To this bozo anything short of a murder is a burn fight. He craves blood and knockdowns, or his money back. Caterin' to this type of guy's peculiar and exactin' taste almost cost Kid Roberts the world's heavyweight championship.
It seems to be a iron-bound rule in the modern American prize ring that a new heavyweight champ be allowed at least a year to stall in before defendin' his title, durin' which time he can grab off slews of sugar by appearin' on the stage and in the movies without a single moan from the only guys in a position to make him fight, to the i. e., the sport writers. Title holders in every other class has got to go to the post regularly every couple of months against a logical contender, or be roasted a rich brown in the newspapers as "cheese champions," and the etc., but the reignin' emperor of all the heavies is always apparently typewriter proof.
In the case of Kid Roberts, how the so ever, they was really no heavy in sight at the time he win the title which could of gave him as much as a brick workout. He'd flattened all the good ones on his way to the top, and it was nearly a year later before we signed to step twenty frames with Jack Enright, then a sensational newcomer. This was the first of the only two bouts the Kid ever fought as champion and his next to final battle in the ring. Meanwhile, we assassinated time by givin' exhibitions with the circus I spoke of before and appearin' in a movie at Loose Angeles, Califilmia, for more large gobs of jack. I'll tell you about the Kid's last two brawls the next time
