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Sullivan vs. Kilrain 1889
Like thieves, he had thought, not long ago, and like thieves they had stolen into the state, escaping from New Orleans under cover of darkness. Packed into the crowded car, assholes and elbows--among stove pipe, among derby and bowler--was Randal Dalgliesh, a poet of no small repute. Mississippi had greeted them with an armed mob. There will be no prize fighting in our county. The train continued, undaunted. No shots were fired.
Nonetheless, Dalgliesh had felt injured. He had quickly been cornered by burly men, cracking knuckles and lighting cigars, filling the car with their har hars and thick smoke. Soon they were speaking to him. Soon they were asking him his opinion, demanding with their grins and open faces his thoughts on the fighters, the likely outcome, his status as a man. As in all such situations, Dalgliesh had erupted with a flurry of rapid, multi-syllabic words, half-formed thoughts, and jaunty theories--like a squid ejaculating ink--and in the momentary confusion that followed he had absconded to the back of the car and hid among the baggage, trembling.
The steam engine cut its way through the American landscape with industrial efficiency. It took all night.
Disembarking, Dalgliesh reeking and unshaven, they were corralled by armed guards and led a half mile from the depot. The scene: an amphitheatre surrounded on three sides by bleachers, a twenty-four-foot plot of earth sectioned off by eight-foot ash stakes and ring-ropes. Situated on a tall hill, it offered a picturesque view of the estate of Charles W. Rich, landowner.
An ancient arena. As in Rome.
Dalgliesh clung to his hat. Swept along by the crowd, he recognized this was not the city.
Sportsmen, politicians, mountebanks and gladhandlers, the colours of the underworld, the bad life. This was not the city, yet the city had come to this place. They converged with common purpose, under the smiling guise of civilization. The air was thick with sweat and the chance for profit. Dalgliesh choked on it.
He was carried along by these men and their enthusiasm, aware of it without sharing it. Then he found himself on the bleachers, squeezed in among them, their weight baring down on the pine. With leering faces they anticipated, salivated, spoke the language of jabs, of uppercuts, and knuckles against teeth. They laughed together, slapping backs and guffawing, straightening their ties, doffing their hats and smearing sweat across their foreheads and chuckling and winking about fucking and fighting.
"The champ will lose, you'll see," the man beside him told Dalgliesh, and he explained to those around him, not for the first time, that the champ's number was up, that he was too drunken, too Catholic, and too Irish to hold the title any longer. "Besides," he added, "an Irishmen is just a nigger turned inside-out."
But Jake Kilrain was Irish too.
"Not the same, though," he said. "Not so drunken, not by half." And many agreed, or shouted dismissal, and everyone around Dalgliesh began yelling, and he sank down onto the bench, put his hands under his chin, and wondered why he'd come.
Into this scene: Jake Kilrain. No notice from the crowd. The challenger, lithe and canny, stepped toward the ring, his retinue in tow, carrying with them the National Police Gazette diamond belt, a move to enrage the current world champion, who denied the belt's importance. It wasn't until the fighter took his cap from his second and tossed it into the ring that the crowd stopped, paid attention. You could hear the sudden silence.
And then.
And then John L. Sullivan, the heavyweight champion of the world. 5'11 and 209 lbs. And hard: all sinew and gristle, and inflated by the sudden roar of the crowd. Moustachioed and grinning, the swarthy fighter held up his hands--ham fists, the type suitable only for pugilism or electioneering. Dalgliesh stood, and saw. The scars on the champion's knuckles formed a script every bit as legible as the day's newsprint, and it read undefeated.
"You think he'll lose?" muttered Dalgliesh, first words from his lips all day. The crowd was incensed, shouting, hollering, and his words were lost as Sullivan threw his white felt hat into the ring.
A brief silence: the local sheriff, gun in hand, stepped into the ring, demanded peace in the great state of Mississippi. There will be no prize fighting in our county. $200 pressed into his palm; plain, for everyone to see. He defected to the stands and waited.
Then: the fighters took to the ring. Similar men, Dalgliesh thought. Both strong, both quick, both Irish. The fighters were bare-chested, dressed in tights and spiked leather shoes. Ready. Prepared. Both men, Dalgliesh learned, were hungry for victory: Sullivan had drew three in a row, and Kilrain last fought Jem Smith to a 106 round draw, bare-knuckled. A difference, though, deeper than looks: Kilrain, stable, beneficent, a family man; Sullivan a merciless cunt.
At 10:13, John Fitzpatrick, New Orleans politician, the day's referee, drew a line in the turf, called the fighters to scratch.
Around Dalgliesh, the men rose on tip-toes, got big, breathless, waiting.
And then.
And then Sullivan's usual bull-rush, and a soaring punch. Weighted, heavy. And Dalgliesh winced, and Kilrain ducked it and grabbed Sullivan, and threw him to the ground, and landed heavily on his chest to end the round. Total time: 15 seconds.
An immense roar. The champion, angered, punched the earth, and Kilrain sat on the stool in his corner, grinning, but when Sullivan went to his corner he did not sit, stood instead, had his second pour water on his back, glowered at his opponent.
Beside Dalgliesh, the braggart boomed. "I told you!" Smiles. "I told you!"
Dalgliesh nodded, found himself unable to stand, slumped down, hardly able to see over the backs of the men in front of him. Men roared and cheered.
Two and three passed quickly. Round four lasted 15 minutes. The two fighters traded punches, grapple, tried to throw one another. Already the hint of exhaustion. The sun not yet deadly, Kilrain is taking whiskey in his corner between rounds.
Five - a red blotch, like a wine-stain, forms on Kilrain's chest, below his heart, and Sullivan aims for it, attacks it, hoping to crush the wind from him, and Kilrain dances away, wanting none of it, avoiding, running, pecking with jabs at Sullivan's eyes.
Six - a tangle. Kilrain avoids, moves, dances. Sullivan swings, crazy, throwing haymakers, frothing at the mouth, swearing.
Seven - First blood. Kilrain's fist. Sullivan's nose. It cracks audibly. Sullivan screams, curses. Kilrain trips him. Round ends, the challenger skips to the corner, smiling.
Eight - he can't follow up. His hits don't faze Sullivan. So Kilrain dodges, paces the ropes, lures the champion to the corner. Sullivan swings. Kilrain ducks, avoids, spins out of the corner, and Sullivan, carried by the punch, cracks his fist against the post, and howls bloody murder, and Kilrain avoids, dances.
It was then that a discontent rippled through the men, their posture becoming flaccid. He's runnin', they said. And champs don't run. And the braggart had deflated, cursed Kilrain, but Dalgliesh hadn't noticed: he was sick, sick in his stomach, his body weak and feeble, the sun coming down on him. His eyes were on the blood, running from Sullivan's nose, painting the hair on his lip.
Soon they were starting to boo Kilrain. Incredulously: Did he come to fight? And his apologists: This is a strategy. Avoid the punches. He's crafty. Smart. But Kilrain is a fighter, and he is not fighting.
11 - Sullivan knocks him down, kicks him in the stomach. The crowd swells again, engorged with rage. Foul! Bad Conduct! And there is life again in Dalgliesh's new friend: "You see! You see! Kilrain ain't like that! He's a gentlemen!"
12 - but again he dances, runs away, and the crowd is hissing, hissing this man who does not fight, and Sullivan swearing, cursing him for a coward.
Not long after this a noxious belch came up from Dalgliesh's guts, and his limbs lost their strength, but his eyes had stayed, stuck on the battle, engrossed, entranced, no less than the men around him, still all of them standing, their fists clenched, raised, their chins up, mouths open, shouting at the fighters, shouting at the day.
A low blow from Kilrain announced a change in strategy. It was curses and calls of foul all over again. And he got in close to Sullivan, in close when he dared to, and stamped down on his foot, spiking the boxer's feet, tearing up the leather of his shoe, ripping apart the laces, then dancing away, always avoiding, running.
Now: a murderous sun was upon them. The fresh cut bleachers, holding over two thousand souls, smelled of pine. In the heat they bled sap, but Dalgliesh paid not notice. Before him, the spectacle: a derangement of limbs, of blood and sweat. Gulping air and rasping teeth.
But the sun: that sun, their biggest enemy. It reigned over them, bore down on them, oppressed fighter and spectator. Dalgleish, engrossed, sweat pouring from his forehead, drenching his clothes. Sweat stains stretched from armpit to elbow. And the violence in front of him. The heat of the crowd intense, the blood pumping. They throbbed.
The thirty-fifth round had just ended. Splits lips and one eye swollen shut for the challenger. Sullivan: a black eye, ear bleeding, hands already big, but now swollen, double in size, ripe and ready to split. Two broken noses. Turf slick with loose earth, both men's blood and sweat.
36 - Sullivan begins to plead with the ref. End the fucking fight! Kilrain is not punching--he's running. A footrace, not a boxing match. His argument deemed unconvincing, Sullivan turns to Kilrain; below his moustache his bloody mouth gapes like an open wound.
37 - Kilrain's spikes tear into Sullivan's toes, turn back the nails. The big one tears off, the little ones purple. Sullivan howls, bull-rushes, loses steam, pants, is tossed, loses the round.
Dalgliesh's skin was sallow, his eyes sunken. Bile rose on the back of his tongue, bitter. He clung to the edge of the pine plank, tar, unnoticed, sticking to his palms. All the men erect around him, humming along with the rhythm of the fight. Eyes shielded by the rim of his cap, he continued to watch, fascinated, unable to look away.
In the 44th round Sullivan began to vomit.
A gasp from the crowd.
Dalgiesh cannot watch this. The fists, yes, alright, but not this. His own stomach twitched sympathetically, and he hugged himself, gritted his teeth.
"I knew it," the familiar man. "I knew it. Too much fucking. Too much drinking. He's done."
Kilrain has outlasted him!
"Will you draw?" asked Kilrain. Loud. Loud enough for all to hear. Humiliating.
And then.
And then Sullivan stood, wiped his mouth, sneered, went to his corner.
49 - another low blow. Sullivan responds: knocks Kilrain down, tries to sit on his head. Now the champ is booed, both men a disgrace.
50 - the blood flows. The welt on Kilrain's chest is angry, shaped like a bull's
head, violet. Blisters form on both men's backs, break, leak fluid. The turf is bruised and bloody.
51 - Meat and bone.
52 - the fans stand rigid, cannot tell who is winning anymore. The fighters are slow now, measured, throwing less and less. Sullivan can't chase Kilrain forever. Kilrain can't always run. They clinch, wrestle listlessly. Kilrain stomps the champ's feet again. They are both standing in Sullivan's blood.
"They can't keep going." Dalgliesh did not know that he had spoken. New friend says: "they can!" And he slapped Dalgliesh on the back, making friendly, puffed out his chest, smiled into the heat of the fight.
The day was unforgiving, over 100 degrees. The assembled men were breathing hard, gasping, like Kilrain and Sullivan, a test of endurance for them as well, just to be there, just to watch, to hear the sound of knuckle into flesh, to see the blood flow. And Dalgliesh, flinching at each punch, each toss, little legs twitching, those around him aware, pulsing in the moment with this thing, this fight.
59 - "You're a champion, eh? A champion of what?" Sullivan is screaming, throwing madly, trying to batter Kilrain, to fuck his face, to crush him into the ground and end him, and the challenger, panting, chest heaving, is moving, ducking, getting away, running, choosing his moment, listlessly jabbing, trying to survive.
60 - he pokes at Sullivan's eyes, trying to close them both, make him blind, trip him, get him down. Stomping his feet, jumping away--the champion is mad, yes, enraged--and Kilrain's strategy could still work, is working, will work.
61 - and Kilrain slips on the ragged, torn up turf, falls to the ground, and Sullivan leans over him, cocks his fist to hit him all the same, but the referee grabs his arm, holds him in check. "Coward!" accuses the champion, dry saliva speckling his lips, mustache hard with snot and blood.
The crowd was hoarse, had lost its voice. The fight would end, they could feel it, it could not go on much longer. Kilrain was unmanned, but still dangerous; Sullivan reckless, insane. Even those, like Dalgliesh's friend, who'd come to see Sullivan beat, were no longer gloomy; past acceptance, they were enraptured now, faces red, veins bulging, drawn in, ecstatic, their hearts beating to the staccato rhythm of Sullivan's fists. And waiting, on the verge. Dalgliesh could feel them, feel the heat coming off them, as much from them as from the sun above, could feel their excitement, where he only felt the hollow in his guts.
68 - The sun has driven them mad.
69 - Not men now. Leather instead of skin. Breathing cinders, blood of acid. Tanned and wiry. Eyes in front, facing forward, like predators.
70 - "I'll kill you, Jake Kilrain!" He froths, fists flying, no aim, no thought of destination, just hate, pure, simple, plain. Seeing pain only. Seeing Kilrain dead. Kilrain, trying to close those eyes, block the view, swinging at Sullivan's face, panting, dodging left and right. The art of violence, their skin a canvas, painted with scabs, bruises, abrasions.
Slowly, without strength, Dalgliesh began to rise. His knees were wobbly, and he had to reach out, grab the braggart beside him, steady himself, but the man didn't notice, his face fixed on the grunting, the complexity of punch and counter-punch, the bull rush of anger and pain.
Dalgliesh could feel it in his guts. Around him the men, red faced, sweated through their suits. They pushed forward, trying to get closer, sensing the end. The crowd swelled, and Dalgliesh among them, pale and wondering.
73 - Kilrain's head is bobbing now, rolling side-to-side, loose on the shoulders, but Sullivan, exhausted, can't swing, only rushes in, knocks him down, collapses himself, is helped to his corner.
74 - their flesh crashes together, they grunt, slick with perspiration, with grime and blood, tussle, try to throw each other, Kilrain's head dangling, eyes unintelligent, Sullivan gritting his teeth, trying to overcome, to deliver. No more draws, not for John L. Sullivan. He must win, must punish Kilrain, send him down to the earth, again.
75 - because they move without thinking, pacing their cage--made of ropes, sure, but more like flesh, more like the thick sweaty bodies of the spectators framing them, holding them captive, setting them against each other, salivating, drool covering their chins--and Sullivan hiccupping blood, a fog in front of his eyes, throwing at that bloody mark on Kilrain's chest. And Kilrain, head wobbling, neck weak, begging off, looking to fall, to end the round, just to escape for a few more seconds, but could he rise again, make it to scratch, with Sullivan smiling all the while?
A hush fell upon them, even deeper now, in anticipation. A man slipped to Kilrain's corner, was seen speaking excitedly with his second. The doctor, Dalgliesh heard. And the second nodded, with Kilrain slumped in a stool, eyes rolling back in his head, whiskey funnelled down his throat. Across from them: Sullivan was helped up, limped towards scratch, unable to raise his fists above his waist.
And then.
And then Kilrain's second threw the sponge into the ring. And then Sullivan's arm was raised in victory--duration: two hours, sixteen minutes, twenty-three seconds--and Kilrain was shouting at his seconds, and Sullivan was alive again. The crowd groaned in release, surged forward, overtook the ring, put Sullivan on their shoulders, and John L. Sullivan was champion of the world all over again, champion of mankind, undisputed, hoisted and lauded and celebrated, carried off into victory, and Kilrain helped away, slumped and impotent, and only later were both men arrested for participating, and returned to Mississippi for trial.
No sooner were the fighters out of the ring then it was torn down, ripped apart. In a frenzy, men piled over each other, roughed and cursed, ring posts splintered, turf torn up and hauled off, the rope cut into pieces, and Dalgliesh among them, face a grimace, elbowed, bit, fought his way forward, the goal before him: sacred, meaningful.
In later years, in different circles, surrounded by poets, men of letters, and asked about the last bare-knuckle match in the USA, Dalgliesh would trot out a well-practiced line, and with perfect diction state: "Oh, would that it had been the time of Nero, and John L. a gladiator, and the Emperor's thumb proffered, thumb down--he would have presented his fallen opponent to the crowd, and, to the sensation of the slavering mob, gladly disembowelled him!"
No mention did he make, however, of the white felt hat he had fought for, paid for with the taste of blood in his mouth, and secreted back to New Orleans, pressed flat in his luggage.
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