Dempsey, the product of barefisted brawls in mining camps and hobo jungles throughout the West, had a string of knockouts to his credit, but he had never stacked up against so huge an opponent as Big Jess. Still, Rickard’s opinion of Willard was shared by all in the challenger’s camp. Jack had worked hard to get himself into condition. I shall never forget the wonderful physical appearance he presented, with his flashing dark eyes and skin tanned to the color of a hazel nut. He looked fit to fight the world the day he entered the Toledo ring for that title bout. All signs pointed one way, and the black stars of defeat began to cluster over the head of Willard, even before he climbed into the ring. But he didn’t seem to notice them. Ironically, his chief concern was that he might land himself in serious trouble by fatally injuring his youthful opponent. The night before the fight, I favored Dempsey, figuring that if the battle went any distance, condition must tell. And that is how it was with me when I took my seat by the ringside under a scorching sun which made me sick with heat. There were nearly twenty thousand people in the arena and the possibility of seeing the world heavyweight title change hands was too much for their nerves. They kept up a steady roar for an hour before the battle, and when the men entered the ring, a cyclone of shouts and yelling was unleashed. The first thing that struck me was Dempsey’s apparent nervousness. His perfectly trained body, I thought, was capable of standing the severest test, but what about his nerves? Here was an unknown factor. He sat in his corner, elbows on his knees and head down, scowling at the canvas. He was unshaven, and his growth of dark facial hair added to his tough appearance. Friends at the ringside shouted good luck to him, but he took no notice of them. He even seemed to resent the presence of his manager, Jack Kearns, who was talking to him earnestly. Contrasted with this dark, berry-brown man, Jess Willard looked like a high, blond animal. His face was tanned, but the skin of his body was as white as a woman’s. He looked arrogantly confident as he waved to friends, a superior smile on his lips. Ollie Pecord, the referee, called the men to the middle of the ring for instructions. Willard moved towards him with a long, sure stride. Dempsey, on the other hand, broke into a nervous run. I watched the scowl on his face deepen as Pecord was talking. Jack’s eyes never left the ground. Willard stood easily, listening, and occasionally throwing a contemptuous glance towards his young challenger. He towered over Dempsey, yet I could see that he was soft in comparison with the muscular, steel-hard man from Manassa.