John L.
Sullivan has only been represented a couple of times in movies, most notably by
brawny Ward Bond in Gentleman Jim. Bond did a fair job of swaggering,
but there was more to Sullivan than strolling into a bar and shouting that he
could lick any son of a bitch in the place. As we learn in
Christopher Klein’s Strong Boy, Sullivan was not only the
heavyweight boxing champion for 10 years, but lived a life that would make
Floyd Mayweather and Mike Tyson look like Boy Scouts.
From the
start, Sullivan had the very modern philosophy of “go big or go home.”
For instance, the name “John Sullivan” was generic, even during the 1880s when
he first came into the public view, but the insertion of the middle initial “L”
gave it flair. He wanted you to know that he wasn’t just any John
Sullivan from Boston. He was the strongest man on whatever continent he trod
upon, and could level you with one blow from his meaty right hand, a shot
described by one opponent thusly: “I thought that a telegraph pole had
been shoved against me endways.”
Of
course, newspapers loved Sullivan. Whether he was crushing some opponent
in the ring, or drinking his way through a new town, he was good copy. “My
excesses have always been exaggerated,” Sullivan said. But he added, “I
am public property, and the press is free to say of me what it pleases.”
Klein’s
tasteful, well-written biography chronicles an extraordinary American life and
quietly tries to separate the truth from the folklore. Strong
Boy reads like a concise American epic, starting with the influx of
Irish immigrants in the 1800s. Klein doesn’t delve into Sullivan’s psyche, but
is content to report on what Sullivan did and said, letting us draw our own
conclusions. The author touches on Sullivan’s well-known racism, but
doesn’t dwell on it. Perhaps Klein felt that focusing on Sullivan’s
“drawing of the color line” in regards to his career would dilute
Sullivan’s historical importance. A more daring writer might have
offered more insights into the touchy subject, but Klein seems squeamish, even
writing Sullivan’s favorite slur as "n-----".
Still,
the book is packed with great moments: Sullivan whipping Paddy Ryan in
New Orleans for the American championship in 1882; the time in 1881 when
he fought John Flood, “The Bulls Head Terror”, on a Hudson River barge;
his ambitious “knockout tour” of the country, when he brought his growing
legend to the hinterlands; brawling for several hours under the boiling
Mississippi sun to turn back challenger Jake Kilrain in 1889; and his
surprising success on the theatrical stage, when Sullivan happily learned that
his drawing power remained strong long after his retirement from the ring.
Sullivan’s
highs were matched, and some would say trumped, by spectacular lows, including
drunken conduct that is still embarrassing to read about more than a century
later; and an egomaniacal streak that can only be ascribed to Sullivan
not only reading his own press, but believing it. “The American publicity
machine and celebrity culture was beginning to crank,” Klein writes, “and John
L. knew how to pull the levers.”
It must
be said, though, that Sullivan was worthy of the hype. He not only popularized
gloved boxing, but managed to dominate his weight class while fighting under
both the London bareknuckle ring rules, and the newer Queensberry rules, which
is roughly comparable to fighting successfully in both MMA matches and
boxing. And not only did he do it at a time when the police were always
trying to shut down fights, and opponents wore spiked boots and thought
nothing of cutting into your legs and feet, but he was usually nursing a
hangover.
Klein’s
book is well-done, but there are some minor shortcomings. Like some
previous Sullivan biographers, he ends the tale with Sullivan’s 1918
funeral, when the frozen ground at Mount Calvary Cemetery had to be
blasted with dynamite. That’s a fine place to end the story, but
surely there was some legacy to be discussed. Klein is fine at
syphoning material from old archives, but his own thoughts are as absent from
the story as are black fighters from Sullivan’s record.
There
are also occasional lapses into purple prose. “Sullivan’s broad jaw,” Klein
writes, “was as solid as the granite chiseled from the quarries of his native
New England.” Lord, that’s a tough one to swallow. Fortunately,
most of the florid stuff comes early, as if Klein is clearing his mind of fluff
before getting ready for the later chapters, which are nicely written.
But not even Klein can make the potato famine interesting.
Anyone
writing about the life of John L. Sullivan will be confronted by holes in the
story. The traditional narrative arc of how this young man came out of
Boston with hurricane force, became a larger than life jerk, and then mellowed into
a gentleman pig farmer, has always struck me as slightly contrived. Was
he really so content in retirement? Were Sullivan’s early days entirely without
signs of the whirlwind to come? Klein sometimes mentions Sullivan’s
generosity, but gives few significant details. Sullivan’s
friendship with George Dixon, a black bantamweight known in the papers as
“Little Chocolate”, would’ve been ripe for discussion, but again, Klein touches
on it and moves along.
But
then, Sullivan has receded so far back into mythology that his biographers are
compelled to avoid the murkier stuff in favor of the more obvious
points. As Klein writes of Sullivan capturing the heavyweight title, “No
Bostonians celebrated more than the Irish, who had felt blistered by the red-hot
Brahmin scorn since their arrival. Now, one of their own was champion of
America. Sullivan instantly became an Irish-American idol, one of the country’s
first ethnic heroes.”
True
enough. But it’s not enough. The Sullivan saga is not merely, as many
claim, a product of the time in which he lived. His tale is so primal that
we’ve seen it replayed by other fighters, from Jack Dempsey, to
Muhammad Ali, to Tyson, dominant ring men with oversized personalities who
turned out to be all too human. There is something of the fable in
Sullivan’s life, something distinctly American, about a man who had it all,
lost it all, and became a better person. He’s a big American figure who
deserves a big American book. But until someone can write it, Klein’s version
will do.
- Don Stradley
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