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SHOWMAN
in— so far as the public was concerned, anyway. But Sullivan hadn't fought for six years; he was, I hoped, more and more coasting on his reputation— and, most important of all, I was convinced I had the new era in boxing right in my hand in the person of Corbett, who was to Sullivan what the first rifle was to a smooth-bore musket. So, starting the build-up while the play was readying, we started after Sullivan.
We weren't the only ones, either. Everybody was barking on John L.'s trail, all the sporting editors and the whole pack of fighters. Charley Mitchell, the Englishman, and a whole pack of formidable Australians —Frank Slavin, Jim Hall, Bob Fitzsimmons, Peter Jackson— were challenging, insulting, badgering, riding the Boston Strong Boy in an effort to get him into the ring. Champions are generally ring-shy, and I don't blame them. When a champion climbs through the ropes, he's putting his whole professional capital on one throw of the dice. One bad break wipes him out for good— and nobody ever loved being champion like the great John L.
He stood it as long as he could. Then he turned at bay and roared back, issuing a long royal proclamation which mentioned each of his tormentors by name with personal compliments attached, referred to James J. Corbett as "that bombastic bluffer," and announced that the first man who would put up a $10,000 forfeit, $2500 down and the balance in six months, could have his teeth knocked down his throat by John L. Sullivan any
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