I have seen and wondered at all sorts of courage: raw and refined, blind and calculating, true and false. When I think of it, my mind is filled with the memories of great fights, with the full-throated roars of vast crowds. The incredible case of Luis Firpo, mentioned in an earlier chapter, is the best example of my belief that a fighter can lack almost everything and yet get somewhere in the boxing game if he isn’t a coward. But there are different kinds of courage. My mind goes back to my early days as a sports reporter, to the amazing Joe Grim. He had neither boxing skill nor punching power, yet he set himself up as a target for the most terrific heavyweight hitters of his time. And he was never knocked out. I remember when he was pitted against the mighty Bob Fitzsimmons, one of the most murderous punchers of all time. Before the gong sounded for the fight to start, Grim walked to the ropes and shouted to the crowd in a loud voice, “I’m Joe Grim. I fear no man on earth.” And he proved it. Throughout the six-round bout, Grim stood his ground in the middle of the ring, taking all the punishment Fitz could give him. Seldom in my ringside career have I seen a man take such a battering and stay on his feet. Fitz unleashed every punch he knew. He grew tired of using Grim as a punching bag; of seeing that swaying figure still standing up under the hurricane of blows. At the end of the fight—the referee gave “No Decision”—Grim was still defiant. He staggered to the ropes and mumbled, “I’m Joe Grim. I fear no man on earth!” And the crowd rose to its feet and roared its approval of the man who refused to bend the knee to the mighty Fitzsimmons. But was it real courage that enabled Grim to take such punishment? Sometimes I think not. I think perhaps madness or conceit might better describe the driving force behind such a display. Of similar stuff was the courage of world middleweight champion Mickey Walker, the Toy Bulldog. The memory of the way he stood up to heavyweight Max Schmeling will stay with me as long as I live. They met in the Long Island Bowl, September 26, 1932. Mickey, six inches shorter than the German, was giving away nearly twenty-five pounds in weight. He boasted that he would take on any fighter at any weight, and he faced up bravely but in vain to the giant Max, then one of the hardest hitters in the world. The Schmeling onslaught began with the first round. Punch after punch connected with Walker’s face and body until he was almost battered to a pulp. Yet he stood up gamely enough, taking terrible punishment and risking permanent injury. The sight of that reeling Mickey being smashed to senselessness was too much for his manager, Jack Kearns. The towel was thrown into the ring in the eighth round and Mickey was almost carried to his dressing room. Here again was a case of unreasoning courage, of gameness carried to the point of stupidity. * * * * *