Probably the best informed sports writers of my time, among those with whom I was well acquainted and with whom I worked, were Charles F. Mathison, my boxing critic on the _Press_, _Sun_, and _Telegram_, and the man who formulated the rules of boxing which became known as the Walker Law; Ed Smith of Chicago, and Arthur Lumley, who handled the _Illustrated News_ and was several times manager of John L. Sullivan. He also wrote for my _Ring_ magazine. Mathison, who at one time was the editor of the Detroit _Free Press_ and also of the New York _Globe_ and the _Morning Telegraph_, had a vast acquaintance in the boxing world. He, like McGeehan, was a tough man for the crooked element in boxing. Neither showed any mercy. It was their vitriolic writings that did much to save the sport at a time when it was in danger of annihilation. McGeehan was a very heavy drinker, and he frequently ran into trouble when he was assigned to cover a fight story of national importance. I recall his arrival the day before the Sharkey-Stribling fight in Miami Beach. As I remarked in a previous chapter, Steve Hannigan, Sid Mercer, and I handled the publicity and hotel accommodations. I reserved rooms for the most prominent reporters from New York and other big cities, including the British visitors, in the George Washington Hotel, where my wife and I occupied a suite. McGeehan reached Miami Beach with Don Skene, his protégé, and Graham McNamee, then America’s outstanding sports announcer, working for the National Broadcasting Company. Graham was to do the broadcasting. All three had imbibed too much, and I quickly realized that I had a job on my hands. McGeehan walked into press headquarters supported by Skene and Graham, and in a gruff, commanding tone he demanded to know where his room was. When I told him that he had a reservation in the Fisher Estate where Bill Carey was living, he shoved me aside and walked down the corridor. My wife Trudie had emerged from her room and as the door was open, Bill stopped in front of the room, walked in, opened the window and started to toss out our trunk and handbags. I rushed in as he was about to throw out my suit and remonstrated with him. But it did no good. He dispossessed us and took over. Within a short time, he and Don Skene were fast asleep, and my wife and I had to find new quarters. On the day of the fight, McGeehan was nowhere to be found and Skene was so far gone that he couldn’t see the typewriter keys. After the contest, messages kept pouring into our headquarters asking for the New York _Tribune_ stories. To cover the absence of the reporters, Sid Mercer tackled McGeehan’s yarn, while I wrote one for Skene. We tried as closely as we could to imitate their style, a mighty tough task. After Mercer had filed McGeehan’s story, the editor sent the following message: “What happened to McGeehan’s report? What we received was not written by him.” * * * * *