They called Johnson the Black Colossus. He stood astride the boxing world and sliced the opposition to ribbons. With the exception of Jack Dempsey, he gave me more thrills than any fighter I saw in half a century at the ringside. In fact, I rank the burly Negro as the best heavyweight of all time. Just look at the procession of top heavyweights he whipped—Jack O’Brien, Tony Ross, Al Kaufman, Jim Flynn, Frank Moran, and James Jeffries, among others. But when the leading “white hope,” Willard, was booked as his opponent, I felt confident that here was the man who would upset the applecart. Not that he was a great fighter by any means; but because wine and women had taken their toll and had left the Galveston Giant at the mercy of the first Caucasian heavyweight who could condition himself to last more than fifteen rounds. No matter how poorly primed Jack was to face top opposition at the time, he still was good enough to make a “monkey” out of any of the “white hopes” for at least fifteen frames. His mastery of ring science, his ability to block, counter, and feint, are still unexcelled. The initial odds were four to one on Johnson. But when the Cubans watched him at his training camp, the odds took a tumble. So when Tex O’Rourke, Willard and his retinue reached Cuba, I decided to spend most of my time with Jess. He was the big story. The public in America was more interested in him. They wanted to know how he shaped up for the big test, what his mental attitude was, his general demeanor, and the progress he was making. It was my job to see that our readers received the information, and it was while out with Jess and O’Rourke that I got a scoop that hit the headlines. Willard was a mountain of a man, 6 feet 5 inches tall and 260 pounds in weight. Yet he had two failings—his right fist lacked snap, and his legs, though well proportioned for his massive body, tired too quickly. For weeks his trainer had made the challenger run miles every day over the roughest going he could find. By the time Willard reached Havana his legs had been greatly strengthened and his wind was perfect. He was bronzed as an Indian and supremely confident. In terms of endurance, he was a match for any man alive. Yet two days before the fight, I saw a dramatic, sickening change in him. He became morose and restless. O’Rourke put down Jess’s ugly mood to prefight nerves—a condition that frequently is found in pugilists when the time for their combat approaches. Then fate stepped in in the form of a black duck, and the brave, gale-tossed bird won the world title for Jess! On the morning of the fight, Willard, O’Rourke, and I were strolling along the Malecon, the Havana thoroughfare bordering on the ocean. We stopped by the sea wall and Jess looked gloomily across the waves. O’Rourke’s face was lined with despair. I knew what was bothering the trainer. Only a few hours to the battle for the world crown, and here was the challenger behaving like a sulky child!