Martin vs. Rosenberg

Two little men, naked to the waist, confronted each other in Madison Square Garden, Manhattan. It was easy to see who would win. One was as wan as if he had spent his life loitering with La Belle Dame Sans Merci beside her autumnal lake, her birdless woods; his face was drawn, his body lean almost to emaciation. He was a young Jew, the challenger. Opposite him stood a diminutive but hirsute Italian, his eyes as fierce as the dark lakes of Il Pitrgatorio, his round muscles bulging under his sleek brown skin. He looked truly what he was--the bantamweight champion of the world. He charged his pathetic opponent like a volley of round-shot. But what was this? A spattering of left jabs stopped his rush, jerked back his head, made the flesh puff around his eyes. Again he charged, again the haggard challenger flicked ' him, right, left. For 13 rounds, the sturdy champion took a dreadful drubbing. Then, with that obstinate, fantastic courage that sometimes animates beaten men, he began to lash out furiously, to force his victorious but weary opponent to duck, cover up, retreat. No use; his arms were slack with fatigue. At the end of the 15th round, the referee lifted the hand of the challenger, Charley ("Phil") Rosenberg, thus giving him the title of the champion, Eddie ("Cannoonball") Martin (real name Edward Martina).