plain fact was that, from my point of view, the Sullivan fight and winning the championship was just a publicity stunt for Corbett's forthcoming play. That's probably the world's record for queer reasons for becoming a fight-manager.
At the time, confessing my motives would have sounded particularly loony, since the idea of toppling Sullivan off his throne was inconceivable to anybody in his senses. John L. was a combination of Jack Dempsey and Babe Ruth with a dash of Paul Bunyan thrown
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