Two Hibernian light-heavy-weights made all legal efforts, and some illegal, to mangle each other in a ring at Madison Square Garden, Manhattan. One was young, handsome Thomas Loughran of Philadelphia; the other was aged, wrinkled Michael McTigue of Manhattan, the titleholder.
Fifteen more vicious rounds are seldom seen in the prize ring. Crafty McTigue summoned all his shrewd experience to ward off Loughran’s punches. Mastered, McTigue muttered to the men in his corner: “I want to get goin’, but I can’t.”
McTigue, vexed, tried slugging; was often warned for hitting low.
Both slugged. But it was Loughran’s adder-like left that told the story. He used it, said the radio announcer, “like a paint brush: daubing, tapping, slapping.” There were no knockdowns. Loughran won the title by decision. At the finish, McTigue rested head and arms on his opponent’s shoulder. Said Loughran, in his ear: “Anybody but you, Mike. I’m sorry you had to lose.”
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