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Q. Iron Liege?
A. Same race, and he will be up for that. He's a good horse to train.
Q. Do you call Iron Liege "Mike" as many in the stable do?
A. I call Iron Liege Iron Liege. If I had a horse named Mike, I'd call him Mike.
Q. Judging from what you have said, I take it that you do not agree with the criticism of your training.
A. Nope, I've got $790,000 in the kicker and by the time the year is over I'll have a lot more. And, brother, look out in the fall for my 2-year-olds.
THE KID FROM CUT AND SHOOT
Searching big-city gyms for a good young heavyweight is something like shopping for a lion at the city pound—in both cases the chance of winding up with a dog are currently very high. This still leaves a lot of unexplored territory, however, and last week a new and promising figure leaped into the thin line of contenders for the heavyweight championship. One Roy Harris, 23, a husky schoolteacher from Cut and Shoot (pop. 193), Texas, went down to Houston and—to the surprise and delight of 10,000 fellow Texans—handily licked third-ranked Willie Pastrano of New Orleans.
Schoolteachers are not ordinarily good brawlers. Neither are college men—and Harris has attended not one but three colleges: Tarleton State, Texas A&M and Sam Houston State. But very few college men have been produced by Cut and Shoot either—and therein lies the difference. Harris was a fighter first and a student by afterthought. Cut and Shoot, which consists of three beer joints, a dance hall, a sawmill and three houses, lies in the midst of a tough and primitive area known as The Big Thicket and was named for all the cuttin' and shootin' which has gone on there in a century of Saturday nights. Roy Harris and his two fighting brothers grew up in a log cabin (some distance from what might be described as the metropolitan area of Cut and Shoot) with a boxing ring in the clearing.