attorney in town and been advised that his mother very likely had grounds on the basis of desertion.
H E COULD FEEL himself sharpening under the Goat’s rigorous regimen. His footwork quickened, his defenses improved. He wasusing his jab to better effect than ever. Still, his most potent asset, ever and always and excepting perhaps a nearly maniacal determination, was the flurry, a two-fisted salvo of punches one behind the other and linked tightly as a chain. A flurry at once punished an opponent and kept him on the defensive, unable to counterpunch in the midst of the attack. Few fighters owned both the hand speed and the reservoir of energy necessary for throwing more than a few effective flurries in the course of a long fight, but Ketchel’s hands were fast as vipers and he was a phenomenon of unflagging stamina. The locals liked to joke that while some fighters were pretty good at the old one-two, Ketchel was the master of the old one-two-three-four-five-six.
He and Molly kept company whenever he wasn’t at the gym or working at the Copper Queen and she wasn’t taking care of business at the café. He repeatedly asked her to come see him fight but she steadfastly refused, saying she did not care to witness violence and had no desire to see him get hurt.
“It’s usually the other fella gets hurt,” he said, trying for a laugh but not unaware that he was bragging, wanting to impress her.
He fought six times in December, including three fights in a single week, and won them all by knockouts. Then asked Joe O’Connor when he thought he would be ready for Tommy Ryan, who had been the middleweight champion for the past seven years but who was now thirty-five years old and had not defended his title in a year.
“I can take that old man,” Ketchel said.
O’Connor said a lot of other middleweights felt the same way and all of them wanted a shot at Ryan. Ryan, however, didn’t seem inclined to accept anybody’s challenge, and the odds were that he would retire without ever fighting again.
“Don’t worry, Stevie,” O’Connor said, “the breaks’ll be coming our way real soon. For now, we just stay sharp and ready.”
Right, Ketchel said. But he’d earned a rest and meant to have it. He persuaded Molly to take a short vacation to San Francisco with him right after Christmas.
I N CONTRAST TO Montana’s glacial winter, San Francisco’s December seemed almost mild, never mind the chill Pacific breeze. They took breakfast every morning in the glassed-in gallery of the hotel café. On their second day in town the newspaper front pages were full of the Idaho bombing murder of Frank Steunenberg, who had been hard on miners’ unions during his governorship of that state a few years earlier. The Industrial Workers of the World, commonly called the Wobblies or the “I-Won’t-Works” and widely regarded as a union of red agitators bent on the destruction of the American Way, was suspected in Steunenburg’s killing. Ketchel said he bet every miner in Butte was talking about this news. He began to read the report to her but she asked him to please don’t. The whole thing sounded too awful and she did not want to know about it.
They had a wonderful few days. He showed her around this city he loved so dearly, taking her to the wharves, to the park, out to the beach where he’d spent his first night on the coast and been soaked by the tide. They ambled through a Chinatown so much larger than Butte’s she joked that she felt as though she’d been shanghaied.
New Year’s Eve was their last night in town. Molly wore a stunning blue dress he’d bought for her in the city’s best dress shop. They dined at an elegant restaurant with blazing chandeliers and waiters in tuxedos. The champagne came to the table on a wheeled tray, in glass buckets of shaved ice. The dessert came in a dish of flames. They afterward went dancing in a posh club and joined inthe raucous midnight cheering. They were both slightly
H E COULD FEEL himself sharpening under the Goat’s rigorous regimen. His footwork quickened, his defenses improved. He wasusing his jab to better effect than ever. Still, his most potent asset, ever and always and excepting perhaps a nearly maniacal determination, was the flurry, a two-fisted salvo of punches one behind the other and linked tightly as a chain. A flurry at once punished an opponent and kept him on the defensive, unable to counterpunch in the midst of the attack. Few fighters owned both the hand speed and the reservoir of energy necessary for throwing more than a few effective flurries in the course of a long fight, but Ketchel’s hands were fast as vipers and he was a phenomenon of unflagging stamina. The locals liked to joke that while some fighters were pretty good at the old one-two, Ketchel was the master of the old one-two-three-four-five-six.
He and Molly kept company whenever he wasn’t at the gym or working at the Copper Queen and she wasn’t taking care of business at the café. He repeatedly asked her to come see him fight but she steadfastly refused, saying she did not care to witness violence and had no desire to see him get hurt.
“It’s usually the other fella gets hurt,” he said, trying for a laugh but not unaware that he was bragging, wanting to impress her.
He fought six times in December, including three fights in a single week, and won them all by knockouts. Then asked Joe O’Connor when he thought he would be ready for Tommy Ryan, who had been the middleweight champion for the past seven years but who was now thirty-five years old and had not defended his title in a year.
“I can take that old man,” Ketchel said.
O’Connor said a lot of other middleweights felt the same way and all of them wanted a shot at Ryan. Ryan, however, didn’t seem inclined to accept anybody’s challenge, and the odds were that he would retire without ever fighting again.
“Don’t worry, Stevie,” O’Connor said, “the breaks’ll be coming our way real soon. For now, we just stay sharp and ready.”
Right, Ketchel said. But he’d earned a rest and meant to have it. He persuaded Molly to take a short vacation to San Francisco with him right after Christmas.
I N CONTRAST TO Montana’s glacial winter, San Francisco’s December seemed almost mild, never mind the chill Pacific breeze. They took breakfast every morning in the glassed-in gallery of the hotel café. On their second day in town the newspaper front pages were full of the Idaho bombing murder of Frank Steunenberg, who had been hard on miners’ unions during his governorship of that state a few years earlier. The Industrial Workers of the World, commonly called the Wobblies or the “I-Won’t-Works” and widely regarded as a union of red agitators bent on the destruction of the American Way, was suspected in Steunenburg’s killing. Ketchel said he bet every miner in Butte was talking about this news. He began to read the report to her but she asked him to please don’t. The whole thing sounded too awful and she did not want to know about it.
They had a wonderful few days. He showed her around this city he loved so dearly, taking her to the wharves, to the park, out to the beach where he’d spent his first night on the coast and been soaked by the tide. They ambled through a Chinatown so much larger than Butte’s she joked that she felt as though she’d been shanghaied.
New Year’s Eve was their last night in town. Molly wore a stunning blue dress he’d bought for her in the city’s best dress shop. They dined at an elegant restaurant with blazing chandeliers and waiters in tuxedos. The champagne came to the table on a wheeled tray, in glass buckets of shaved ice. The dessert came in a dish of flames. They afterward went dancing in a posh club and joined inthe raucous midnight cheering. They were both slightly
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