TABLE OF CONTENTS
Who's Hosin' Who?
Guest Editorial by Dan Hanley
Poem of the Month
By Tom Smario
Million Dollar Heist
By J.D. Vena
Flynn Outfoxes the Feds
By Robert Carson
Divorced but not Forgotten
By Ron Lipton
A Different Kind of Fight Night
By Ted Kluck
Touching Gloves With...
"Irish" Gil King
By Dan Hanley
A Look Back: Larry Boardman
By Dan Cuoco
The Sweet Science
Reviewed by Katherine Dunn
Cinderella Man [PDF]
By Michael DeLisa
The Good Professor [PDF]
By Don Cogswell
Flashback to the 2004 Hall of
Pictorial by Dan Hanley
By Robert Carson
One of the most picturesque
fighters from the old White Hope era was a chunky, flatfooted slugger by the name of Fireman
Jim Flynn. Jim was the picture of the classic pug. A flat nose, eyes drawn to a slant due
to scar tissue,
and a left ear that resembled a dwarf potato. His round beefy face with a side part in his
light brown hair gave his ruined countenance the picture of your typical Irish palooka.
Ironically, Jim wasn't Irish at all, but Italian, born Andrew Chiariglione in Hoboken, New
Stories abound about the Pueblo, Colorado-based railroad fireman, but one of the most
amusing concerned Jim while he drove a cab in Phoenix during prohibition.
It seems one night two undercover prohibition agents stepped off the train and got into
Jim's cab. Both carried sample cases, which gave them the look of out-of-towners looking
for a good time.
"Well, boys, which hotel," asked Jim as he started his hack. "Say, listen here, pal,"
whispered one, "can you take us to some 'speak' where we can get a drink? You know, some
of the good stuff, to wash the dust down. Then we'll think about a hotel."
Jim scratched his head and then snapping his fingers said, "Sure do. I know where you can
get not only one drink, but all the drinks you want."
Both undercover agents looked at each other and raised a brow. "Great, you're quite a live
wire, my good man. Take us there."
Jim checked them out in the rear view mirror, and with a wry grin started his meter and
pulled out of the station. "Anything to please our visiting guests."
Jim's bedraggled cab clattered through the business district and then the residential
area, all the while Jim giving a rambling account of the high and low spots of Phoenix. By
and by the houses became fewer and fewer. Soon the Arizona desert surrounded them. On and
on droned the cab and Jim with his warehouse of trivia.
After more than half an hour of this, with civilization getting further and further behind
is of the worried agents asked, "Say, friend, where the hell are you taking us for this
Jim half-turned, blinking his eyes with total innocence, "Why, across the border into
Mexico, where it's legal. It's only a hundred miles or so, and since I knew you wouldn't want
me to break the law, I just figured that was the closest place. So sit back, boys, and
enjoy the ride. Now, let's see...where was I? Oh, yeah...now, when my old Aunt Hattie
married my Uncle Mort, that was a real shindig. Hattie had a glass eye, and ol' Uncle
Mort, why. he was tattooed from head to toe."
A long and loud groan came from the back seat interrupting Jim's rambling family history.
Both government men looked at one another, then at the cabs clicking meter, which now
registered over 20 miles.
"No, driver, take us back to town and to a hotel, we're suddenly quite tired," one said
with a deep sigh.
They figured they had spent enough of Uncle Sam's money. At least, for one night.
Robert Carson is a boxing historian and a member of the International Boxing Research
Organization (IBRO). This article originally appeared in IBRO Journal No. 78.