A few months later, Al Singer fought Tony Canzoneri in Madison Square Garden, November 13, 1930. Tony nearly set up a record by battering Al into submission in one minute and six seconds. The knockout came with dynamic suddenness and swept the fans off their feet. A left hook caught Al off his balance and drove him back on his heels. Another punch of the same sort finished him. I was staring fascinated at the drama when Ed Hughes, a sportswriter and cartoonist, sitting next to me said, “What the hell happened? I was writing that the boys had come into the ring!” * * * * * I also recall the strange ending to the New York début of Babe Herman, flashy young Californian, whom Jack Kearns managed during the early 1920’s. Herman’s opponent was Irish Johnny Curtin, colorful Jersey City slugger, and the scrap was held at Charley Doesserick’s Pioneer Club. For five rounds it was Herman’s brilliant boxing and sharp-shooting against Curtin’s rugged two-handed aggressiveness. The Babe nailed Irish Johnny on the chin with a vicious right just as the bell clanged the end of the fifth. Beyond jolting him as it landed, the punch seemed to have no serious effect on Curtin. Gingerly, Irish Johnny turned to walk to his corner. He had taken about two steps when, suddenly, the full force of that wallop caught up with him, and he pitched forward on his face. Despite the frenzied manipulations of his handlers during the minute’s rest, Irish Johnny was still out and unable to answer the gong for the sixth. * * * * * The bizarre results of “delayed-action” punches also gave a strange twist to the ending of a battle I saw in New Orleans in 1921 between Happy Littleton, hard-hitting local middleweight, and Jack Bloomfield, clever Englishman. Littleton clipped Bloomfield on the chin in the ninth. Jack staggered for a moment, then turned away from Littleton, groped his way to a corner, and started to stumble along the ropes. While the bewildered Littleton looked on, Bloomfield, in the manner of a Leon Errol or Jimmy Barton, reeled around three sides of the ring and was headed for a complete lap when his legs finally caved in, and he collapsed to the canvas to be counted out. * * * * * Can a man, standing on his feet, be unconscious and be counted out by the referee? It has been done, and I’ve seen it. I saw a lightweight championship change hands, May 28, 1917, in such a bout. Benny Leonard had cornered champion Freddy Welsh. Welsh was unsteady on his feet and desperately trying to hold himself up. He slipped one arm over the highest rope, and braced himself just as Leonard landed a hard punch to the jaw. Welsh started to fall toward the floor to get a moment’s rest. Benny, always a very shrewd fighter, started a quick flurry of punches which knocked Welsh across the top rope.