Keep Out of Manhattan

For 18 years, while he took his lumps in tank towns and second-rate cities, Archie Moore earned little besides a reputation. He got to be one of the best boxers in the country, but he usually did his fighting for small change. Two years ago, when he won the light-heavyweight championship in St. Louis, Moore's share of the purse came to a reported $1,492. Even then, the owl-eyed operators who make matches in the smoky back rooms refused to give him a break. Archie had to defend his title in Ogden. Utah, later in Miami. It was no way to grow rich.

Last week, at 37, Archie finally got a crack at the big time. It was a little late in the game for him to be impressed. Under the glare of the ring lights, Manhattan's Madison Square Garden looked like any other arena; even Harold Johnson, Archie's younger (26) opponent, seemed like an old friend. The two had already fought four times, and Archie had taken three decisions. "I've got his number and he knows it," he said the day before the fight. Now he shrugged off his black and gold bathrobe and waited patiently to begin the night's work.

From the start, the two Negroes demonstrated the graceful art of boxing. Johnson jabbed and ran, scored points and moved out of range. In the tenth, Moore forgot himself for a moment, lunged forward and caught a clip on the neck. He was knocked to his knees for a count of five. Unruffled, he kept right on shifting his style, teasing the challenger, waiting for Johnson to make a mistake. Johnson finally obliged. In the 14th, he backed carelessly into a corner. Instantly, Moore moved in. Johnson took a short, straight right to the jaw, spun half around as if looking for help and sank to the canvas. He was up at five. The furious frown that the challenger had been wearing was gone now; in its place was an empty grin. Two vicious punches from Moore and even the grin faded. The fight was over.

Next day Champion Moore made a modest suggestion: he thought he had earned a crack at Rocky Marciano and a heavyweight purse. In the back room of boxing, the smart-money boys disagreed. Archie, they argued, like most stylists, was too clean and clever a fighter to make for drama and draw a big gate. But he could hit the road again and take on Joey Maxim, another old friend--in Omaha.

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