Bangor’s era of BOXING

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During the early 1900s, Bangor was a prominent “fight town.” My grandfather, the late Duncan L. “Dunc” MacDonald, began his association with boxing as a fighter and continued as a trainer, manager, referee, promoter, and charter member of the Maine Boxing Commission, of which he was chairman for 33 years.

Bobby Campbell was regarded as one of New England’s outstanding ring prospects during the 1930s. His boxing career, however, was ended by a tragic turn of events. Afterward, he remained active as a trainer and manager.

“In those days,” said the now 73-year-old Campbell at his home in Harrington, “fighters were hungry. The Depression had knocked the country flat and boxing was a way to make a buck. Every gym in the country was full of fighters, good fighters. If they were anything less, they didn’t get past the first round.”

Perhaps you recall that Campbell fought far beyond round one. After winning numerous amateur bouts, the Brewer boxer turned professional in 1936 when, while still in high school, he defeated Maine featherweight champ Walter Raymond for a purse of $10.

Two years later, the smooth-boxing, lightning-fast fighter had battled his way through 48 professional bouts – featherweight and lightweight – without a loss. Needless to say, he attracted the attention of prominent managers and promoters throughout New England.

But to his disappointment, Campbell discovered that getting fights was becoming difficult. Times were tough and fighters who had fought their way into money-making situations weren’t taking any chances of being knocked into a breadline by the classy contender.

Realizing he was being subjected to a lot of managerial bobbing and weaving, Campbell threw a desperation punch. He convinced Johnny Chaisson, a well-connected promoter, to match him with the world’s fifth-ranked lightweight, a Puerto Rican named Christobal Jaramillo. It’s safe to say that a fifth-ranked fighter of that era would be either a champion or a challenger in today’s ring scenario.

Although Campbell’s boxing skills were exceptional, many fight fans wondered if he had the experience to take on the ring-wise Puerto Rican. Nevertheless, on the night of Feb. 2, 1938, the two superbly conditioned boxers climbed into the ring in Bangor’s “Chateau,” a large entertainment facility located in what later became the Sears-Roebuck building.

What followed were 10 electrifying rounds that left the crowd and Campbell’s opponent stunned. No one was shocked, however, when the youthful Brewer boxer was announced the winner. In the dressing room afterward, Jaramillo paid Campbell a professional compliment when he asked in broken English: “Boy, wha’ you doin’ up heah?”

In fact, Jaramillo’s manager, Bobby North, was so sure his fighter would win that he didn’t bother coming to Bangor. When Sports Editor Bill Geagan of the NEWS called him after the fight, North asked casually, “What round did Chris take that kid out in?” Geagan, who in addition to being an exceptional outdoor writer was a well-known boxing scribe, replied, “Sorry, Bobby, that kid gave your guy a beating.” The next day, Campbell received a telegram from North. “Come to New York as soon as possible,” it advised.

But the clever boxer possessed more than the cat-quick hands and mobility that left opponents wondering if they were fighting two men. In addition, he was as heady outside the ring as he was in it. Despite promises of big purses, he realized he was young. Time was in his corner and he would use it to polish his skills.

After the Jaramillo fight, however, Campbell would have had more luck landing a roundhouse right than he had in getting fights. New England lightweight champion Paul Junior of Lewiston, who fought out of Portland, turned down an offer to fight Campbell. At that time there was no state boxing commission to prevent ranked fighters from sidestepping formidable opponents. Discouraged, Campbell decided to leave the fight game and sought employment out of state.

He was hired by the Shell Oil Co. in Fall River, Mass., where he apprenticed at the welding trade. Later, he worked in Cleveland, Ohio. Boxing, however, was in his blood and he returned to Bangor to resume training with the intention of cornering the world’s top-ranked lightweights, including the division’s champion, Willie Pep.

The city’s boxing fans welcomed Campbell home. To their delight, he defeated Jimmy Duval, a classy fighter from New York via California who had fought Henry Armstrong and Lou Ambers. After the Duval fight in 1939, the newly established Maine Boxing Commission ruled that Paul Junior would fight Campbell or forfeit the New England lightweight title. But as it turned out, the two never met in the ring.

It was fate, however, not a fighter, that caught Campbell with a punch he couldn’t shake off. While welding, he knelt on steel stagings for long periods of time. By the time he returned to Bangor, his left knee was causing him discomfort. When it didn’t respond to treatments, he underwent surgery at the Leahy Clinic in Boston.

Perhaps you recall that The operation was unsuccessful and the knee was set to remain rigid. So it was that the young boxer’s brilliant career came to an untimely end. He was 20 years old.

“Bangor was a hell of a fight town,” said Campbell as we walked through a field overlooking the ocean. “It attracted some of the greatest fighters in the world. When I was just a kid I was training and sparring with Connie Holmes, a top-ranked featherweight. And look at the world champions – John L. Sullivan, Jack Johnson, Jack Dempsey, Joe Louis, Max Schmeling, Gus Lesnovich, Joe Walcott, Rocky Marciano – who put on exhibition bouts in Bangor. It was some fight town, all right.”

In regard to the “quick hands” of some managers and promoters, Campbell expressed disdain. “You had to beat them to the punch all the time,” he said. “They’d make a buck off you any way they could.”

The remark brought to mind a story my grandfather told: “There was a fighter named Seth Parker who was supposed to get $10 for a preliminary fight. I gave his manager the money. When the fights were over, though, Seth looked me up. He was madder than hell, `I was supposed to get $10, not $2,’ he said. His manager had skun him – told him we didn’t draw much of a crowd – and kept $8 for himself, so I had to get that straightened out.” Two dollars.

“That’s the way they operated,” said Campbell. “A lot of fighters were robbed by those monkeys, but I didn’t waste my time with them. The only guy I had in my corner when I got going good was Jerry Dupre. Jerry had been one hell of a fighter. He was a classic boxer and, say, could he punch – with either hand. He was something.

“When I was fighting, Jerry would watch for a couple of rounds, then he’d say, `Bobby, every time this guy throws a right he drops his left.’ I’d go out the next round and get the guy to throw a right and that’s all there’d be to it. Jerry knew more than the rest of them put together.”

Although Bangor was the hub of boxing activity, fights were held in many outlying areas. As an example of the clannishness of small communities, Campbell recounted a fight he had in Fort Fairfield: “There was a fighter up there named Maxie Holmes and his manager kept after Dunc to make a fight between Holmes and me. Dunc would tell him, `Look, you’re making a buck up there. If I bring Bobby up, he’ll beat Holmes and you’ll lose your payday.’

“Well, Holmes’s manager kept it up, and after a while Dunc got tired of listening to him, so up we went. When the bell rang for the first round, Holmes charged right into my corner and knocked me down. I got up and hit him with a right hand and the blood gushed out of his nose. I gave him quite a going over after that and won by unanimous decision.

“So help me, I never saw anything like it. The crowd threw everything that wasn’t nailed down into the ring. I remember a woman’s pocketbook landed right in front of me. Dunc was refereeing and he gave it a kick out into the crowd and yelled, `If any of you —- want to fight, come on up here in the ring.”‘ Laughing, Campbell shook his head. “Ol’ Dunc,” he said fondly. “You’ll live a long time before you’ll see another one like him. He wasn’t afraid of the devil himself – wouldn’t take anything from anyone.”

Not even from Rocky Marciano. You may remember when the heavyweight champion put on an exhibition match in Bangor. Supposedly, his opponent was a journeyman fighter named Pete Fuller. At the weigh-ins, however, my grandfather took a look at “Pete Fuller” and said to Marciano, “Who’s this guy?”

“Pete Fuller,” the champ answered.

The reply was as quick and stinging as a left jab: “Who in hell do you think you’re kidding? I know Pete Fuller.” Come to find out, Marciano’s opponent actually was his younger brother and boxing regulations prohibited bouts that matched relatives.

“Look,” said my grandfather to Marciano’s manager, “I’m going to let this exhibition go on tonight because the seats are sold out and the people want to see the champion. But you won’t be boxing anywhere else in Maine for awhile.”

Shortly thereafter, at a special boxing commission hearing in Augusta, Marciano was suspended from fighting in Maine for one year. “Ring” magazine ran a centerfold story about the proceedings, complete with pictures. The suspension, of course, didn’t affect Marciano’s undefeated career, but the message was clear to promoters, managers, etc., throughout the country: Don’t plan on throwing any sucker punches in Maine.

“Yes sir, those were great times, all right,” said Campbell as we walked toward the farmhouse that he and his sons, Robert Jr. and Richard, also of Harrington, remodeled. “It seemed like everyone was managing a fighter. There was Walter Johnson, Charlie Crommett, Henry Mullins, Frank Clukey, Charlie Miller, Bill Geagan, Bill Cyr. That’s just a few.

“And fighters were a dime a dozen,” he continued: “Louie Nemis, Henry LeGasse, Pat Grant, Jimmy Cooke, Tommy Burns, `Cyclone’ Violette, Isaac Thomas, Aldane Pooler, Paul Junior, Dave Castilloux, Al McCoy, Roy Worcester, Tommy Geagan, Hermie Freeman, Ad Zachow, Coley Welch, Charlie Babcock, `Kid’ Yuck, `Utah Kid,’ Stanley Ketchell, Pat Cormier, my brother Johnny, Blaine Macomber, `Flash’ Wise, Larry Sullivan, Hubey Scott, Johnny Meara, `Toughy’ Taylor, Eddie Turner, Dickie Egan. The gyms were full of them.”

Obviously, the Bangor area’s sports-minded populace looked forward to “fight night.” I don’t recall the Chateau, but I clearly remember the creaky interior of the old City Hall. Perhaps you remember the ticket office at the foot of the wide wooden stairs leading up to the auditorium, the hissing and clanking of the radiators, the smell of popcorn and steamed hot dogs, the prefight predictions, and, of course, the private bets.

Possibly, you can recall the custodian tightening the ring’s ropes, resin boxes, buckets containing taped water bottles and sponges and mouthpieces, ever-dependable referee Harry Dalton, and the crowd’s rhythmical clapping and foot stomping if the bouts didn’t begin precisely on time. And surely you remember, during the fights, the heckling bellowed from the balcony by someone who wouldn’t know how to put on a pair of gloves.

“One of the best fights I ever saw,” I recalled as we walked along a road edged with blueberries, “was Hermie Freeman and `Red’ Wells.”

“What a fight – brawl,” came the immediate reply. “They knocked each other out every round, but they couldn’t knock each other down. When the bell rang, the referee had to point them to their corners. Hermie won it by a split decision. He beat Wells again after that, but it was nowhere near the fight the first one was. I think they had too much respect for each other after that.

“Hermie was tough and a hell of a puncher,” Campbell recalled. “I trained him for a while and he caught onto things real quick. One night, though, my brother Johnny had him punching the air for nine rounds. I was training Johnny then and, naturally, I knew how to fight Hermie. I trained Johnny to box and move – jab and move, hook and move, move in and out with combinations. Move left, right, step back – Hermie couldn’t lay a glove on him.

“Then, before the bell rang for the last round, Johnny said, `I’m going to fight this round my way.’ He wanted to knock Hermie out and I knew he couldn’t. I told him, `If you fight this round your way, you’ll fight the rest of them your way.’ He went out and started slugging and got knocked down and the judges gave the fight to Hermie. I was wild. I called them everything I could think of. Johnny was robbed that night.

“That was about the end of it all, anyway.” Campbell allowed. “`Babe’ McCaron fought in Bangor in the early ’50s, but it was pretty much over with. The country was back on its feet after the war and there were easier ways to make a living than fighting.”

As we turned into the driveway, the ex-boxer said, “Let’s go inside and see if my manager will get us a piece of pie and a cup of tea.” Bobby Campbell married my aunt, Elaine MacDonald, and because I was well acquainted with her cooking, I didn’t hesitate to follow the energetic individual who still displays the quickness and agility that brought fight fans to their feet during Bangor’s era of boxing.