even he had to admit to his physical and spiritual vulnerability in the end. Sugar Ray couldn't put him down, but boxing did.
LaMotta epitomizes boxing's gift for crushing truth to a pulp. Although Jake was a hell of a fighter, one of the best middleweights of all time, he had no problem in sustaining his legend by denying for more than a decade that he had thrown his fight against the mobbed-up Billy Fox at the Garden in 1947. If he had confessed when he was first accused of the fix, he would have been banished and forgotten. His silence earned him his shot at the world title ten fights later, in 1949, against the exquisite Frenchman Marcel Cerdan. It also lent LaMotta a twisted immortality. It wasn't until a Senate hearing in 1960, however, six years after he'd quit boxing, that LaMotta came clean. By then, he was on his way to becoming a parody of himself, albeit a famous and rich one, to be remembered eventually as the Raging Bull.
LaMotta is a small part of this tale, and his experiences are not unique. But Jake (and his literary collaborators) had a better handle on it than most. As he was once quoted as saying, “I also noticed that around the gym all the time there were the Mob guys, for the very simple reason that there's always betting on fights, and betting means money, and wherever there's money there's the Mob. If you paste that inside your hat it will explain a lot of things to you and maybe even save you some trouble.”
He would know.
LaMotta's time and place stretched from prewar New York and other fight towns on through the fifties, a decade in which the Mafia—historically voracious movers of meat in the fight game—wanted to control him and every other worthwhile pug of the era. They carried out most of their shenanigans in the Garden, a place that housed as much deception as it did heroism. That particular establishment is the most famous of the four to have worn the name on various sites in Manhattan, never more than a cheroot spit from Broadway, since 1879. For 17 of his 106 fights, it is where LaMotta established his reputation, on good nights and nights when he didn't look as good as he might have done.
Other men, characters who never threw anything more threatening than a glance, were the real rulers of the ring, not the likes of LaMotta. Professional boxing would not survive without either the compliant fighter or the scheming moneymen, and this story is full of them: the old Garden promoter Mike Jacobs; Mafia servants Frank Costello, Frankie Carbo, and Blinky Palermo; along with their more presentable business associates, Jim Norris and Truman Gibson; plus a large cast of faceless cronies. These were the men who ran boxing for a generation, the black-and-white days either side of the last world war, mainly in the atmospheric old auditorium situated on Eighth Avenue between 49th and 50th Streets, in the middle of the most exciting city in the world.
And at the black heart of boxing's empire was Jacobs Beach. It's gone now but for twenty years it was the only place to be for boxing's tsars and their camp followers. Geographically, it covered the stretch of pavement on West 49th Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue, with the Garden and Jack Dempsey's Restaurant at either end of the block. Around about the middle was 225 West 49th, the ticket office of Mike Jacobs, the one-time scalper after whom it was named. For nearly two decades he decided who did and who didn't fight in the Garden. From his center of the boxing universe, journalists, gamblers, managers, underworld goons, and hangers-on would walk across the street to the Forrest Hotel—the occasional residence of Damon Runyon, not to mention women of dubious moral distinction and other denizens of the dark—to talk their dirty business. (The owners sued Bob Hope once for joking that the Forrest's maids changed the rats every day.)
The Forrest—which is now the Time Hotel and a place where out-of-towners sometimes stay, ignorant of its past, probably—was the place to which most dealmakers had been gravitating since the twenties, guys such as Runyon and his pals, Tex Rickard and Doc Kearns. The charismatic Runyon, who lived for a long time in the hotel's penthouse, was the catalyst for many great gatherings and stories. He loved all sports, but boxing dominated the hushed conversations of the Forrest. The writer Westbrook Pegler wrote in 1936: “There was always some hungry heavyweight sitting in the big fat chair in the corner, squinting down the street at the clock to see if it was time to eat yet. Sometimes it would be an old, gnarly heavyweight with a dried apple ear and a husky voice from getting punched in the neck. Sometimes it would be a young pink one with the dumb, polite expression that young heavyweights have.”
The label Jacobs Beach—no apostrophe mostly, although, like a fight contract, these things are not set in stone—was given life by Runyon, according to the newspaper columnist Jimmy Cannon. But the American author David Margolick, who has written excellently about the period and about boxing, is not sure. “More likely,” he says, “the name came from one of two prime sportswriters of the era, Frank Graham of the New York Sun or Sid Mercer of the New York American.”
Whatever its genesis, Jacobs Beach lives on only in grainy, nostalgic images. The cartoonist Ham Fisher, who created the long-loved and improbable boxing ingenue Joe Palooka, would include in his syndicated strips the requisite number of zoot-suited sharpies, chewing on old stogies and shooting the breeze with broken-nosed bums hanging about for a break or abroad. That's how Runyon would love to have “The Beach” remembered, too.
The Beach lasted from 1935, when Jacobs set up his ticket office, until the imagination let it go, at some point in the mid-fifties, a few years after Uncle Mike had been eased from power at the Garden by illness and the International Boxing Club, which was run by his sometime Mob pals. Nostalgia is fine, but sentiment lingers about as long as cigar smoke in boxing. Today, it is just another bit of grubby Gotham pavement. No plaque. No statue.
In 2005, Margolick took Jacobs's niece, Roz Rosee, to the area—and she couldn't be sure where the old rascal's office had been, even though she had once worked nearby in the Brill Building. In fact, it stood on a site now occupied by a garage on the north side of the block. “He was very smart,” Rosee, then eighty-nine, said of her Uncle Mike, “but he was not what you would call a gentleman.” You would hope not.
The gangsters who mingled on Jacobs Beach did not go unchallenged in their dealings. What happened there and across the wider landscape of the sport in the fifties was described and dissected by two U.S. Senate inquiries, at the start and finish of the decade. These were instigated by an old-fashioned Democrat lawyer from Chattanooga called Estes Kefauver. When Americans turned on the few TV sets they had in 1950, they saw the upright, earnest senator, a decent man who yearned to be president, trying through the rigor of the law to rid the country of the mysterious men who organized crime, as well as the fight racket. The first of Kefauver's televised investigations—as gauche as the good senator himself—met with qualified success. In the process, however, he became America's original and most unlikely reality-TV star. Every night America saw, for the first time, flesh-and-blood images of the bad men Kefauver was trying to put away.
The wise guys who owned boxing also owned the heart and soul and much of the bank account of the heavyweight regarded then as the best there ever was. Joe Louis, the champ everyone loved, was a balding shadow with debts, a failing marriage, and a mind in decline by the time he sold the title to the IBC. Kefauver was as knowledgeable a boxing fan as most American males of his time and was saddened by the spectacle of Louis passing on the championship he had once valued so highly. Despite the best efforts of the senator and other do-gooders, though, the Mafia continued to control most of boxing's significant world titles for several years. And, sad as it is to acknowledge, it was Joe Louis, his faculties already shredded, whose gentle nature and lack of financial alternatives made it possible.
Not every fight in the Garden in that decade was a predetermined result. But regular bettors went there whispering. Often they trudged home scowling, stepping over ripped-up betting slips as they made their way toward the subway station on 50th Street, for the old Eighth Avenue Independent or the West Side IRT. Many a journey home from the Garden would be filled with loud discussions about the antecedents and social connections of the judges and referees. And nearly every discussion of a night at the fights was peppered with two words: the Mob.
The better-heeled among New York's fancy stayed on, for champagne, music, and whatever version of risqué entertainment they could safely be seen to be patronizing. Of the swanky nightclubs favored by the silk-scarf set who slummed it at the Garden were El Morocco on nearby 54th Street and the more formal Cafe Lounge in