grape juice. Thinking that way is what makes ex-champions. John L. Sullivan figured himself the clam's garters, wouldn't train for Corbett and was a mark for the slim, cool-headed Gentleman Jim. In turn, the handsome James gazed upon Bob Fitzimmons with contempt and Ruby Robert smacked him much colder than zero. Fitz thought Jefferies a laugh, but the boiler-manicuring cave man just grunted and removed Fritz from his crown. Jack Johnson giggled himself hysterical at Jess Willard's ponderous swings and clumsy rushes at Havana, till Jessica's driven cuckoo by Johnson's kidding in the clinches, knocked Lil Arthur for a row of Mongolian whipped cream containers. Willard, a champion, figured Dempsey a set-up. In fact, just before he climbed through the ropes for the shambles at Toledo, Jess remarked that he hoped he wouldn't have to beat Dempsey up so badly that the bout would kill boxing. And then—Oy, Yoi! Well, I thought this Battling Long was just another boloney and why go through a gruelling training grind for a boloney? What happened? This:
I have never give up the idea of becoming a liquid Edison by inventing a drink which will goal the world and while I'm getting in condition for Battling Long I can't seem to keep my mind on the manly art of assault and battery. The training grind is more monotonous than monotony itself. Up at six a. m., road work, punch the bag, pull the weights, throw the medicine ball, step a couple of rounds apiece with half a dozen sparring partners, shadow box, army setting up exercises, shower, rubdown, bed between eight-thirty
