During the first seven rounds, O’Brien stood off most of Ketchel’s machine gun volleys by clever boxing. Many of the blows landed, but most of the damage was done by O’Brien. Ketchel believed he could whip anybody, regardless of weight, but he had never faced such astounding adroitness as was displayed by O’Brien that night. Philadelphia Jack chopped his opponent’s face up with powerful jabs for seven rounds until it was a blanket of blood. In the middle of the seventh round, Ketchel slowly dropped his powerful arms at his sides and, to our astonishment, took a deep breath as if preparing for a new life. Then came the unexpected. He went after his man and drove him from corner to corner. O’Brien, who was obviously slowing down, called upon all his skill, and yet he could not prevent Ketchel from reaching his body with cruel drives to the chest and heart. Just before the bell sounded, a right opened a deep gash over O’Brien’s eye. He took his punishment like a stoic, but every time he struck home an effective blow, Stanley would snort and snarl like a wounded animal and redouble his efforts. Throughout the eighth round, Jack tried every strategy of the ring game to postpone what seemed the inevitable end. At times he clinched and stalled, only to pull himself together and fight back viciously. But nothing could stop Ketchel. He kept coming on, bloody as a slaughterhouse killer. As the ninth round opened up, he drove a terrific belt to the pit of O’Brien’s stomach. Gasping for breath, Jack collapsed against the ropes. Few expected him to get to his feet, but he did. He immediately went into a clinch to save himself from a knockout. We all expected the worst, and we were not disappointed. Like a shark on the blood scent, Ketchel went after his opponent as the final round started. O’Brien, spent, exhausted, his body wracked with the pain of the last two sessions, gamely tried to put his usual spring in his steps as he faced the final assault. But the Michigan Assassin would give him no rest. Swinging left and right to the jaw, he dropped Jack for a short count. It was obvious from the look of pain on his face that O’Brien was being hurt dreadfully every time Ketchel landed a punch. Each blow seemed to rattle every bone in his body. It was apparent that Ketchel had been told he would have to score a knockout to win and he went after it. Every time he lashed out, O’Brien’s blood was spattered around the ringside. Again he put Jack down with a powerful stomach punch, and again the aging battler struggled to his feet before the referee could count him out. There were only twelve seconds to go and unless Ketchel could score with a kayo wallop, he’d lose the newspaper decision so far as the majority of the writers were concerned. He leaped forward. The seconds were waning. We all figured it was too late now for Stanley to make it. The bell would surely save Philadelphia Jack, despite those knock-downs.