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Mail Tribune 100, March 12, 1920

The following news items were drawn from the archives of the Mail Tribune 100 years ago.

March 12, 1920

A QUIET ATHLETIC REVIVAL HELD AT ELKS CLUB HOUSE

In marked contrast with the somewhat turbulent mass meetings of late was the calm, peaceful yet soul stirring and ennobling demeanor of the Medford Elks last night during the two boxing bouts that followed immediately after the lodge meeting.

Lacking wooden posts for the ring, Joe Rader, Jack Hemphill, P. H. Righam and Walter Whitman were used as such, a rope around them forming the squared circle.

The preliminary was between two very light lightweights. Previous experience — fighting bumblebees — ...The two fifty-pound boxers, the Bear Creek Kid and the Black Demon by name, furnished much mirth in their earnest efforts at trying to reach each other with the gloves. Finally the Black Demon accidentally ran into the glove of his antagonist and turned white.

“Some one should stop this awful slaughter,” remarked George M. Roberts averting his eyes with a shudder — just the fraction of a second and then facing about quickly for fear he might miss something. “The sheriff, mayor or police ought to act.”

The bout was only for two rounds and was rich while it lasted.

But the next contest between 135 pounders knows as the Applegate Tiger and the Medford Rattler, for six rounds was a humdinger from start to finish, and kept the Elks and Roy Young, referee, on edge.

For the purpose of conserving the news print situation the scrappers will be referred to hereafter as merely Tige and Rat. Things were warming up lively in the second round when Rawles Moore soliloquized thus: “This is no place for an ambitious candidate,” and then deftly changed his viewpoint closer to the ringside, in so doing shoving Frank P. Farrell and others out of the way.

Rat started a roundhouse haymaker straight at Tige’s head, which, had it landed would have knocked his block off.

“Missed ‘im,” ejaculated Pat Swayne as he fell to the floor in a faint, the gentle souled Applegate cattleman being overcome with the excitement. A noble Elk had fallen. He was carried out to the church across the street for revival.

“Don’t cheer, brothers, the poor devil may yet live,” warned George Collins whose primitive instincts had been aroused.

In the meantime Rat and Tige never stopped their fast work, playing tattoos on each other’s ribs, landing jabs and uppercuts and other things galore.

“Hit him in the cervus alces” was the coaching shout to Tige of Gus Newbury who, in his agitation, had gotten his Latin mixed. He meant solar plexus.

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