Carey Quits in His Go with Joe Butler

By Camden NJ History
· Updated · 4 min read · News Articles
Newspaper article, Carey Quits in His Go with Joe Butler
Philadelphia Inquirer, September 7, 1897
View transcription
CAREY QUITS IN HIS GO WITH JOE BUTLER On the Principle That He Who Fights and Runs Away Lives to Fight Another Day. A CASE OF HOT TAMOLIES The Gothamite Has the Better of Butler in the First Two Rounds and Then Quits in the Early Part of the Fifth. There is one thing to be said about the boxing entertainments at The Arena—you are never dead sure as to what is going to come off. In their infinite variety the fortnightly boxing conversations given under the auspices of the Quaker City Athletic Club rather overshadow anything given anywhere on this side of the big water. Take last night's for instance. It embraced a little bit of everything and between-men who can put up their hands according to the stipulations prescribed by the M. of Q. at almost any old weight. But the wind up was the thing, that is, it was the real thing. It was between our own Joe Butler, a boxer whose exact status in the art of Fistiana has never been satisfactorily determined by the closest local followers of the game, and "Tom" Carey, who hangs up his hat in the Greater New Yorker, and whose chief claim to fistic distinction lies in the fact that he once stood off Steve O'Donnell, who, it will be recalled, was once proclaimed by Corbett to be the best man in the country, bar himself. It will also be recalled that O'Donnell failed to make good the opinion of his distinguished chief on more than one occasion since then. Under the conditions, then, the dead game sports who went to Broad and Cherry streets last night were keyed-up to the highest notch of expectancy, and ready to see a "mill as would be a mill." * * * The Carey party is a stout lump of a lad, scaling about 190, built low on the water line, and the possessor of a punch that should prove a standing attraction to the most indifferent of boxers. As a boxer, however, he will never gather in the first money in any kind of good company. He is a sort of composite Joe Goddard, Denver Smith and Mike Boden, with the bad points of all three and without any of the merits that made those worthies cut some figure in the fistic world. In the first round Carey landed a sort of right-handed chop swing on Butler's jaw that had a noticeable disquieting effect upon the colored man and brother. The second round was all Carey's, who got in another of those funny chopstick swings. * * * In the third round Butler changed his tactics, devoting his attention to the capacious cold storage plant of Carey's, upon which he landed with his left with telling effect. Carey then got in a swinging right-hander on Butler's wind attachment. What followed, only the truthful veriscope could have portrayed. There were wild and lurid mix-ups, there were combinations of writhing, wriggling arms, legs and bodies on the floor; there was catch-as-catch-can wrestling to beat the band, but calm and serene, rising superior to the fierceness of his surroundings, clad in a swagger Tuxedo, broad expanse of shirt bosom set off with an eminently respectable black tie, loomed the commanding figure of Referee Crowhurst, who took his life in his hands in his efforts to separate the two men, who were holding on to each other for dear life, fearing that they might hurt each other. While all this was going on, the spectators were making themselves heard in all sorts of ways. At the sound of the gong, the principals untangled themselves, and after a few remarks from the referee, the ceremonies were resumed. * * * Both men were visibly tired when they came up for the fourth round, but of the two, Butler appeared to be the more distressed. This round was a hot tamale. It was a case of give and take, both men fighting like a pair of washerwomen hanging out clothes on a windy day. Butler had a shade the better of the exchanging, and was so bent upon securing a decided verdict that he so far forgot the rules as to hit Carey after the gong sounded. This brought him into disrepute with the crowd. As soon as the men got together in the fifth, Carey landed with both right and left, but he soon tired of this, and while the round was only about a minute old he picked out a nice soft spot on the floor, and quit. And with the strange perversity of crowds the spectators cheered him and showed a disposition to hoot Butler. The latter did certainly infringe upon the rules when he hit Carey after the gong sounded, and once before he did hit Carey foul, but it was purely accidental, and he immediately apologized. But he did nothing to justify the roasting to which he was subjected. * * * In the preliminaries Young Jack McDonald bested Tom Williams; Young Cal McCarthy quit in the third round of his go with Billy Smith; Howard Wilson had a shade the better of Dan McConnell, and Frank Bradley outpointed John Henry Johnson.

CAREY QUITS IN HIS GO WITH JOE BUTLER

On the Principle That He Who Fights and Runs Away Lives to Fight Another Day.

A CASE OF HOT TAMOLIES [sic]

The Gothamite Has the Better of Butler in the First Two Rounds and Then Quits in the Early Part of the Fifth.

There is one thing to be said about the boxing entertainments at The Arena—you are never dead sure as to what is going to come off. In their infinite variety the fortnightly boxing conversations given under the auspices of the Quaker City Athletic Club rather overshadow anything given anywhere on this side of the big water. Take last night's for instance. It embraced a little bit of everything and between-men who can put up their hands according to the stipulations prescribed by the M. of Q. at almost any old weight. But the wind up was the thing, that is, it was the real thing. It was between our own Joe Butler, a boxer whose exact status in the art of Fistiana has never been satisfactorily determined by the closest local followers of the game, and "Tom" Carey, who hangs up his hat in the Greater New Yorker, and whose chief claim to fistic distinction lies in the fact that he once stood off Steve O'Donnell, who, it will be recalled, was once proclaimed by Corbett to be the best man in the country, bar himself. It will also be recalled that O'Donnell failed to make good the opinion of his distinguished chief on more than one occasion since then. Under the conditions, then, the dead game sports who went to Broad and Cherry streets last night were keyed-up to the highest notch of expectancy, and ready to see a "mill as would be a mill."

The Carey party is a stout lump of a lad, scaling about 190, built low on the water line, and the possessor of a punch that should prove a standing attraction to the most indifferent of boxers. As a boxer, however, he will never gather in the first money in any kind of good company. He is a sort of composite Joe Goddard, Denver Smith and Mike Boden, with the bad points of all three and without any of the merits that made those worthies cut some figure in the fistic world. In the first round Carey landed a sort of right-handed chop swing on Butler's jaw that had a noticeable disquieting effect upon the colored man and brother. The second round was all Carey's, who got in another of those funny chopstick swings.

In the third round Butler changed his tactics, devoting his attention to the capacious cold storage plant of Carey's, upon which he landed with his left with telling effect. Carey then got in a swinging right-hander on Butler's wind attachment. What followed, only the truthful veriscope could have portrayed. There were wild and lurid mix-ups, there were combinations of writhing, wriggling arms, legs and bodies on the floor; there was catch-as-catch-can wrestling to beat the band, but calm and serene, rising superior to the fierceness of his surroundings, clad in a swagger Tuxedo, broad expanse of shirt bosom set off with an eminently respectable black tie, loomed the commanding figure of Referee Crowhurst, who took his life in his hands in his efforts to separate the two men, who were holding on to each other for dear life, fearing that they might hurt each other. While all this was going on, the spectators were making themselves heard in all sorts of ways. At the sound of the gong, the principals untangled themselves, and after a few remarks from the referee, the ceremonies were resumed.

Both men were visibly tired when they came up for the fourth round, but of the two, Butler appeared to be the more distressed. This round was a hot tamale. It was a case of give and take, both men fighting like a pair of washerwomen hanging out clothes on a windy day. Butler had a shade the better of the exchanging, and was so bent upon securing a decided verdict that he so far forgot the rules as to hit Carey after the gong sounded. This brought him into disrepute with the crowd. As soon as the men got together in the fifth, Carey landed with both right and left, but he soon tired of this, and while the round was only about a minute old he picked out a nice soft spot on the floor, and quit. And with the strange perversity of crowds the spectators cheered him and showed a disposition to hoot Butler. The latter did certainly infringe upon the rules when he hit Carey after the gong sounded, and once before he did hit Carey foul, but it was purely accidental, and he immediately apologized. But he did nothing to justify the roasting to which he was subjected.

In the preliminaries Young Jack McDonald bested Tom Williams; Young Cal McCarthy quit in the third round of his go with Billy Smith; Howard Wilson had a shade the better of Dan McConnell, and Frank Bradley outpointed John Henry Johnson.

Advertisement

Comments