Back in 1879 there was a local tavernkeeper named Dan Dwyer who, in addition to fighting for the Union Army at the Battle of Antietam, had also done a little prizefighting in his day.
That day had recently ended, but Dwyer was still respected and appreciated among the rogues who comprised the Boston fight scene. His Waterbury saloon had been a gathering point for all manner of gamblers, and his reputation as a man everyone could trust to hold and disperse money for various types of wagers had earned him the nickname “Honest Dan.” His prowess with his fists had a way of limiting disputes, and this also earned him a separate reputation in the prize ring.
But at around 43 years old, Dwyer decided he was done. So his peers all banded together to do what they often did when one of their own was calling it quits — they staged a benefit show.
Benefits for aging and retired boxers were a common occurrence in the prizefighting world of the 19th century. It was a way of saying goodbye while also stuffing the man’s pockets with some cash as he eased into the next phase of his life. The modern fight game has its various halls of fame and its farewell highlight reels to commemorate a fighter’s time within the sport. But back then, they preferred to get together in a theater one night for a show featuring sparring exhibitions, various musical acts, and, at least in the case of Dwyer’s benefit, the demonstration of a new contraption called a rowing machine.
The main attraction of the benefit show was, of course, a fight. And it was customary for the honoree to step in the ring and spill some blood (his own or someone else’s) one last time. For Dwyer’s farewell fight, he was matched up against a 21-year-old newcomer to the Boston prizefighting scene. That young man’s name was John L. Sullivan, and he would go on to become the heavyweight champion, as well as one of the first true sports stars in American history.
Unsurprisingly, the fight didn’t go so great for Dwyer. He had skill and savvy, but Sullivan had youth and speed and power. According to a Boston Herald account, Dwyer started off well enough in the opening round, “hustling the young pugilist about the stage at a rapid gait.” But before long Sullivan came charging forward with the aggressive “rush” that would become his signature, firing a hard right hand through Dwyer’s defenses.
“The blow caught him on the point of the jaw and he fell like a log,” the Herald reported. Again, this was at a party for him. He had to get beaten up by an up-and-comer more than 20 years his junior. That was the fight game’s way of saying thank you and good luck with your future endeavors. And honestly? Not all that much has changed.
Consider the recent comments from former UFC fighter and current on-air analyst Din Thomas, who had an interesting take on Dustin Poirier’s search for just the right opponent to end his UFC career on.
“One thing I know about the UFC, they don’t give a damn about your retirement fight,” Thomas said in a recent interview with MMA Junkie’s Mike Bohn. “In fact, they would like to see you on your retirement fight be took out on a stretcher, in a neck brace. That’s the game.”
Thomas is not wrong. The fight game is not known for being overly sentimental. To a promoter, the most important fight is always the next one. A sense of history and respect for yesterday’s heroes, that’s all well and good when it’s tied to some future event — like Robbie Lawler’s upcoming UFC Hall of Fame induction, which was enough to earn him a farewell highlight package at UFC 313 this past Saturday.
But just on its own, history doesn’t sell. People don’t plunk down $80 on pay-per-view for memories. The fight game is always looking forward, and so are fight promoters. When UFC execs look at a potential Poirier retirement fight, they don’t ask what they could do to send Poirier off into the sunset as the happiest possible version of himself. No way. Instead they ask what they could use him for and how they could best turn his current value into future value.
This is why we so often see the older generation of fighters get fed to the younger ones. It’s a way of trying to transfer one fighter’s value to another, which to a promoter is far preferable to letting that value walk out the door (headed either to the rocking chair or another organization) and getting nothing for it.
The underlying concept is the same as those 19th-century boxing benefit shows. Why did Dwyer have to fight a hungry, young lion like Sullivan? Well, he didn’t. He could have picked someone his own age, someone easier. But that wouldn’t have been as interesting to the ticket-buyers, which in turn would have meant less money in his pocket at the end of the night.
Sullivan himself was not immune to this aspect of the benefit fight. According to Christopher Klein’s “Strong Boy: The Life & Times of John L. Sullivan,” the former champ’s many supporters pushed for a benefit after he lost his heavyweight title to “Gentleman” Jim Corbett in their historic 1892 title fight.
That bout, like many prizefights of the time, was a winner-take-all affair. Sullivan left with nothing in his pockets — and he had never been known as a particularly frugal man to begin with.
The very next day after the fight, Corbett offered to appear at a benefit for Sullivan so that at least the former champ would get some money for his efforts. Initially, Sullivan’s pride prevented him from accepting the offer, insisting that he didn’t want Corbett’s “services or his money.” It took him about 24 hours to change his mind.
As is still the case with MMA “retirement fights,” Sullivan was the star at his own benefit. Corbett might have been the heavyweight champ, but when he appeared at Sullivan’s benefit show one reporter noted that he “might as well be the croquet champion of the world,” since that’s about as much attention as the crowd paid him. Before the fisticuffs began, Sullivan addressed the many fans in attendance.
“I have nothing to say but bestow good honors on the present champion,” Sullivan said. “I was defeated and have no excuses to make. When a defeated man begins to make excuses, he makes the mistake of his life.”
Then the two men shook hands and put on especially large boxing gloves before engaging in a very light sparring session. The management of Madison Square Garden, which had profited greatly from Sullivan’s role in helping to legitimize boxing as a spectator sport, still took half the gate from this benefit show. So there’s another similarity with the retirement fights of today, in which the promoter is always the primary beneficiary.
Partially because it was such a financial success, this wasn’t the last benefit for Sullivan by any means. This, too, is not so different from the modern fight game. It’s always the last fight — until the next one.
Sullivan would later appear at a benefit for “Nonpareil” Jack Dempsey, who sparred with Sullivan in the headliner despite the fact that he was dying of tuberculosis at the time. Sullivan also had another easy go with Corbett at a separate benefit later that month. This time Corbett toyed with a noticeably slower, heavier version of Sullivan, who only seemed to grow more bitter toward the new champion, despite Corbett’s role in helping him financially.
“I want it distinctly understood,” Sullivan later told a crowd, “that [Corbett] is no friend of mine and I am no friend of his.”
It wasn’t an acrimony that persisted in spite of Corbett’s charity toward him, but in large part because of it. Sullivan needed the money. He also seemed to hate the fact that he still needed the money, and had to revisit the worse beating of his life in an increasingly comical rerun in order to get it. As much as it’s supposed to be a reverent event meant to pay homage to a fighting great, there’s also something vaguely patronizing about the retirement fight. And it only gets worse the more times you do it.
Perhaps this explains why, years later, the undersized heavyweight champion Tommy Burns proudly insisted that he’d fight anyone if the money was right — even Jack Johnson. Burns was criticized for this, since boxing’s white establishment believed in “holding the color line” in order to prevent a Black fighter from ever becoming heavyweight champion. But Burns had a very simple way of explaining his reasoning, and it all came down to what he’d seen happen to so many of his predecessors.
Or, as Burns put it: “They will never have to hold a benefit for me.”
