The promoter looked his little employee straight in the eye.
“Listen, Sandy,” he said: “I don’t care if your Russian is a Dane from Milwaukee or a Mexican from Montreal, or if his name is Ginsberg or Mussolini. Judging from these photos, he’s just about what I want—a big, tough numskull with the face of an assassin and foreign labels stuck all over him. When you and Willie are ready, bring him around and if he’s anything like his pictures, I’ll give you your five grand and do business with Troy.”
“I forgot to tell you what they call him—the Venomous Viper of the Volga.”
“Who calls him?”
“The fight fans over in Russia.”
“Well, it’s a good name even if you and Troy did make it up. It’s enough to sell him if he didn’t have that build and mush to go with it. On second thoughts, I’ll take a chance on him sight unseen. I’ll give you your check now and I don’t want to look at your fighter till I go down with Troy to meet him at the boat. You realize, of course, that he can’t land here from Russia without getting off a boat.”
“No trouble about that. Troy has been over and back a hundred times and knows most of the captains. The Viper will be taken on at Quarantine, during the night. And by that time he’ll have a Russian manager who can talk enough broken English to entertain the newspaper boys.”
“One more suggestion—you ought to get him tattooed. Pretty near all foreigners is tattooed.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, I got an idear that Ivan can’t stand pain.”
“That’s a good trait in a fighter,” said Luke.
“It means quick knockouts, which is what people wants to see.”
In the Sunday papers there were pictures of the new Russian peril, with stories of his impressive triumphs at home and announcements of his impending American visit. These appeared in December, just after football, when the sport editors were glad to print anything that was not a final, last, conclusive ultimatum from Judge Landis to Ban Johnson, or vice versa.
And up in the Bronx, Willie Troy was patiently trying to instruct the Viper in the fundamentals of boxing, a sport which the late Mr. Goetz took to as naturally as a walrus to needlework.
“I’m afraid,” the teacher told Sandy, “that when the newspaper boys sees him in the ring, they’ll give him a new nickname. They’ll call him Ivan the Terrible.”
The first of the trial battles was put on after the usual petty annoyances. Principals in this match were Eddie Brock and the Malden Murderer, Moran. The boxing solons came out in flatfooted, flat-headed opposition to the encounter. It seemed there was too great a disparity in size. Moran weighed 206 and Brock about 149. Much discussion and deep thought were required before the masterminds found a solution that ought to have been obvious from the start, namely that Brock, a welterweight, be obliged to train down to the welterweight limit of 147 pounds.
Then, a week prior to the date of the bout, the Murderer’s manager announced it was all off—his man had eaten a bedridden oyster. The truth was that a report had reached camp that Brock, who promised to commit all the fouls in the book no later than the third round, was betting on himself not only to win, but to win by a knockout. The welter was indignant when this came to his ears and he hastened to dispel the effects of the ptomaine poisoning by visiting Moran’s quarters and assuring the coy Murderer that he was not that kind of crook.
“Why, I’m betting on you, big boy,” he said. “I’m betting five thousand dollars of my own money and I had to give two to one. Do you think I’d lay odds against myself if I wasn’t sure to lose!”
And Brock won his wager and speeded Moran on his way to another well-lined purse by punching him three times just above the knee and climaxing the performance with a blow that broke skin already frayed by a garter’s metal. It had to be done a round ahead of schedule, too, for the Murderer had trained on roast goose, mince pie and caramels and would have foundered in another three minutes.
The Viper of the Volga “arrived” in this country early in January. He was accompanied by his native manager and interpreter, Dmitri Sashoff, who in a former existence had been Fred Lister, a head waiter in a café of Troy’s at Providence, and whose Russian vocabulary consisted of the word “ruble.” Luke Lewis, Sandy King, Troy and a crowd of writers, camera men and fans were on hand to welcome the latest European sensation, but the latter, it seemed, had not slept well on board and his present ambition was to hurry to his hotel and rest. Troy, who was to handle him here, would not allow him to go to a hotel, where he might be pestered by enthusiastic admirers, but insisted on taking him at once to his own home in the Bronx, where reporters would be welcome to see him in a few days. The Viper emitted a couple of growls which were interpreted as regrets that he could speak no English and expressions of good will to those who had come to meet him, and was then whisked out to the Troy establishment, which he had left the previous afternoon.
“He’ll have to be introduced from the ring,” said Luke to Willie Troy. “We may as well do that Thursday night, just before Burke and Williams come on.”
“I’ll bring him in for the introduction and take him out right afterwards,” said Troy. “He never seen a fight in his life and he mustn’t see one yet, not till I’ve got him more in hand. What I’m trying to do is make him scareder of me than of fighting itself. I’ll have him that way in a couple more weeks, but if we don’t handle him carefully we’ll
