Andy Duncan - The Pottawotomie Giant

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The Pottawatomie Giant

by Andy Duncan

On the afternoon of November 30, 1915, Jess Willard, for seven months the

heavyweight champion of the world, crouched, hands on knees, in his Los

Angeles hotel window to watch a small figure swaying like a pendulum against

the side of the Times building three blocks away.

"Cripes!" Willard said. "How's he keep from fainting, his head down like that,

huh, Lou?"

"He trains, Champ," said his manager, one haunch on the sill. "Same's you."

Training had been a dispute between the two men lately, but Willard let it go.

"Cripes!" Willard said again, his mouth dry.

The street below was a solid field of hats, with an occasional parasol like a

daisy, and here and there a mounted policeman statue-still and gazing up like

everyone. Thousands were yelling, as if sound alone would buoy the upside-down

figure writhing 150 feet above the pavement.

"Attaboy, Harry!"

"Five minutes, that's too long! Someone bring him down!"

"Five minutes, hell, I seen him do thirty."

"At least he's not underwater this time."

"At least he ain't in a milk can!"

"Look at him go! The straitjacket's not made that can hold that boy, I tell

you."

"You can do it, Harry!"

Willard himself hated crowds, but he had been drawing them all his life. One

of the farm hands had caught him at age twelve toting a balky calf beneath one

arm, and thereafter he couldn't go into town without people egging him on to

lift things—livestock, Mr. Olsburg the banker, the log behind the fancy house.

When people started offering cash money, he couldn't well refuse, having seen

Mama and Papa re-count their jar at the end of every month, the stacks of old

coins dull even in lamplight. So Jess Willard, at thirty-three, knew something

about what physical feats earned, and what they cost. He watched this midair

struggle, lost in jealousy, in sympathy, in professional admiration.

"God damn, will you look at this pop-eyed city," Lou said. "It's lousy with

believers. I tell you, Champ, this fella has set a whole new standard for

public miracles. When Jesus Christ Almighty comes back to town, he'll have to

work his ass off to get in the newspapers at all." Lou tipped back his head,

pursed his lips, and jetted cigar smoke upstairs.

"Do you mind?" asked the woman directly above, one of three crowding a

ninth-floor window. She screwed up her face and fanned the air with her

hands.

"Settle down, sister, smoke'll cure you soon enough," Lou said. He wedged the

cigar back into his mouth and craned his neck to peer around Willard. "Have a

heart, will you, Champ? It's like looking past Gibraltar."

"Sorry," Willard said, and withdrew a couple of inches, taking care not to

bang his head on the sash. He had already banged his head crossing from the

corridor to the parlor, and from the bathroom to the bedroom. Not that it

hurt—no, to be hurt, Willard's head had to be hit plenty harder than that. But

he'd never forgotten how the other children laughed when he hit his head

walking in the door, that day the Pottawatomie County sheriff finally made him

go to school. All the children but Hattie. So he took precautions outside the

ring, and seethed inside each time he forgot he was six foot seven. This

usually happened in hotel suites, all designed for Lou-sized men, or less.

Since Havana, Willard had lived mostly in hotel suites.

Leaning from the next-door window on the left was a jowly man in a derby hat.

He had been looking at Houdini only half the time, Willard the other half. Now

he rasped: "Hey, buddy. Hey. Jess Willard."

Willard dreaded autograph-seekers, but Lou said a champ had to make nice.

"You're the champ, now, boy," Lou kept saying, "and a champ has gotta be

seen!"

"Yeah, that's me," Willard said.

His neighbor looked startled. Most people were, when they heard Willard's bass

rumble for the first time. "I just wanted to say congratulations, Champ, for

putting that nigger on the canvas where he belongs."

"I appreciate it," Willard said. He had learned this response from his father,

a man too proud to say thanks. He tried to focus again on Houdini. The man

seemed to be doing sit-ups in midair, but at a frenzied rate, jackknifing

himself repeatedly. The rope above him whipped from side to side. Willard

wondered how much of the activity was necessary, how much for effect.

The derby-hatted guy wasn't done. "Twenty-six rounds, damn, you taught Mr.

Coon Johnson something about white men, I reckon, hah?"

Ever since Havana. Cripes. Houdini's canvas sleeves, once bound across his

chest, were now bound behind him. Somehow he'd worked his arms over his

head—was the man double-jointed?

"Say, how come you ain't had nothing but exhibitions since? When you gonna

take on Frank Moran, huh? I know that nigger ain't taken the fight out of you.

I know you ain't left your balls down in Cuba." He laughed like a bull

snorting.

Willard sighed. He'd leave this one to Lou. Lou wouldn't have lasted ten

seconds in the ring, but he loved a quarrel better than any boxer Willard

knew.

"Balls?" Lou squawked, right on schedule. "Balls? Let me tell you something,

fella."

Now Houdini's arms were free, the long canvas strap dangling. The crowd

roared.

"When Moran is ready, we'll be ready, you got me?" Lou leaned out to shake his

finger and nearly lost his balance. "Whoa," he said, clutching his hat.

"Fella, you're, why, you're just lucky there's no ledge here. Yeah. You think

he's taking it so easy, well, maybe you want to spar a few rounds with him,

huh?"

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