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SHOWMAN
by well-calculated persecution, deliberately setting out to teach a lesson to an upstart dude, as he undoubtedly thought Corbett was. So did everybody else in New Orleans.
When I left Corbett that afternoon, I wandered into the lobby of the St. Charles Hotel, the headquarters of the fight crowd, and experienced my worst moment. The lobby was full of men and talk and smoke and money— wads of money offered on Sullivan at 4 to 1, with no takers to mention. Only freak bets were attracting much interest— bets that Corbett wouldn't dare show up in the ring— that the fight wouldn't go a single round— that Sullivan would kill him— that at least he'd make him jump out of the ring and run for his life — that kind of thing. I had $3000 in my pocket, and I began to wonder if it wouldn't be the better part of valor to lay it on Sullivan at these long odds. That kind of hedging is standard practice among fight-managers to this day— a kind of insurance. But then, as I felt the wad in my pocket, I couldn't make up my mind. Sullivan looked and sounded tough— any time of day he was formidable— but I figured him as past his prime, he hadn't fought for six years, his reputation just had to be overinflated— and I knew the shape Corbett was in and what he could do. Sullivan, soft and aging, ripening for a fall some time— Corbett young, strong, a diabolical master of ring-science— should I bet with the crowd, who still thought of Sullivan as the invincible killer, or trust my own five senses? At
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