The energy of the boys, their drive and enthusiasm, made a great impression on me. I was confident that out of this vast army of amateurs there would spring at least one heavyweight who would make ring history. Wherever the American flag flies, there the seeds of our national pastimes—baseball and boxing—are sown and so I found it in Germany in the years following World War I. Buelow and Pilates had written to me about a young, handsome boy, a powerful hitter and scientific boxer, who, after cleaning up in the amateur field, had now reached top rating among the professionals. They suggested that it would be worth while on my next visit to Germany, to see this boy in action. His name was Max Schmeling. Now on my third journey to Germany, I had decided to make the acquaintance of Max. * * * * * One night in mid-August, 1926, accompanied by Buelow, Pilates and several newspapermen, I left Berlin for the town of Bernau, about thirty miles away, to see the finals of an amateur tournament and a couple of pro fights. Tracking over hills and a rocky valley, we reached a country roadhouse. There I was told we would soon see some good boxing matches. The place was jammed. To get to the meeting house we had to pass through subterranean passageways that had been in use during the war as shelters. Inside the building, situated in the far end of a spacious hall, was a ring about 10 feet long and 8 feet wide. It was set on a platform about 3 feet off the floor. It had no mat covering nor any ring posts. The ropes—three strands—were attached to pulleys fastened to the walls. The spectators, more than a thousand, kept themselves in good humor guzzling beer from German mugs and eating sausages and sauerkraut. Men, women and children crowded the place. Some women dandled nursing babies, others played with dachshunds. It was the strangest gathering I had ever seen at a fight. Shouts and applause greeted every knock-down of which there were many. The people had the kind of naive enthusiasm you see in the old engravings and paintings, such as Hogarth’s _Southwark Fair_. The huge hall where all this took place was used both as a dining room and a meeting place for the townsfolk, but on this occasion it was turned into a boxing arena. My presence was expected due to advance announcements and after an introduction by the Mayor, and a few words of greeting by me, I was escorted to my seat. In the midst of the sprawling country scene, a voice bellowed in my ear: “Herr Nat. Herr Nat. There’s the boy you want to see. That’s Schmeling. If you haven’t heard about him yet, you will pretty soon.” The man who introduced us was Walter Rothenberg, the promoter.