Chicago has had its share of breathlessly hyped boxing matches, but none was bigger than the Gene Tunney-Jack Dempsey heavyweight title bout on Sept. 22, 1927.
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And certainly none was more controversial.
The buildup was relentless; four days before the fight the Tribune wrote: “Never in the annals of prize fighting has such a match as this been promoted.” Ticket sales exceeded $3 million — $1 million more than any prior championship.
The wealthy, powerful and famous were all drawn to the fight and wanted to be at ringside. Among those in attendance were corporate executives, governors, princes, dukes and celebrities such as Charlie Chaplin, Flo Ziegfeld and Jackie Coogan.
Soldier Field was jammed with nearly 105,000 fans who came to see the rematch one year after Dempsey lost his title to the underdog Tunney. More than 400 newspaper reporters and 150 telegraph operators were in the press seats, and across the country an estimated 50 million people listened on radios.
From the first bell, both boxers went after each other relentlessly and the fight ebbed and flowed until that pivotal moment in the seventh round. With a left hook to the jaw and a right cross, Dempsey, the challenger, knocked Tunney off his feet for the first time in the champ’s career.
“Dempsey stood before his prostrate foe,” the Tribune wrote in the next morning’s paper, “ready to renew his attack and tear down Fistiana’s time-honored axiom that ‘they don’t come back.’ Referee Dave Barry motioned Dempsey to a neutral corner until Tunney regained his feet.
“It was here the Dempsey party claim the error was made.”
Dempsey was slow to move so Barry waited to start his count. Most ringside reports agreed that Tunney had 13 seconds to clear his head before he arose on Barry’s “nine” count.
“I just couldn’t move,” Dempsey would say later about his delay in getting to the corner. “I wanted him to get up. I wanted to kill the SOB.”
Tunney got to his feet and went on to win the fight and retain the crown by unanimous decision.
“At no time was Tunney stained with any blood except Dempsey’s,” the Tribune reported. “At the end of the fight (Tunney) could have stepped into his evening clothes with no more preliminary fixing than a quick rubdown.”
Dempsey, on the other hand, “fought a lumbering, inexpert fight,” the Tribune wrote. “In the ninth round his face was a crimson mask.”
After the bell, almost blind, Dempsey was helped over to the triumphant Tunney, offering congratulations, yet still wondering what might have been.
Fights broke out in the stands as some chanted that Dempsey had been robbed. The Illinois Athletic Commission later rejected Dempsey’s appeal that Tunney received a “long count” and that Dempsey should have been the winner.
But there would not be another rematch, nor even another competitive bout for Dempsey. The damage to his eyes was too severe to risk any further.
Tunney invested wisely and moved comfortably into New York society. He fought just once more, defeating Tom Heeney in 11 rounds a year later. But the fight was a financial flop.
Tunney died in 1978 and Dempsey five years later, but never has the controversy about their famous match been buried.
“Because of the ‘long count,’ people sided with me,” Dempsey said for years. “To them, I always was ‘Champ.'”
Source: Tribune archives
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