All Blood Runs Red: Life and Legends of Eugene Jacques Bullard - First Black American Military Aviator. Henry Scott Harris
he refused. But this time I went too far. Did it in public and embarrassed him in a crowded gym. He was annoyed, but could not refuse or back away. The Kid had pride. “Yes, it is about time to teach you another lesson, a real one. Sparrow, let’s do it.” “Hey Sparrow, are you nuts?” the trainer exclaimed. The other fighters gathered around the ring. I was in my work-out shorts and noticed The Kid hadn’t removed his sweat shirt.
We went to the center of the ring and shook hands. I smiled, he didn’t. Just stared into my eyes. The bell rang. I immediately danced forward, jabbed and danced away. I tried a right, missed. He stood in front of me, hands down. How did I miss? I tried another easy jab. He slipped under it. The Kid, anticipating my every move, was blocking or ducking all of my attempts to hit him. He never took a backward step or acknowledged a punch. Ah, I had thought, what an easy target. I am too fast for him, weaving in and out, like a knight, seeking to dethrone royalty. Smiling, did my fancy two step and then SOCKO, a stiff right to my gut, that stopped my breathing. WHAM, never saw the left cross that landed on my chin. I folded and sank down to the canvas. In less than a minute he showed why he was the Champion. The Kid helped me up, held me as I staggered to a bench, saying, “Nice fight Sparrow. You are fast and fancy, but your feet are still too small for big shoes, though your head might fit.” He roared with laughter and said, “Important lesson: never get into a fight not knowing your opponent.” The gym erupted with applause as he raised his hands over his head in the sign of victory, and smoothly leaped over the ropes. I knew The Kid was the King.
H: Did he ever tell you why he was fighting and living in Europe?
E: Few people knew, and when I asked, he ignored my question. Knew better than to ask again. Then one evening, at dinner, there was an unusual tenseness in our conversation. We weren’t talking about boxing; we were talking about the United States. I had told them, in detail, why I left and what happened to me, and my desire to go to France. They understood. Mom Brown looked at The Kid and it seemed a message passed between them. She looked up, her eyes glazed with tears and said, “Time to tell him, Aaron.” The Dixie Kid wasn’t quite sure of himself. He paused, took a deep breath, moved his chair back from the table and turned to me. ”It is not a pretty story. I was a good, young fighter, real good, working my way up to the big prizes. Not to be. A ridiculous incident changed my life. I remember it was almost raining, just a drizzle-damp day in July, 1902. I was doing my roadwork, trotting down a street in Philadelphia. Stopped at a shoe shop to get a breath. You know my weakness for good looking shoes and these were outstanding. Concentrating on the shoes in the window, I became aware of a man’s reflection back of me. Suddenly, I was being pecked and prodded by an umbrella. A voice demanded, “Out of the way, you black scum. Move. Move now!” Turning, I saw a white man waving an umbrella and poking me. Each time he attempted to hit me, I smacked it away frustrating him. I didn’t move on, just smiled, turned back to the window, and the umbrella slashed across my head. “Damn you nigger, get in the gutter,” he said, as he continued his onslaught. I grabbed the umbrella and was prepared to lay a stroke on him, but a crowd, led by a policeman, gathered. I was arrested for creating a riot. Self defense, of course, but no one there would testify for me. I was sentenced to jail. When you are trapped, you do strange things. Do you know what it is like to be a black man in a white man’s prison? Answer back, or ask a question the guards don’t like it and you get slapped around and miss meals. Had every dirty duty; clean the open toilets, wash the floors on my knees, sleep on an iron cot with a torn blanket in a cold cell infested with bugs and rats that would crawl over and bite you. Decided I would do anything to get out of that hell.
Charles Galvin, a fight manager, came to the prison and said he would get me out if I signed a lifetime contract with him. I wanted out and he had my key to freedom. Signed, was out and in three months, fought for the welterweight championship. On April 4, 1904, had a grueling twenty round fight with Joe Walcott, the champ. I won and became World Champion. Sure, I was World Champion, but I could not get enough fights. I was too good, and black. In the States, they didn’t allow mixed fights. Had to box Sam Langford three times. Money was running out and I was forced to throw a fight against Tommy Ryan. Hated to do it, but had to live. Being almost broke, I headed for Europe. Shouldn’t have worried, it worked out well. My wife and I are treated as human beings and I defeated every European champion.”
H: Gene, what about your career?
E: Dixie trained me and arranged matches. I fought at clubs throughout London, three and four times a month. After each bout, I would ask, “When do we go to Paris?” Was doing well. Impressed the people at ringside yet, there was my unquenchable desire to go to France. I pressured Dixie to have Galvin arrange a bout in Paris. Months went by. I was training at the gym and saw Dixie whispering and smiling with a stranger. Dixie walked over to the ring, “Hold it, Sparrow. Got some news. Hope you don’t mind the interruption. Didn’t mean to cut into your training and hope this won’t disturb you, but…” He paused, laughed as I waited impatiently for him to continue. It was obvious, he was teasing with his silence. “Well Sparrow, my sparkle darkie, I have another match for you. You’ll fight Georges Forrest.”
I replied, “Who the hell is Georges Forrest?” The Kid couldn’t control his laughter, “Oh, I forgot to mention,” and he paused again. With a devilish look he continued, “You will box him at the Paris Elysee Montmartre in November.” I was dazzled. My dream was coming true. I hugged The Kid and we danced around the ring. Next stop Paree.
CHAPTER 10: PAREE - COME WITH ME
E: I danced my way out of the gym to the shouts of encouragement from the other boxers, knowing my dreams of Paree were about to come true. Now, where is the nearest bookstore? I needed a French dictionary. Bought it, dashed to the boarding house, out of breath, skipped dinner, rushed to my room, turned on the lamp next to the bed. Didn’t undress, propped up the pillow, got comfortable and excitably, opened the book. Turned pages, read and tried to pronounce and memorize French words. It was wonderful. Non, it was fantastique. Thinking the words, over and over, saying them out loud, and sometimes singing them. “Bon jour, bon jour, un, deux, trois, mercie, parlez-vous anglais, bon soir, madame, s’il vous plait,” on and on until my mind tired and my eyes closed.
Hours later, laying there in the dark, heard a sound and awoke. What was it? There was a familiar, sweet, musky, aroma of a man’s sweat engulfing the room. Hadn’t smelled it for many years, but recognized it and almost knocked the lamp over as I clicked it on. In the rush, I scratched my hand. Standing at the foot of my bed was a giant black man, his white shirt open, as usual, unable to button it because of his massive chest muscles. “Daddy, Daddy!” Henri, I was awake. Rubbed my eyes, “Daddy is that you?”
H: Come on Gene. You expect me to believe that you saw your father. Must have been a dream.
E: Henri stop! Mon dieu, stop! There is no question; he stood there and smiled. Non, not a dream. Astonished, I shouted, “Daddy, I’m going to France. I made it Daddy.” Looking carefully, I saw in the shadows behind him, a group of smiling, gesturing and laughing people. But I heard no sound. How could they all fit in my small room? There was my Gypsy Queen, who named me Sparrow, in her flowing colorful dress and wearing a bright head scarf, her hand signaling flight; the little Jewish baker, in his dark long coat, was dusting flour from his white apron and then clapping his hands; the black barber with his towel around his neck, who sacrificed so much to save my life, was doing a two-step; the German bosun, who jokingly threatened to throw me overboard, saluted; Chris Mathews with his jovial smile, holding his hand high with his fist clenched pretending to throw a punch and, ah, almost alone, coyly, sitting in the corner, was the exotic, beautiful Cherie, her dark eyes glistening and her palm pressed against her lips, as she threw a kiss. Daddy raised his great arms and clasped his hands over his head like a winning prizefighter. It was a signal. Everyone was delighted. I rose and stood next to the bed, reached out and my hands gathered only air. Looking to each, I said, “Thank you, all of you. You have all given me life.” Each nodded and slowly turned and faded from sight. Daddy was the last to go. He glanced back over his shoulder and waved.
“Daddy, Gypsy Queen, Mr. Sam, Cherie please don’t go. Stay. I need you, love you. I beg you, stay with me.” They were gone and I was alone once more, leaning against the bedpost, tears streaming down