Damon Runyon

Knoxville Journal/May 6, 1930

Arrival of German Carries Damon Runyon Back to Days When Jack Dempsey Was in His Heyday; Maxie Shows Signs of Being a Thinker

NEW YORK, May 5.—The suite in the hotel Commodore occupied by Max Schmeling was a striking reminder Sunday of the quarters of Jack Dempsey when the Manassa man mauler was in the heyday of his championship career.

The same magnificence with which the ubiquitous Doctor Kearns used to pitch the temporary camps of Dempsey was there—a big parlor and a string of connecting rooms, very costly to inhabit. Waiters constantly moving in and out with pitchers of ice water, and trays of edibles. A dozen wardrobe trunks scattered around. The telephone ringing in all the different rooms at once.

And in the rooms the corresponding characters that used to infest the premises wherever and whenever the one-time heavyweight champion of the world set up his tepee. Some of these characters were indeed the very same. There was Professor William McCarney, the ol’ clo’ man of fistiana, for example, all dressed up in his Sunday best, and suave and smiling, and gloriously reminiscent, as he lolled in the depths of a big settee.

Even Joe Benjamin, the sheik of the San Joaquin, was there. He had called with his friend Mendel, the golf pants maker, to pay his respects. The California lightweight was a fixture of the Dempsey entourage in the old days. Of course, the ubiquitous Doctor Kearns was not on hand, but taking his place in the cast was Joe Jacobs, with a huge cigar in his kisser, volubly greeting all comers, and retiring at intervals to the bathroom for important conference with some.

No Privacy Here

The last was a peculiarly Dempseyesque touch. No one was ever able to find privacy in any of the many rooms that Kearns always had at Dempsey’s disposal in a hotel. Only the sanctity of the bathroom afforded freedom from eavesdroppers. Many an important deal in Dempsey’s behalf was consummated in the bathroom by Doctor Kearns. ‘Twas in the bathroom of your operative’s apartment in the Great Falls Hotel, in fact, that the conference was held which decided the fate of the Dempsey-Gibbons battle at Shelby.

A little Dachsund was rolling around the floor of the Schmeling suite Sunday. He had brought it over from Germany for a newspaper friend. You could kick up a purp somewhere around Dempsey’s rooms. A score of newspaper men were talking to the Black Uhlan of the Rhine—or at least they talked to him when he held still for a minute. He was up and down, and back and forth, shaking hands with newcomers, and answering the telephone, or just pacing the carpet with all the restlessness of the Dempsey of a few years ago.

Reminds One of Jack

“My, my,” remarked Joe Benjamin, glancing around at the mob. “It’s just like the old days. And how that guy resembles Dempsey before Jack got his beezer lifted! I never saw anything like it. He moves around a room like Dempsey. Well, if he can only fight as good as Dempsey when Dempsey was his age, I feel sorry for Sharkey.”

Tom McArdle, the pudgy matchmaker of Madison Square Garden, leaned against a table listening to the chatter. Frank Bruen, general manager of the Garden, called early to say hello, and incidentally to ask the Black Uhlan about fighting for the Garden corporation next year if Max win the heavyweight tlte, a point on which Frank got no satisfaction.

Mike Jacobs peered in for a moment. Herman Black, the baron of Atlantic Highlands, sat with a pitcher of water at his elbow, from which he imbibed heavily. Mushky Johnson, the young trainer of gladiators, was acting as a sort of major domo, assisting the callers out of their coats, and into them. Schmeling’s own trainer, Max Mahon, listened eagerly to the chatter, and said nothing. All day long a string of visitors passed through the rooms. It must have been something of a strain on the Black Uhlan, but he kept smiling cheerfully, and talking volubly in his broken English.

Has Rhineland Accent

Max has an accent that reeks of the Rhineland, but it is easily understood after you get the hang of it. Moreover, he quickly assimilates conversation addressed to him in English. In fact he talks more English now than he does German, even to his German callers. When a business proposition is put to him in English he has to revolve it around in his mind awhile, possibly to translate it into German for his own reflection, but for ordinary conversational purposes his English suffices.

He has a world of personality, which is perhaps another way of saying charm. His cordiality is natural. He loves the crowd as Dempsey loves it. He likes the bustle and stir in his hotel camp. Around Tunney’s diggings there was always an atmosphere of restraint. Around Sharkey there is a peculiar air of surliness, and even hostility. The Black Uhlan has that thing which is so rare in human beings, popular appeal.

He seems very confident he will beat Sharkey, and after Sharkey he would like to fight Dempsey. The vague possibility of Tunney returning to the ring was suggested to him, and Schmeling’s eyes brightened. Would he like to fight Tunney? Ach, yes! That would draw a lot of money. The Black Uhlan has an eye to business, you can see that.

Max is Ready to Go

He asked many questions about Sharkey’s battles with Loughran and Scott. Did he box them, or did he fight them? Obviously Schmeling wants to find out as much as possible about his opponent. He is a bit of a thinker, is the Black Uhlan. He expressed himself as anxious to get started to work for his battle under the auspices of the milk fund on the night of June 12 as quickly as possible. His appearance indicates that he has done some little training already, but he said the most important thing is to become acclimated.

“I never saw the guy fight,” commented Joseph Benjamin after he had gotten a good load of the German, “but he acts like a fighter who looks like a fighter. I’ve seen mighty few champions that didn’t look like champions. And this fellow’s got it. My my, how he reminds me of Dempsey!”

And the sheik of the San Joaquin fell into deep reflection. Possibly he was meditating on the last time he saw Dempsey, which was when the Manassa Mauler pegged a big right hand at him, severing a large, and large, and beautiful friendship.