“Snug as a bug in a rug,” John L. chuckled. “Let’s go!” Regan wrestled a bit with the unfamiliar machine, cursing the sudden appearance of three carriages he was obliged to let pass before proceeding.
“So, are you sorry to see TR go?” asked the Chief as he struggled with the vehicle.
“Who?” asked John L.
“Teddy Roosevelt.”
“Oh. Well yeah, truth be told. I fully like and admire the man. Everybody knows I do. He’s colorful. Decisive. Generous. With a crazy family to boot. I can certainly concur with that! Don’t know what that Taft fella is all about, though. He strikes me as dull. But standing next to him makes me look like I’m in top form in comparison,” he laughed. “I mean, how much food does one man need? Yeah. My guess is that Taft will most likely end up a one-term president unless he manages to achieve something extraordinary. What about you? You were with TR quite a bit during his swearing in,” said John L. referring to Roosevelt’s taking the Oath of Office in Buffalo right after President McKinley died.
“I like him very much,” admitted Regan. “He was just what this country needed at the exact time it needed it. And I might add that I would have had him try for an additional term.”
“Well, he says he’s tired,” John L. laughed. “I know just how he feels. Anyway, he gets to go on safari in Africa for an entire year. Who wouldn’t be energized by such a prospect?”
“Jesus! Where’d all this traffic come from so suddenly?” Regan bristled.
The Chief made a careful U-turn after a number of carriages and drays had passed. He continued in the direction of the First Ward.
“How’s our Jimmy?” inquired the boxer.
“Which one, Conners or Sullivan?” the Chief teased with a mischievous smile.
John L. scoffed. “Which one do you think? I hate that deformed little leprechaun Conners! He looks like someone put his face in a vice when he was a baby and turned the crank extra tight. He’s not gonna be there, I hope?”
“I’m not sure,” Chief Regan evaded. “The Honorable Fingy consorts mostly with the upper crust these days. When he’s not with Hearst at his ranch out in California then he’s down in Palm Beach racing his motorboats and playing golf with all them other swells.”
“How’s cousin Jim? And his awful little brother?”
“His awful little brother is your cousin too.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“They’re both doin’ just grand. You’ll see for yourself in a few minutes,” said the Chief.
The Mutual Rowing Club’s boathouse had been transformed by the self-christened Boys from Clare. The parlor was decorated with American and Irish flags, evergreen boughs and bunting, red Chinese lanterns, and streamers in green, red and black, the Mutuals’ most current colors. It was an impressive venue these days, with rowing machines for winter training and a handball court that served also as a billiards room and a boxing/wrestling ring. The building in measure ticked in at 110 feet in length by 25 feet wide, two stories high, red brick. The parlor boasted a marvelous bar rescued from the burned out Hotel Richmond. It occupied the second floor at the front, overlooking the river and the gigantic new concrete grain elevators across the black waters. Beyond that, the sapphire expanse of Lake Erie was now white with thick ice, much to the Alderman’s delight. The ground floor had been cleared of all the sporting paraphernalia to create a generous dance floor.
This evening’s event was the first annual Calico Ball, one of the many galas crowding the club’s hectic social season. The shindy was dedicated to the Mutual Rowing Club’s old-timers. The organization was celebrating its twenty-eighth year, and founder Jim Sullivan proudly escorted wife Hannah on his arm. His eldest, Jim Jr., escorted Mary Ellen Diggins from Mackinaw Street. Theirs was still an on-again, off-again, relationship that nobody understood and that Hannah wished would be off permanently. Daughter Nellie was unattached and loathe to be seen at such a public event unescorted, but her father would not abide her not being there, especially with cousin John L. as the guest of honor.
Nellie did not care much for her brother’s sweetheart either, because to her Mary Ellen Diggins was anything but sweet. “She vacillates between her two most common moods,” Nellie liked to say, “mercurial, and sour.” The Diggins girl was considered haughty of demeanor, especially interesting in light of her very ordinary background. Nellie’s next-door cousins, the Alderman’s tribe, could be haughty as well, but at least they had some justification, she reasoned—their father was famous, and rich. Mary Ellen Diggins resented all the Sullivan girls. They had what she had not. Miss Diggins’ attachment to Jim Jr. could be interpreted as manipulative. She loved him and then she didn’t; she wanted to be with him and then she didn’t care to see him anymore. Come here, go away. Nellie was perplexed. What could her brother possibly see in that girl? She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t nice. She looked down her nose at half her acquaintances. Her personality hinted strongly at some family shame not spoken of. Nellie knew that her handsome, smiling, kindly sibling could do so much better. But there was no question that Mary Ellen Diggins had some kind of strange hold over him.
Jim Sullivan’s youngest son David just turned twelve, and like his older brother showed little interest in rowing, much to his father’s disappointment. Chief Michael Regan’s son David had become the star of the club, but no Sullivan son from either founding family had followed suit. The Detective Sergeant had expected that his sons, having grown up right next door to the boathouse and being offspring of its founder, might excel at sculling. They had met all the greats, attended the regattas from birth, helped out at the boathouse. But the short summers, the filthy water, the coal smoke-thickened air were just some of the things that dampened their ardor for the sport. In Jim Jr.’s case, he believed the river was cursed. With troubling regularity it was the scene of many a tragic death. The police tug was a continual presence. Accidents, suicides, murders, drunks, small children. Significantly too, his younger brother John had drowned just steps from the Mutuals’ boathouse. That in itself more than anything may have diminished what enthusiasm he otherwise might have had. The sons did however enjoy all the club’s picnics, sporting events, dances and fund raisers. They were advised that these social events would afford them opportunity to forge the kind of lasting friendships that could provide positive circumstances for furthering themselves in the future. Yet they did not entirely take full advantage socially, despite the urgings of their father and their uncle. Either or both were on friendly terms with virtually every important person in the city, and others well beyond its borders.
Having grown up snared in the undergrowth of entanglements and crises that resulted from their father’s and uncle’s associations, they were thus wary about others and discerning about who they got close to. They’d witnessed firsthand the pitfalls and heavy cost of being beholden to other people.
The Alderman’s entire brood attended the Ball, excited to see the guest of honor, especially eldest sons Thomas and Daniel, who worshiped cousin John L. Bragging rights would continue to be theirs well into the future among their peers for their celebrating with the boxing legend this night, though they tended to exaggerate the closeness of John L.’s friendship with their father for effect.
It was the Alderman’s brother Jim in whom John L. had discovered a kindred spirit. Confidants, his and John L.’s affection went back many years to the barn in Belfast N.Y. where John L. had trained for the legendary battle with Jake Kilrain, and where Jim Sullivan had made the long journey on a number of occasions to support and encourage his pugilist cousin.
Sculling was a seasonal sport. In its earliest days the boathouse’s very first non-boating endeavor was boxing. A ring was installed and regular matches held, at first only during the club’s idle winter months, but soon thereafter year round. John L. had been invited to come have a look back then, and Jim Sullivan had ridden all the way out to Belfast on the train to fetch him. John L. looked the South Street facilities over
appreciatively and gave compliments and a few advisements for improvements, which were immediately adopted.
Whenever John L. visited Buffalo he booked a suite at the Iroquois, but he sometimes slept at the comfortable boathouse when the festivities ran late and Hannah could not convince him to take the guest bedroom. So now here he was back once more and feeling pretty good since he’d cut back on his drinking. He was in his fifties, and between his twenty-five years of brutal bare-knuckled fights and his unending dedication to merry-making, he had been feeling old beyond his years for some time already. Despite this, he was committed to making this evening a memorable one. The Big Fellow found himself surrounded by plenty of other Sullivans, not necessarily all related but as the Express reported the following day, “all very husky boys.” The Calico Ball of 1909 would turn out to be the great social event of the great South Side.
All the old-time oarsmen were much in evidence and took special delight in dancing the old dances with their wives and daughters. The colorful calico costumes worn by the women delighted the eye, while the men, glad to be freed of starched collars and tight suits, were relaxed and happy in their overalls and jumpers.
When the dancing began on the main floor, the hall was jammed. The manager called “Take your partners for an eight-hand reel!” and a great shout of joy went up as couples eagerly anticipated their turn. The young members of the club parted to give the old-timers the right of way, for it was their special night.
Alderman Sullivan was to step out first, for in this dance he tended to exhibit an impressive degree of proficiency despite his handicap. It was a tradition that for the first dance the Alderman would escort the chosen Belle of the Dance as his partner, thus leaving Annie standing there alone to endure yet another of her husband’s peacocky public performances.
“He’s such a whore for attention,” whispered Annie to Hanna, who laughed right out loud at the uncharacteristic but spot-on vulgarity. John L. stood watching them. He knew exactly what the two were laughing about. Not one to abide tradition or malarkey, John L. walked up to her, took Annie’s hand and escorted her out onto the floor, shooting a wink and a knowing look back toward Jim and Hannah in the process. Jim couldn’t help but smile seeing his little brother’s face react to being upstaged. Annie made no attempt to disguise her delight. Hannah gloated at seeing JP put in his place.
The eight hand reel is a dance par excellence that calls for youth, agility, wind and temper, for flying heels and laughing eyes and stops only when some pleading hand is waved to the maestro. Once John L. and Annie intruded in the Alderman’s spotlight, the rest of the crowd followed suit, and in no time at all the hall was overflowing with the sounds of music, frenzied feet stepping to the music of Old Dan Tucker and Captain Jinks and delighted laughter.
One floor above, other entertainments were going on even as the dancing was in progress, enjoyed by the crowds that overflowed the meeting rooms and parlors. Tom Nunan, former ice business partner to the Alderman, entertained with old-time favorite songs, which were loudly applauded. Albert Bell, the veteran jig dancer, was obliged to respond to several encores. Local sculling legend Ed Dray sang comic songs. Frank Parsons and Thomas Myers sang sentimental ditties. Then, after the theaters closed, a fresh batch of professionals descended on the already-packed boathouse and took over the entertainment. Most welcome among them was comedian and juggler W.C. Fields, appearing at M.R.C. club member Michael Shea’s House of Vaudeville theater. Hannah noted that Fields bore more than just a passing resemblance to Fingy Conners, absent the menacing countenance.
Tonight was not only a reunion of old-time Mutual oarsmen, but an occasion in which the veterans of the other old rowing organizations, the Celtics and the West Ends participated. There was much merriment and movement of the crowds between the two floors and visits outside into the cold for a smoke or for when the activities lead to overheating.
John L. was formally and ceremoniously introduced to the assemblage by Police Chief Regan, to a great upwelling of cheers.
“Why, the girls here tonight are so pretty,” exclaimed John L. to the worshiping crowd, “that you could fire up a pipe at the light in their eyes!”
The crowd cheered again, and the women’s hearts fluttered. John L. continued:
“If everybody here isn’t joyful and happy, then it’s everybody’s fault. Our hosts promise to see to it that the fun is kept to a meridian pitch throughout the night and that dull care will be refused admittance!”
The guest of honor found himself among a plethora of Sullivans, every last one of whom he was determined to be introduced to, including the Mutual Rowing Club member who shared his exact name: John L. Sullivan of local quoit-pitching fame. The Big Fellow smiled wide as he heard all the hellos from so many Sullivans.
John L. continued to be surrounded throughout the evening by well-wishers and doe-eyed admirers. His gaze kept darting back to Jim’s Hannah and the Alderman’s Annie and he speculated once again what it might be like to have a fawning large boned wife and a cartload of adoring children to come home to every night, to eat dinner with and attend unassuming events such as this one. He had always found Hannah especially engaging, and not being at all shy he had told her so. He thought her solid and forthright, intelligent and capable and admirably in charge of her family, although at times appearing a bit overbearing. He watched as she gently slipped her hand into her husband’s as she reconnected with him now and again throughout the evening. The looks they gave each other made John L.’s heart ache, just a little. He and his Kate didn’t have that. But, then again, that was his own doing. As he began to lose himself even deeper into his daydream a solid slap on his back brought him back to the event at hand, and he was encouraged to entertain the eager crowd with one of his many vivid stories.
He boasted how he had traveled to Chantilly, France in 1888 for a rematch with the great Charley Mitchell, who had clocked John L. real good in their 1883 match, sending the Big Man to the ground in the first round. Boxing matches were illegal in France, and attendees were not told of the location until the morning of the fight. The meet took place at a beautiful chateau in the driving rain. It slogged on painfully for more than two brutal hours. In the end both participants were barely recognizable as being human, so beaten, swollen and bloody were they.
“I was yet on me feet,” John L. began, “but barely conscious for the great loss of blood and the pounding that we had visited upon one another. I could no longer lift me arms to punch, nor could Charley. The rain came down in sheets and the ground was runnin’ with a river of red and the spectators were almost as exhausted as we. Charley and me looked at each other and between us flowed this electricity like a telegraph signal that caused us at the exact same moment to agree to end it.
“The battle was called a draw. So relieved were we both that we didn’t notice the gendarmerie had descended on the chateau. They fully intended to lock us up in addition to as many of the spectators as they could collar. It was pandemonium! I was stumblin’ around, a bleedin’ mess of pulp, blinded by blood and salty sweat runnin’ to my eyes. Two gentlemen grabbed me by the elbows and practically lifted me off the ground, and as you can see, my friends,” he said, patting his ample belly, “I am no easy carry!”
The room resounded in laughter.
“As they dragged me to safety, someone shouted ‘They got Charley Mitchell!’ and my porters ran even faster then. I was no great help to them in my own escape, I can tell you that!”
Everyone laughed uproariously. The assembled were enthralled with the tale. Chief Regan beamed. The Alderman and his sons Thomas and Daniel were entranced. Detective Jim Sullivan had been holding court across the room, engrossed in telling his own tales about his history with the great John L., but he soon joined his sons and their cousins in The Great Pugilist’s orbit.
Mary Ellen Diggins was sullen despite the gaiety all around her. She did not at all approve of boxing. She grabbed Jim Jr.’s hand and tried to drag him away. He would n
ot hear of it. He shot her a rare condemning look that made her wither.
“Were you not listening to cousin John L. before, Mary Ellen?” he scolded. “He warned, ‘if everybody here isn’t joyful and happy, then it’s everybody’s fault,‘—so stop actin’ a prig!“
She slinked away unescorted toward more neutral spaces. Jim’s twelve year old brother David smirked witnessing the exchange. Mary Ellen had previously made it quite clear to him that she did not care for him at all. He was gladdened witnessing her comeuppance.
“They threw me into a carriage,” John L. continued, “and it was then that I passed out. Later, I awoke, wrapped in bandages at the docks, and they carted me onto a yacht that took me across the English Channel. The seas were awful rough, and I was sicker than a dog, retching over the side of the ship, my head aching like someone was pounding me with a sledgehammer. Then after we reached England they dragged me onto a train destined for Liverpool, where they installed me in a first class sleeper, and there I remained unconscious the entire trip.
“I spent the next ten days in Liverpool, in bed, wondering if I would ever fully recover from Charley Mitchell’s pummeling. I heard that the irresponsible frogs had thrown poor Charley into cell for three or four days, when the man should have been taken to a hospital for God’s sake, but we all know how pointless the French are!”
Everyone concurred loudly and wholeheartedly, applauding and nodding their agreement.
“Charley was finally fined a large sum of money by the local magistrate before he could have his freedom, and to this very day he curses me for getting away. He says, ‘Johnny, ye always did manage to have better friends than me!’”
Jim Jr., shot a big smile to his cousins as the story concluded and everyone applauded the fine tale. Although the boys had all been discouraged by their mothers from smoking, the three went out front to enjoy a cigar regardless. They crossed South Street, leaned on the rail, and lit up.
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