These are columns that for want of a better term could be labeled as human interest pieces. April 18: Fight Night at the Harvard Club It was billed as "a return to the gracious days when men cheered their pugilistic gladiators lustily while their women attended to home and children." With "a magnificent feast" ("discreet wagering among members permitted"). It was "Fight Night" at the Harvard Club in Manhattan the other night. "For gentlemen only, black tie."
A call was made to a Harvard man who had a friend who was a member and a subterfuge was arranged whereby I would impersonate the member and crash the club. It is no small feat to crash an affair when you are paying $17.50 for the privilege. Plus the added matter of a last-minute rental of a tuxedo to make sure the John Harvards didn't recognize an interloper from Brooklyn College, class of 1950. Quite spiffy in my rented tuxedo ($14), I gained admission with nary a raised eyebrow and was ushered into the gaming room-oak paneling, leather chairs, oil portraits on the walls, bulletin boards recording the current spirited competition among Harvard grads in backgammon, dominoes and bridge. Then, on to the dining room-wall-to-wall oak floors, portraits of great Harvard men. I took a table under the baleful eye of an eminent Harvard man, class of '98, and perused the portraits of the two Roosevelts and John F. Kennedy, three Harvard immortals-who also were Presidents of the United States.
President Teddy Roosevelt in 1908 answered Harvard coach Percy Haughton's plea that Lt. Ernie Graves be shifted from army duty so that he could coach the Harvard line. Roosevelt handed the request to Secretary of War William Howard Taft with the note, "I was a Harvard man before I was a politician. Please do what these gentlemen want." So Taft, a Yale man, got Harvard its line coach and Harvard went on to an unbeaten season, defeating unbeaten Yale. Dinner was a neat repast of shrimp, steak, potatoes and string beans topped by an excellent cheesecake, brandy and the longest, fattest cigar I had ever seen, which seemed to get longer the more it was smoked. Now on to adjoining Harvard Hall. A boxing ring had been set up between two large chandeliers in a small auditorium, or large library room. Folding chairs and comfortable leather chairs for some 250 spectators were aligned in rows under dusky oil portraits. I looked for one of coach Haughton. Some members balked at the introduction of boxing to Harvard Hall because they thought it undignified. I knew old Percy would have approved. Once,when a player was not giving his all in practice Haugton grabbed the laggard, shook him and said, "Get over to the sideline. The trouble with you is that you perspire. We want men who sweat." Haughton is reputed to have inspired his men before a game against the Yale bulldogs by bringing a bulldog into the locker room and choking it to death with his bare hands. It's only a story, it's patently untrue. I think. The program consisted of three fights of professional boxers matched by promoter Al Joyner, who generally operates in places like Manhattan's Audubon Ballroom and in Secaucus, New Jersey. "We pay them the same rate they would get in Secauscus," Joyner said. The fighters came to fight and didn't seem to be awed by their surroundings. Some day, though, they can tell their children they were in the Harvard Club, and not working in the kitchen. Irish Tommy Clark rose to the occasion after he pounded George Matisko into submission in a heavyweight brawl. While taking his victor's bow, Clark waved a hand toward his opponent in a "let's hear it for the loser"gesture. The hall was lit by only two large poolroom-like lights over the ring. It suggested the famous George Bellows painting, "Stag Night at Sharkey's." Sharkey's was the private club of its time, though a bit more the bucket-of-blood than the Harvard Club. The dialogue involving a fat heavyweight was vintage fight club. "You're a pretty fat guy," a blade shouted through the cigar-and-brandy haze. "Hey, don't be nasty," another Harvard man shouted. The condescension ended during the third fight, between two willing and able welterweights. Ralph Correra earned a crisp, hard-fought, eight-round decision over Curtis Phillips. The crowd gave the fighters a standing ovation when it was all over. It was agreed by all-the members, the fight people and the overseers of the state boxing commission, that it had been a great evening. Nobody got hurt, nobody threw any furniture into the ring, boxing was staged in an atmosphere of good fellowship and laughs, and a few hard-working boys earned a night's pay. Another non-Harvard man who had crashed the joint, said, "I came to mock, I've stayed to cheer."
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Now the Olympic King Fights for Real Gold 
