Boxing fans enthralled, enraged by commotion of The Long Count
Baseball immortal Babe Ruth hit his record 60th home run on Sept. 30, 1927. But Vancouver sports pages barely paid any attention, because everybody was still arguing over The Long Count.
It referred to a title match between boxing legends Jack Dempsey and Gene Tunney on Sept. 22 at Soldier’s Field in Chicago. Tunney had beaten Dempsey the year before to take the heavyweight crown, and the rematch was one of the most hyped boxing matches in history — the crowd was initially estimated at 145,000 people, although a recent Chicago Tribune story said it was actually 104,943.
Tunney had the edge in the first six rounds of the 10-round fight, but in the seventh, Dempsey floored him.
“Tunney hit the floor with his eyes closed after a terrific series of lefts and rights to the jaw,” said a wire story in The Sun. “Dempsey stepped into the corner immediately behind (Tunney ’s) head, and the referee did not start counting until he had stepped around the fallen man, up to Dempsey and motioned him to his own corner.
“By the time the referee returned to Tunney and started to count, the champion’s eyes were beginning to blink. He raised himself part way from the floor, holding with his left hand to the ropes and with a vacant stare on his face.”
At the count of nine, Tunney got up to resume the match. (Had he taken a count of 10, he would have lost.) But he had actually been down for 14 seconds before the match resumed. If the ref had started counting right away, Tunney might not have gotten up in time.
“He was saved from a knockdown by Jack’s failure to go to a neutral corner,” said the wire story.
Tunney was given smelling salts after the round to try and snap out of his fog, and it worked — he wound up winning the fight on points. But Dempsey’s manager Lee Flynn protested the “long count” that allowed Tunney to regain his composure.
His protest was denied, but The Long Count became boxing legend — it even has its own Wikipedia page. Boxing fans argue about it to this day.
There was no television in 1927, so fight fans gathered outside The Sun and Province offices the night of the fight. The Sun ran a frontpage photo of the crowd outside its offices, and took a dig at its rival for a misstep.
“A huge crowd assembled outside of The Evening Sun office to hear the loud speaker announcements on the battle,” said a story. “The vivid story went out to the listener word by word, relayed direct from the ringside.
“A confusing and serious incident of the evening was the announcement by the Vancouver Province that the fight had ended in the seventh with Dempsey the victor.
“The serious angle of this was that a number of bets were paid over wrongly because of the false report. One case was reported of a group in a hotel where a woman bet $200 on Tunney. The wager was put up through a third party who came in offering even money on Dempsey.
“When the wrong result came in the $200 was paid to the stranger and he left the hotel. Now the woman in the case is looking for him.”
The Province was the bigger paper at the time, and the more conservative, politically and stylistically. It was also part of the eastern-based Southam chain.
The Sun was owned by Robert Cromie, and was decidedly more liberal, lowbrow and local. It called itself “The People’s Paper,” and boasted “The Sun is the Only Evening Paper Owned, Controlled and Operated by Vancouver Men.”
The Sun’s front page was dominated by fight news. Sports editor Andy Lytle was in Chicago for the match, and thought Dempsey “dogged it for nine of the 10 rounds.” Lytle suggested Dempsey “had degenerated into the near-preliminary class,” which probably didn’t go down well with Dempsey’s legions of fans.
Hockey great Lester Patrick was also at the fight, and told The Sun that Dempsey was the “sentimental favourite” who brought out the crowds. Patrick thought the event was a great spectacle, stating “this time ballyhoo produced the goods.”
Ten days after the fight a film of the bout made its way to the Pantages Theatre. The Sun proclaimed it the “greatest ever shown.” There was no byline with the story, but you can assume Andy Lytle didn’t write it.