The maestro from Chicago would paint many more masterpieces in the years ahead.
The lightweight division, historically rich in boxers of great skill and guile, was a particular hotbed of versatile talent in Packey McFarland’s era. Packey was a bright jewel in a golden crown, one of several genuine masters who tracked and followed each other’s movements through the competitive jungle.
When McFarland won a ten-rounds decision over Freddie Welsh, the artful wizard from Wales, at the Badger Athletic Club in Milwaukee in February 1908, so began a keen rivalry that spanned three fights of immense skill and clever hitting. Five months later, the shining talents would wage a draw in Los Angeles, but it was their final meeting in the hushed environs of the National Sporting Club in London that would prove the most controversial and intriguing.
By that time, Packey had made an adjustment to his technique to prolong his career and better equip him for the long haul. He was thought to be boxing with only a half-clenched fist, sacrificing his impressive knockout ratio in return for less stress and greater stamina. The bad news for his opponents was there was no discernible difference in McFarland’s exceptional talent for hitting without getting hit.
It was quiet at the National Sporting Club when Packey stepped out in his bid to establish beyond dispute his supremacy over Freddie Welsh. Deathly quiet as it always was. For the hallowed NSC was like no other boxing venue in the world. One didn’t shout or cheer within its somewhat intimidating walls. One certainly didn’t yell, ‘Come on Freddie, my boy!’ or the like. By Jove, sir, it just wasn’t the thing to do! The rules of the house stipulated that the rounds be fought in silence, with only restrained applause in the form of gentle hand claps during the intervals. A golfer hunched over a two-foot putt at the Royal & Ancient would have felt no less at home at the NSC.
Imagine the horror of the patrons, therefore, when a cultured riot – if there can be such a thing – broke out at the conclusion of hostilities between Mr McFarland and Mr Welsh. Verbal protests pierced the air, fists and walking canes were waved and expensive suits were mildly creased as the members reacted in disbelief at the draw decision rendered by referee Tom Scott.
McFarland won the fight. There was no doubt about it. Poor Freddie Welsh, the entirely innocent recipient of a lucky break, knew better than to give his fellow Brits a cheery wave. Nothing offended them more than the desecration of fair play.
The sympathy of the throng was entirely with the majestic McFarland, who, it is probably fair to say, wanted to win that night more than at any other time in a brilliant career bereft of official gold medals. The contest was for British recognition as lightweight champion of the world, the nearest Packey ever got to championship glory.
He was ready for the challenge too, in every way. Even his weight was right, after much hard work and sweat to get inside the lightweight limit.
James (Jimmy) Butler, one of the greatest and most impartial of boxing writers, said of the American ace: ‘Packey, who had sweated in heavy turtle-neck jerseys throughout his training in order to make certain of his weight, immediately celebrated by gulping down a quart of egg and sherry mixture which Jimmy Britt held ready for him.
‘Of his fitness, there was no doubt. Nowhere on his slim, wiry body was there so much as an ounce of superfluous flesh, and if Welsh’s rugged physique was the more impressive, there was something equally menacing in the easy grace and speed with which the American moved.’
McFarland was simply wonderful in a captivating, 20 rounds duel of sublime skill and cunning. He was known now as the prince of stylists and didn’t disappoint his eager and intrigued audience against the canny and aggressive Welsh.
The biggest surprise was Packey’s fast and vicious start, which clearly caught Freddie napping. Lefts and rights from the American, thrown with marvelous accuracy, penetrated Welsh’s guard and drove him to the ropes. The contrast in styles was no less fascinating than the contest itself. Where Packy’s defense was of a pure and classic nature, Welsh’s craftily constructed bunker was a constantly moving myriad of components. He bobbed, he weaved, he slipped and feinted. He was an excellent blocker, as were so many of the thoroughly schooled fighters of the time.
Freddie quickly learned, however, that out-witting McFarland require the agile and forward thinking mind of a chess master. One of Welsh’s little mannerisms in his pomp was to wear a quietly withering little smile to signal his belief that he could not be taken. Not on this occasion. He was far too busy trying to avoid Packey’s stinging jabs and thumping rights to the ribs. Always, it seemed, McFarland could find a way through the Welsh Wizard’s defense.
The pattern continued, resulting in a big shift in the odds. Freddie had started as the favorite, but Packey was the 2 to 1 choice of the bookies by the close of the second round.
Welsh clearly needed to be more adventurous and try something new. But what, if anything, could derail McFarland when he was in such imperious form? How Freddie must have raged inside when his big gambit in the sixth round reaped no dividends. He thought he saw the opening he had been searching for so patiently, putting all his speed and expertise into a mighty right uppercut that whistled in the direction of Packey’s chin. The blow fell short by a good six inches.
Few in the crowd saw McFarland move, yet he had evaded the punch with the deftest maneuver of his head. Then, almost outrageously, he did it again as Welsh followed up with a left and suffer similar embarrassment.
What made McFarland such a wonderfully complete fighter was that he was no backtracking will o’ the wisp. The subtlest of defensive moves always combined seamlessly with equally intelligent and cultured attacks.
He was all over Welsh one minute and then standing back teasingly out of range the next. Packey seemed to want the points victory. In his own mind, that would represent the most forceful confirmation of his superiority. Through no fault of his own, this would prove to be his only tactical error.
Freddie, to his great credit, never gave up the chase. A Welsh lad in name and country he might well have been, but his rounded and normally excellent game had been honed in the furnace of the American school. He finally came on in the late rounds, enjoying a greater degree of success with some vicious half-arm hooks to McFarland’s ribs and kidneys. The American ghost finally seemed to grow flesh and bones as Welsh cut his mouth and left eye with punches that packed plenty of steam.
For Freddie, however, the late surge wasn’t nearly enough – or shouldn’t have been. Referee Scott’s amazing draw verdict was a cruel defacement of McFarland’s work of art, yet therein laid another sad tale.
Within a few short months, Scott was admitted to a mental institution where he very quickly died. There was every reason to believe that his mind had been ravaged and unbalanced for some time.
McFarland never once mentioned the fight when he met up with his old reporter friend Jimmy Butler some time later. Perhaps that was understandable bitterness on Packey’s part. Perhaps it was just another touch of class.
Mike Gibbons, the wonderful St Paul Phantom, was something of a spiritual brother of Packey McFarland. Mike, on his best day, was as hard to hit as McFarland or any other man in the game. But that wasn’t the only similarity. Gibbons too, would never win a world championship, nor even challenge for that greatest honor.
The older brother of light heavyweight Tommy Gibbons, Mike was a shining star of the middleweight and welterweight classes, beating the cream of his era. Among others, he dueled with Jeff Smith, Jimmy Clabby, Eddie McGoorty, Harry Greb, Ted (Kid) Lewis and Jack Dillon. But all Mike ever got for his endeavors was a scantly recognized claim to the middleweight title.
When Gibbons clashed with McFarland at the Brighton Beach Motordome in Brooklyn on September 11 1915, some 60,000 fans saw a face-off between the two great untouchables of the game. It was to be Packey’s last fight and his last great performance.
He was coming out of semi-retirement after nearly two years of inactivity, and Gibbons was some opponent for a comeback fight. McFarland however, much like Gene Tunney a little later on, always seemed protected by a ring of destiny in those great years of his prime. Packey and Gene possessed precise and lively minds and were among the best ever at formulating and re-shaping a game plan. Nothing, they believed, was meant to knock them off their chosen path. When something did, they genuinely couldn’t believe it. It is said that McFarland, jealously proud of his defensive magic, brooded for days after getting a black eye from Kid Burns in their New York set-to. Tunney, likewise, viewed his brutal defeat to Harry Greb as a failed mission that simply had to be corrected.
Packey was still lean and strong at 153 lbs. for his classic fencing duel with Gibbons, who scaled the same weight. One could understand how getting down to 133 lbs., even as a younger man, had always been such a hugely taxing experience for McFarland.
The Brighton Beach Motordome was some place to go to watch a fight. Thirty thousand seats had already been filled by the time of the first preliminary bout at 8:30 p.m. the endless throngs of spectators being played into their seats by a 32-piece band and assisted by 300 smartly attired ushers.
McFarland entered the ring at three minutes past ten, followed by Gibbons who paced around testing the boards. Both fighters looked superbly fit and deadly serious, although Packey did afford himself a little grin when ring announcer Joe Humphries announced him as ‘The Fighting Chicago Irishman’. The frantic clicking of cameras could be heard all around, while movie cameras and other machines were positioned on a high platform fifteen feet from the ring.
Nothing could separate the two defensive masters for the first eight rounds, as they feinted, shifted and bluffed like a couple of wary snakes. Referee Billy Job was barely noticeable as all eyes were fixed on two of the great ring scientists and their clever efforts to concoct the winning formula. Each was occasionally made to look foolish by the other’s brilliance, but it was McFarland who was the calmer and more measured battler. He would often smile at friends in the crowd over Mike’s shoulder, conveying the impression of a man taking a pleasant stroll in the park.