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A Tale of Two Harrys
Theirs was one of the great, enduring friendships in boxing history. One
went onto great accomplishments in journalism; the other, to pugilistic
immortality.
Harry Keck first met Harry Greb in 1914, when Keck was with the
Pittsburgh Post. Greb was in his second year as a pro. Greb had just
returned from Philadelphia, where he had spent most of a year because
promotional difficulties had led to a temporary suspension of boxing in
Pittsburgh. From then on, Keck was with Greb throughout his career
and conversed with him in Pittsburgh the night before the great
middleweight died on an operating table in Atlantic City in October,
1926.
To the day he died, in April of 1956, Keck vehemently, jealously
guarded the memory of Greb-about whom, Keck argued, more drivel
had been written than about any other fighter.
In 1964, Keck told me, "With each passing year, the Greb legend gets
sillier and sillier. His alleged skirt-chasing, drinking, and apathy to training
are canards that evidently will never die. Harry liked the companionship
of both men and women, would take an occasional drink, and trained as
hard as any fighter I ever knew."
"Like so many of the old timers," Keck remembered, Greb often used
one fight as preparation for the next. Don't forget-he fought so often that
this training didn't have to be the elaborate month long ritual modern
fighters make of it."
Keck said most of the Greb stories were rehashes of the old balderdash.
"The stealing goes on and on—and there's no end in sight," Keck would
often remark "Next thing you know, some idiot will insist Greb had three
arms."
In July, 1925, Greb gave Mickey Walker a shot at the middleweight title
he had won two years earlier from southpaw Johnny Wilson. Walker, at
the time, was king of the welterweights. It was a thrilling, vicious fight,
and Greb—seven years older, over the hill, and fighting with only one
good eye—smacked Mickey around more than somewhat. Out of that
fight came one of boxing's hoariest fairy tales: that the two men had a
second brawl outside a New York nightclub. According to the fairy tale,
Walker won that one. Mickey regaled many an afterdinner audience with
that story—not a word of which, according to Keck, was
true.
"I was with Greb, from the time we left the Polo Grounds after Harry's
brilliant victory, until we checked into a mid-town hotel," Keck recalled.
"We didn't even see Walker. But if he's happy with the yarn, let him have
it. There's such a thing as a man telling a story so often that he begins to
believe it himself. Walker says it happened; I say it didn't."
I once asked Keck if he thought Greb had ever known the meaning of
fear.
"I doubt it," he replied, "although I do know that Harry once turned
down a chance to fight Fred Fulton. 'It's not that I'm afraid of Fulton, or
that I don't think I can beat him,' Greb told me, 'but he's tall and has a
fine jab and might bust me up pretty good before I could get to him. I
have too many main events left in me to take the chance.' That was
Greb, the fighter's fighter,a pro all the way. He wasn't bookish, neither
was he stupid."
"There weren't any such things as fan clubs in those days, Keck
reminisced, "but had there been, Greb would have had a dandy if just his
opponents been eligible for membership. And the president of the club
would have Gene Tunney."
Gene Tunably, who lost his only professional fight to him, remembered
Greb as the greatest fighter—"in spots" —he had ever seen. Gene was a
sincerely grieving pallbearer at Greb's funeral, and Tunney's esteem for
his old opponent, far from waning, grew stronger with the passing of the
years. They had fought five times, and only the first bout had Greb been
victorious.
Tommy Loughran once remarked that in his day the woods were full
great fighters—"and on top of heap sat Harry Greb."
Augie Ratner, a tough journeyman middleweight of Greb's era, went
rounds with Harry—20 in New Orleans and 10 in Pittsburgh. When I
visited Augie in Sanger, Calif., Augie said "Greb was a clean fighter with
me." He said Greb was one of the three best ringmen he ever saw. Ted
Kid Lewis and Benny Leonard were the other two.
"Sure," Augie said, 'I've read those stones about Greb being the dirtiest
fighter who ever lived. I didn't see him
in all his fights, but those I did see were wild and woolly affairs—mostly
because of Greb's hurricane style. I saw men much bigger than Harry
deliberately foul him, and then all hell did break loose. Because Harry
always gave as good as he took. Outside the ring, he was a personable
guy with nice manners."
Even Billy Roche, the famous oldtime referee and manager, in writing
about Greb, repeated some of the myths about Harry.
Wrote Roche:
"Greb didn't confine his fistic operations to the prize ring. Once, speeding
to a fight in an automobile with a bevy of female adrnirers, four stickup
men blocked his road with a stalled car. Greb got out, unceremoniously
and with dispatch, flattened the quartet of would-be robbers and
continued on to keep his engagement. Cops picked up the unconscious
victims and Greb had enough left to score a two-round KO.
"Greb's real name was Berg. He changed it for 'business reasons.' "
In actual fact, there is no evidence that Greb ever engaged in a street or
barroom brawl. As Jimmy Slattery once wryly put it, "Who'd be crazy
enough to take on Greb in a street or alley, with no referee?"
And Greb's name was Greb. His father's first name was Pius, and
Harry's was Edward Henry.
Only one book about Greb has been written—by a man named James
Fair, who, as Keck's ringside telegrapher, covered many of Harry's
New York fights with him. He became enamored of Greb and wrote the
book, "Give Him to the Angels," in 90 days. It turned out to be a
chronicle of Greb's alleged sexual exploits, not a biography of a great
fighter. When Greb's family threatened suit, the book was withdrawn
from the market.
They said he couldn't punch, couldn't box. What, then did Harry Greb
have? Answer: he had blinding speed, a great rubbery pair of bouncy
legs, a tremendous fighting heart. He started his fights at a fast pace and
gradually accelerated it. None could keep up with him until he began to
taper off in his last year or so. He once told Keck, -"I can hit as hard as
any man my weight if I set myself to punch; but if I do that, I'll get hit in
return." So he beat 'em with speed and endurance.
Greb lost an eye in a fight with tough Kid Norfolk, who thumbed him.
That was in 1921—and Greb fought for five more years with only one
eye, beating most of the top fighters of his time. He never bewailed his
fate; few persons knew about it .
It has often been written that Greb died "under mysterious
circumstances." Poppycock. One doctor said he died as a result of what
we now call cardiac arrest; another said it was a cerebral hemmorhage
that carried him off. In any event, he died of natural causes.
Flaming courage in motion. Perpetual motion. That was Harry Greb.
"A real nice guy...and probably the greatest fighter who ever lived. "
That was Keck's epitaph for his friend.
Harry Clevelin, Boxing Illsutrated August 1980
Theirs was one of the great, enduring friendships in boxing history. One
went onto great accomplishments in journalism; the other, to pugilistic
immortality.
Harry Keck first met Harry Greb in 1914, when Keck was with the
Pittsburgh Post. Greb was in his second year as a pro. Greb had just
returned from Philadelphia, where he had spent most of a year because
promotional difficulties had led to a temporary suspension of boxing in
Pittsburgh. From then on, Keck was with Greb throughout his career
and conversed with him in Pittsburgh the night before the great
middleweight died on an operating table in Atlantic City in October,
1926.
To the day he died, in April of 1956, Keck vehemently, jealously
guarded the memory of Greb-about whom, Keck argued, more drivel
had been written than about any other fighter.
In 1964, Keck told me, "With each passing year, the Greb legend gets
sillier and sillier. His alleged skirt-chasing, drinking, and apathy to training
are canards that evidently will never die. Harry liked the companionship
of both men and women, would take an occasional drink, and trained as
hard as any fighter I ever knew."
"Like so many of the old timers," Keck remembered, Greb often used
one fight as preparation for the next. Don't forget-he fought so often that
this training didn't have to be the elaborate month long ritual modern
fighters make of it."
Keck said most of the Greb stories were rehashes of the old balderdash.
"The stealing goes on and on—and there's no end in sight," Keck would
often remark "Next thing you know, some idiot will insist Greb had three
arms."
In July, 1925, Greb gave Mickey Walker a shot at the middleweight title
he had won two years earlier from southpaw Johnny Wilson. Walker, at
the time, was king of the welterweights. It was a thrilling, vicious fight,
and Greb—seven years older, over the hill, and fighting with only one
good eye—smacked Mickey around more than somewhat. Out of that
fight came one of boxing's hoariest fairy tales: that the two men had a
second brawl outside a New York nightclub. According to the fairy tale,
Walker won that one. Mickey regaled many an afterdinner audience with
that story—not a word of which, according to Keck, was
true.
"I was with Greb, from the time we left the Polo Grounds after Harry's
brilliant victory, until we checked into a mid-town hotel," Keck recalled.
"We didn't even see Walker. But if he's happy with the yarn, let him have
it. There's such a thing as a man telling a story so often that he begins to
believe it himself. Walker says it happened; I say it didn't."
I once asked Keck if he thought Greb had ever known the meaning of
fear.
"I doubt it," he replied, "although I do know that Harry once turned
down a chance to fight Fred Fulton. 'It's not that I'm afraid of Fulton, or
that I don't think I can beat him,' Greb told me, 'but he's tall and has a
fine jab and might bust me up pretty good before I could get to him. I
have too many main events left in me to take the chance.' That was
Greb, the fighter's fighter,a pro all the way. He wasn't bookish, neither
was he stupid."
"There weren't any such things as fan clubs in those days, Keck
reminisced, "but had there been, Greb would have had a dandy if just his
opponents been eligible for membership. And the president of the club
would have Gene Tunney."
Gene Tunably, who lost his only professional fight to him, remembered
Greb as the greatest fighter—"in spots" —he had ever seen. Gene was a
sincerely grieving pallbearer at Greb's funeral, and Tunney's esteem for
his old opponent, far from waning, grew stronger with the passing of the
years. They had fought five times, and only the first bout had Greb been
victorious.
Tommy Loughran once remarked that in his day the woods were full
great fighters—"and on top of heap sat Harry Greb."
Augie Ratner, a tough journeyman middleweight of Greb's era, went
rounds with Harry—20 in New Orleans and 10 in Pittsburgh. When I
visited Augie in Sanger, Calif., Augie said "Greb was a clean fighter with
me." He said Greb was one of the three best ringmen he ever saw. Ted
Kid Lewis and Benny Leonard were the other two.
"Sure," Augie said, 'I've read those stones about Greb being the dirtiest
fighter who ever lived. I didn't see him
in all his fights, but those I did see were wild and woolly affairs—mostly
because of Greb's hurricane style. I saw men much bigger than Harry
deliberately foul him, and then all hell did break loose. Because Harry
always gave as good as he took. Outside the ring, he was a personable
guy with nice manners."
Even Billy Roche, the famous oldtime referee and manager, in writing
about Greb, repeated some of the myths about Harry.
Wrote Roche:
"Greb didn't confine his fistic operations to the prize ring. Once, speeding
to a fight in an automobile with a bevy of female adrnirers, four stickup
men blocked his road with a stalled car. Greb got out, unceremoniously
and with dispatch, flattened the quartet of would-be robbers and
continued on to keep his engagement. Cops picked up the unconscious
victims and Greb had enough left to score a two-round KO.
"Greb's real name was Berg. He changed it for 'business reasons.' "
In actual fact, there is no evidence that Greb ever engaged in a street or
barroom brawl. As Jimmy Slattery once wryly put it, "Who'd be crazy
enough to take on Greb in a street or alley, with no referee?"
And Greb's name was Greb. His father's first name was Pius, and
Harry's was Edward Henry.
Only one book about Greb has been written—by a man named James
Fair, who, as Keck's ringside telegrapher, covered many of Harry's
New York fights with him. He became enamored of Greb and wrote the
book, "Give Him to the Angels," in 90 days. It turned out to be a
chronicle of Greb's alleged sexual exploits, not a biography of a great
fighter. When Greb's family threatened suit, the book was withdrawn
from the market.
They said he couldn't punch, couldn't box. What, then did Harry Greb
have? Answer: he had blinding speed, a great rubbery pair of bouncy
legs, a tremendous fighting heart. He started his fights at a fast pace and
gradually accelerated it. None could keep up with him until he began to
taper off in his last year or so. He once told Keck, -"I can hit as hard as
any man my weight if I set myself to punch; but if I do that, I'll get hit in
return." So he beat 'em with speed and endurance.
Greb lost an eye in a fight with tough Kid Norfolk, who thumbed him.
That was in 1921—and Greb fought for five more years with only one
eye, beating most of the top fighters of his time. He never bewailed his
fate; few persons knew about it .
It has often been written that Greb died "under mysterious
circumstances." Poppycock. One doctor said he died as a result of what
we now call cardiac arrest; another said it was a cerebral hemmorhage
that carried him off. In any event, he died of natural causes.
Flaming courage in motion. Perpetual motion. That was Harry Greb.
"A real nice guy...and probably the greatest fighter who ever lived. "
That was Keck's epitaph for his friend.
Harry Clevelin, Boxing Illsutrated August 1980
| Dorothy Wohlforth, Harry's daughter, shows off Greb's Hall of Fame plaque. |
| Harry Greb with wife Mildred and daughter Dorothy. |
| The legends shake on it...Harry Greb and Mickey Walker agree to terms for their 1925 fight. |
| Harry Greb clowns with Philadelphia Jack O'Brien. |