Sport: Bomber, Assassin, Slasher

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In the history of U. S. pugilism, filled though it is with the names of many able Negro fighters, there has been only one black heavyweight champion of the world. He, baldheaded, gold-toothed old Jack Johnson, last week climbed into a New York prizering for the honor of being introduced to a crowd that had come to see the Negro who may well be the second. Presently, Jack Johnson clambered out of the ring and the man the crowd had come to see stood up. Joe Louis (pronounced Lewis) of Detroit, whose exploits in the past year have made him the hero of as lively a ballyhoo as U. S. sports-pages have ever seen, was now about to engage the most dangerous adversary of his career, Brobdingnagian Primo Carnera. For a moment the two men stood with their seconds at the centre of the ring. Swarthy Carnera looked darker than khaki-colored Louis. Then the bell rang and the fight began.

Made wary by the enthusiasm for Louis expressed by sportswriters who only a fortnight before had erroneously picked Max Baer to beat James J. Braddock, sophisticated spectators were surprised by what happened in the first round. Instead of cautiously sizing up an adversary who outweighed him 260 lb. to 196 lb., Louis immediately smashed a right to Carnera's mouth. Because his careless handlers had neglected to give the hulking Italian the mouthpiece which all fighters wear to protect their gums and lips from their teeth, blood began to trickle down Carnera's jaw.

In the next round and the next Louis stalked Carnera, waiting his chance, warily aiming punches at his body. By the end of the fourth round, these had served their purpose—to bring Carnera's guard down, make him leave his jaw unprotected. In the fifth round Louis smashed a left to Carnera's face. This time when the blood spurted the crowd knew what to expect.

The end came in the sixth. Bland, graceful, incorrigibly calm, Louis stalked Carnera across the ring, drove a right to his jaw. Carnera fell, dragged himself up, crashed down again, with another right to the jaw. Louis, an amazingly motionless figure, outlined against the ring lights, leaned on the ropes for a moment. When Carnera was on his feet again, Louis moved in, landed a crashing left. As Carnera got up for the third time, he had just presence of mind enough left to turn toward the referee before Louis had time to hit him again. Referee Arthur Donovan stepped between the fighters and the bout was over.

Before last week's fight, sportswriters were inclined to think that Joe Louis might some day win the world's heavyweight championship. When it was over they took it for granted. If and when he becomes heavyweight champion—by beating Max Schmeling next September, then Max Baer, and finally Champion Braddock—Joe Louis will be handicapped in his enjoyment of that honor by the most absurd string of nicknames, the most dazzling rise to fame and possibly the most extraordinary temperament in the history of his sport.