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SHOWMAN
Wrestling didn't really belong in the Met at all. But Madison Square Garden was unavailable and we needed lots of room. Knowing that I'd pay through the nose if necessary, Frank Sanger, manager of the Met— a solemn and proud gentleman who was known as "One Percent" Sanger for obvious reasons— stuck me $1500 for the house, although we both knew very well the usual price was round $500. We set up our ring on the Met's sacrosanct stage and the fun began, with a packed house licking its lips and craving trouble.
They got it. Even if there hadn't been plenty of bad blood remaining from the first bout, Roeber's camp and ours would have been at daggers drawn, since Roeber was trainer for Bob Fitzsimmons, who naturally didn't care for me as Corbett's erstwhile manager— and Fitz was to be Roeber's second. Roeber was a pretty fair boxer, as well as a fine wrestler. He'd have been better still with gloves on if he hadn't suffered from the usual wrestler's trouble of overdeveloped shoulder muscles— what they call muscle-bound. That evening he remembered his boxing at the wrong moment. Once again the Turk got him down and, after some time of desperate wriggling on Roeber's part, let him up again to try for a new hold. As soon as he was free, Roeber hauled off and clipped the Turk a very pretty clout on the jaw. The Turk straightened up and blinked like a child learning there is no Santa Claus. It was the first time he'd ever met a fist that meant business. The crowd came to its feet shrieking and hollering and I
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