"Why don't you get up in his corner and help him?" asked Mark Kelly, a Los Angeles sportswriter. "The guys in his corner aren't any good at all to him."
I shook my head.
"No. Let him take it. That's the way he wanted it, and that's the way it'll have to be."
Kelly looked at me and said: "Why, Doc, you're crying."
"I am not," I growled. "It's the rain in my eyes."
When it was over, I went out and got drunk.
It had been at Dempsey's urging that I took on Mickey Walker, whose manager had died. Dempsey had warned Walker that I was an "expensive manager," but he also realized that I could help Mickey as no one else could. It was in 1925, and Walker had come west to make a few matches on his own. He was staying at the Hotel Barbara in Los Angeles, which Dempsey and I owned. I offered him a 50-50 deal, we shook hands on it and that was the only contract we ever had. He had two girls with him at the time and we even split them. We immediately went on an all-night party which pretty much symbolized what our relationship was to be in the years thereafter.
"There's one thing I didn't get a chance to tell you, Doc," Mickey said next day as we nursed our hangovers. "I've already agreed to meet Harry Greb in New York in July for the middleweight title."
"How much are you getting?"
He was almost proud in his answer.