Education of a Fighter

Beetle-browed Vince Foster was not a thoughtful young man in spite of the perplexed look that always lay on his battered countenance. But he had a wicked punch, and the little touch of meanness that puts a razor edge on a fighter. In prize rings around Omaha, he stood wide-legged, off-balance and clumsy, but he still knocked out twelve of the first 20 opponents that faced him. Out of the ring, Vince was just as rugged; in the course of a brawling youth, he once gave the marshal of Rulo, Neb. two black eyes with one punch. Jack Hurley, a shrewd manager of the old school, decided that Vince was just the kind of new material that could be trained to fight a main bout in the Garden; he might even become welterweight champion.

Two years ago, thin, sad-faced Jack Hurley started the course of instruction; he spent a full week teaching head-punching Vince what a body punch was. Said Hurley to his pupil: "This guy you're going to fight is old and shrewd and he knows how to slip punches at you. You got to hit him in the belly--20 times in the belly the first round." Vince Foster won that fight; Hurley became his permanent manager.

Hurley sweated over his docile pupil. He put hobbles on Foster to make him keep his legs closer together, made chalk marks on the floor to show him where to put his feet. "The whole secret of fighting is balance and leverage," Hurley kept saying. Foster kept on looking perplexed.

The Way Up. But Foster learned fast, and Hurley began to think he had another Billy Petrolle, the famed Fargo Express, whom he had developed and managed in the good old days.

The trouble was that Vince Foster always got restless after the sun went down. Unless his manager kept watch on him, he would sneak out to a bar and stay out until morning. One night, he failed to show up for a fight in Chicago Stadium. But he still had that stunning punching power. The training course went on.

In off hours, Vince Foster boozed, brawled and broke training until Hurley was about ready to give up. Then last summer the manager thought he saw a light: after wandering aimlessly one Sunday into the cavernous Moody Memorial Church in Chicago, Fighter Foster got religion. He became more serious in his training; at his request, cursing was barred in the gym. Foster gave up carousing, went to Bible school twice a week, sang in a choir, carried a zippered Bible wherever he went.

Hurley kept his fingers crossed, and the big day finally came. Four months ago Welterweight Foster got his chance in Madison Square Garden. The hard-boiled Garden crowd went wild as Vince savagely carved up clever old Tony Pellone and knocked him out in the seventh round. Sportwriters compared him io Petrolic, even to Jack Dempsey, hailed him as a new, slashing pug who might pull boxing out of the doldrums.

The Way Down. Public notice was bad for unpredictable Vince Foster; he went on another binge and wound up facing a rape charge. For Manager Hurley it was as though $100,000 in purses had flown out the window, but he set to work again, glumly, doggedly fitting the pieces together. The criminal charge against Foster was dismissed. The fighter went back to training and praying, and Manager Hurley began to think about purses again.

Last week, Fighter Foster got his second big chance; 14,193 fans turned out to see him take on blond Charlie Fusari at the Garden. The fight crowd was not yet wise to Vince Foster; he was a 5-6 favorite. At the bell, he bounced out of his corner, landed a couple of hard body punches. Then Fusari saw an opening. He threw a solid right to the chin. Vince Foster went down with a crash and took a count of two. He got up, ran into more long, looping rights, was knocked down twice more. The referee stopped the fight. Vince Foster, beaten in exactly two minutes, 26 seconds, stood in his corner while his handlers put his towel and bathrobe on him. He was looking out into the crowd and avoiding the eyes of Manager Hurley.

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