I had the good fortune to see many such hair-raising contests. Let’s take that between Ad Wolgast, lightweight king, and K. O. Brown, on February 8, 1911. After that scintillating bout, the Michigan Wildcat was sitting in his dressing room when I entered, after having fought my way from the ringside in the Philadelphia arena where they fought a sensational ten-rounder. Had a decision been permitted—this was a no decision contest—by my scoring Brown would have won the crown, for the sturdy little New York Dutchman had given Wolgast a fine shellacking. For six rounds he had Ad at his mercy while the throng cheered. He had Wolgast on the brink of a knockout, but failed to take advantage of the situation and lost his golden opportunity. I was eager to learn why Wolgast, who had fought great battles with Battling Nelson and was one of the toughest of all lightweights, had permitted Brown to gain such a big advantage over him. Ad sat in a chair as I entered, his head in his hands. His manager was staring gloomily at the floor, his hands in his pockets and a cigar in his mouth. Mingled with the smell of the cigar was the odor of liniment. “Hello, Ad!” I said. Wolgast looked up. He was a short, square fellow, under five feet four in height, but with the shoulders of a middleweight. His fair hair, now lank and dark with water from the spongings, indicated his German ancestry. “Hello, Nat!” he responded mechanically. “What was wrong with you, Ad?” I asked. The manager looked at him as if he, too, would like an answer. “That fellow Brown,” replied Wolgast, “he’s a southpaw. I can’t do anything against them.” “You’re not telling me that, Ad,” I said. “I figured that being a southpaw, Brown would be easy going for you.” Ad looked up. “Well, he wasn’t easy. You saw how it was. I tell you that southpaw stance is a puzzler. I thought it would be easy, and I did do some of my training with a southpaw sparring partner to make sure. But he got me puzzled all right. I couldn’t get going, Nat.” “How do you figure it out, Ad?” I asked. “You never know from what angle those southpaws are going to hit. That got me all tangled up. Then this Dutchman can punch so that he leaves a dent wherever he lands. I’d rather fight two left-stance men in one ring than one southpaw, and I’m well out of this mess. You can figure the rest out for yourself, Nat.” Ad was piqued. He had taken a bad lacing. One of his eyes was nearly closed, and his lips looked as if they had been having an argument with a mincing machine. Judging from the manager’s sober expression, it wasn’t going to be a happy evening, so I wished Ad good luck and left Philadelphia for home. On my way back to New York, I got into an argument with some of the boys about southpaws. Most of them said the obvious thing—the southpaws should be easy meat for men who fought with the left arm and foot extended. But Ad Wolgast’s experience made that opinion extremely doubtful.