Jim Jeffries was a 330-pound alfalfa farmer who had left boxing behind six years earlier when he received the frantic call to defend the honor of his race. When he answered it, the “Fight of the Century” was on.
The mission: to return the world heavyweight championship to a White man. The subtext, of course, was to also knock down by a peg or two the Black man who held it at the time – Jack Johnson. In 1908, Johnson had defeated Tommy Burns in Sydney, Australia, to famously become the first Black man to earn the heavyweight crown, and the only thing that seemed to unsettle his detractors more than the ease with which “The Galveston Giant” continued to dispatch his opponents was his unwillingness to kowtow and feign humility for the sake of an aggrieved White public.
And so began the search for the “Great White Hope,” which would eventually land on the doughy and ring-rusty Jeffries. A former – and, in his prime, formidable – heavyweight champion who had beaten Tom Sharkey, Bob Fitzsimmons, James J. Corbett twice each, had retired in 1904 with an unbeaten record. And although it’s unclear how much his heart was actually in the role of serving as avatar for White America, Jeffries was nevertheless lured into a lucrative superfight – one of boxing’s first – and dutifully played his part: “I am going into this fight for the sole purpose of proving that a White man is better than a Negro,” he announced.
Staged on July 4, 1910, in Reno, Nevada, in a venue constructed for this single event, the bout was every bit as sprawling and significant as its scheduled 45 rounds. Ringside seats were bought and resold for as much as $125 – more than $4,000 in today’s currency. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and U.S. president Wililam Howard Taft were summoned to referee (though both declined). Nine cameramen recorded the action as a crowd of roughly 20,000 braved the 110°F heat of the High Eastern Sierra foothills, including Burns, Sam Langford, Jake Kilrain and Abe Attell.
Jeffries, who in just over eight months, at the direction of his former foe Corbett, had somehow melted his physique down to a sturdy 227 pounds for the fight, was a reported 10-to-6 betting favorite by bookmakers. He cut a confident figure all the way up to the opening bell. When Johnson offered to shake Jeffries’ hand at center ring, the former champion refused – to the roaring approval of the crowd. It was Jeffries’ last authentic moment of acclaim.
At 35 and after years of inactivity, Jeffries was no match for the more agile and energetic Johnson, who gradually broke down the former champion, bloodying his mouth and breaking his nose, in what author Jack London described as “a hopeless massacre.” At one point, Johnson called to an exhausted Jeffries’ corner, where Corbett lingered: “Where do you want me to put him, Mr. Corbett?” In the 15th round, Johnson didn’t bother asking, flooring his opponent and then dropping him again – the first knockdowns of the former champ’s career – prompting Jeffries’ corner to throw in the towel. A series of live telegraphs shared the news around the globe: Johnson had triumphed. The champ, whose team surrounded him as the overwhelmingly White crowd rushed the ring, jutted out a hand once more for Jeffries to shake. Again, it was declined.
In one of America’s least-star-spangled moments, news of the fight outcome sparked race riots across the country, as dozens of U.S. citizens (mostly Black) were killed by their compatriots on Independence Day. The massively popular two-hour film “Jeffries-Johnson World’s Championship Boxing Contest” would go on to be banned in many locales. Public sentiment toward boxing in general soured in some circles, policymakers pushed for more stringent restrictions and, after Johnson lost his title in 1915, it would be another 22 years before another Black man – Joe Louis – would win it again.
For all the angst, racial insecurity and legitimate danger that surrounded “The Fight of the Century” and its aftermath, one unlikely voice removed all the air from the inflated “controversy.” Years later, when teed up to defend the narrative of White superiority one final time, Jeffries admitted: “I could never have whipped Jack Johnson at my best. I couldn’t have reached him in a thousand years.”
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