PARTISAN REVIEW
47
ceived a first-rate education
in
the humanities. Also, while there, they
were supposed to acquire the finer virtues by circulating among and
socializing with the English gentry. Now along with education of the
mind went the education of the body. Therefore, they were trained
in
the manly art of boxing. Now these scions of Southern aristocracy re–
turned home from England with a good education and a knowledge
of the rudiments of boxing. Back home, they started training some of
the young slaves to be boxers. So they held contests among the slaves
from different plantations.
"Pugilism, as it relates to us, son, got its formal start, however,
with the career of one Tom Molyneaux. Mr. Molyneaux was the first
colored champion. He was born in Virginia, a slave; and when he was,
through some mysterious process, granted his freedom, he traveled to
New York. By then, he had beaten everybody around, both Negroes
and whites. Then he went to England to fight Tom Cribb who was
then the world champion. This fight took place in December of 1810;
I forget the exact date. But it was at Capthall Common in Sussex.
These
were the days before the Queensbury rules. As I recall, it was a
dreary day, the fight lasted forty rounds. Tom Cribb won, but a lots
of folks, particularly a guy they called West Indian Charlie, protested
that there was tricknology involved
in
Cribb's victory. But be that as
it may, that's how the colored got into boxing.
"All of the plantation owners, from all points, used to gather at
their respective plantations to place wagers on one slave or the other.
These
men were all gentlemen, fine education, breeding, and plenty of
money. So
in
many ways, they didn't care who really won the fight.
It
was all just considered good sport. They liked the way them niggers
circled each other and doing them fancy steps, and dropping them
bombs and do. Naturally, they got specially excited when one of them
fellers drew blood. I once saw two slaves beat each other to death."
It is late in the afternoon, sun swarming all over us. I am inside
of a bull of a man named Silas. Amos swings a wild right at me. I block
it
easily, but he catches me with a left hook. It seems like all day we
have been fighting like this. My arms and his arms are heavy, but we
smash at each other and at the white blurry faces surrounding us. We
go
on
like this until the sun begins going down .
...
The shouting and
the rooting has died down now; now we lean on each other breathing
hard and tied up in sweat like wrestlers. The contest has boiled down
to grunts and awkward swings.
...
As darkness comes, we are both still
standing. Judge Tate calls it a tie. They throw me in the buckboard,
tmd carry me back to the plantation.
"You got the right idea son. That's almost exactly how it was in
