By Jim Greenleaf
Close to the Gulf of Mexico in Galveston, Texas, where Broadway meets the seawall is a tiny shotgun house which was the childhood home of Jack Johnson, the first African American heavy-weight world boxing champion. Around the corner is Jack Johnson Rd. and further to the west is a tiny playground named Jack Johnson Park, the center of which is a statue honoring the champ.
Johnson was undisputed champ in 1908.
The name might ring a bell because Jack Johnson was recently pardoned by President Trump for the “crime” that he committed in 1913 of “transporting a woman across state lines for immoral purposes.” He jumped bail, moved to Europe, then to South America and finally to Mexico before, after 7 years on the run, surrendering at the Mexico border to U.S. officials.
He served time in Leavenworth and settled back in the states. He died in a car accident in 1946. There is a great documentary about Jack Johnson on PBS that highlights the career and personal life of this complex man.
Up the road
Forty-five minutes up the road from Galveston is Houston. (I live exactly half way between the two cities, so for the purpose of my writings, I am going to lay claim to residency in both towns.)
The Houston area has a rich history of boxing. George Foreman is from the infamous 5th Ward, Evander Holyfield lived in Houston during his reign. Muhammad Ali was arrested in Houston following his refusal to sign up for the draft in 1967.
So, how do I tie this in with Bristol? I can’t.
(Although my dad had a Bristol friend who went by the name of “Sonny Boy Baker” who got knocked out so often that my mom used to call him “Linoleum” because he spent so much time on the floor.)
But I do have a story about Connecticut’s most famous boxer and the interaction that my brother John and I had with him in 1987.
My brother and I were in Bristol because my mom had passed recently. I was still living in Connecticut, but John and his wife Shelley flew in from Perth, Australia for a few weeks. We were all crashing at my dad’s small house on Leslie Ct.
Saturday night
One Saturday night, “Onion,” as my brother was nicknamed, and I decided to head to the “Hall of Fame” night club on Middle St. We always loved that bar, and it was where I met my wife Mindy in 1981.
It had been years since we had been there, and it was louder than we remembered, but we sat at the bar and were greeted by a bartender who told us, “You drink for free tonight if you talk with this guy.” Next to us was a tiny guy in his 60’s with a pile of books in front of him. It was Willie Pep.
Pep is considered the greatest featherweight boxer of all time with a lifetime record of 229 wins and 11 losses. He was a Hartford guy, who began his boxing career in 1940. His life story is fantastic, so obviously, with “Walk Like an Egyptian” blasting on the dance floor, we attempted to shoot the bull with him.
But Pep didn’t want to shoot the bull with us. He was pushing a book, and it was obvious that this was not the venue to do it. Perhaps his agent was deceived by the bar’s name, “Hall of Fame.” Pep was cordial enough, but getting our free beers turned out to be tougher than we thought.
The music halted
Suddenly, the music halted, and the dance floor was cleared. (People were not happy). Willie was introduced and slowly made his way to the stage. He proceeded to recite obviously rehearsed boxing stories and anecdotes. My heart broke. Think of Robert DeNiro in the nightclub at the end of “Raging Bull.” What these legends had to do to earn their money.
Pep came back, sat next to Onion and me for a few minutes, picked up his books and left about a half hour later. I do not believe he sold one book, nor do I know what book he was selling in 1987.
Willie died in 2006 of dementia pugilistica, a disease which is common to boxers as a result of too many head injuries.
Jim Greenleaf grew up and worked in Bristol until 1995 when he moved to the Houston area. He worked for the Bristol Press until 1986 and recently retired from USA Today newspaper as a Regional Marketing Director.