Word: fight
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...presence two days ago. Knowing the danger of a conflict between the Moros and Filipinos, I arranged that both groups should share equally in the welcome to Mr. Thompson. Instead of keeping the agreement, the Filipino Governor sought to participate in trouble. . . . There might have been disastrous and bloody fighting but for the conduct of the American officers.' . . ." Colonel Thompson then departed, proceeded on to Jolo, Sulen Island, where was another disturbance, this time a minor one, culminating in the Moro datus* unsheathing their barongs and krises ominously, but quickly quieting when appeared a little brown figure in white...
...Then the youthful Firpo charged the champion Dempsey and knocked him down and over the ropes and out of the ring, and for a short time it looked as if the younger man had won the fight. But Dempsey, pausing for an instant only, rushed back into the ring, waded into his youthful antagonist and beat him to a standstill, a triumph of brain and courage over youth and ignorance...
...next evening, on a coal barge, or in some lot at the edge of town, the two ruffians met and battered each other with bare fists until one of them fell down. To the man left standing the bartender handed the the wad. Thus were championship prize fights arranged, conducted, once upon a time. And now for many weeks the premonitory rumbles of a new fight have muttered through the land. All very courteous, to be sure. The party of the first part, William Harrison ("Jack") Dempsey, the party of the second part, James J. Tunney, and around them...
...swore. One newspaper declared that he was "a young philosopher." All his partisans said he was too nice. . . . Few of his opponents have thought so. Tunney hits hard; he is a sound boxer, does not lose his head in the ring, can stand up under punishment. When he fights, his face sometimes gets puckered up. It never gets nasty. The Champion William Harrison Dempsey-what he eats, wears, says, earns, fears, hopes for, and remembers-has supplied the news-mills with endless grist ever since the blazing day he poked Jess Willard in the stomach. He has never been...
...this was a ponderous pundit, not an explosive, like "the diabolical little boy with a bean-shooter," H. L. Mencken. But the ponderousness was the weight of great sincerity; in controversy it would give place to trenchant power as when a big-boned man rolls up his sleeves to fight. His subtlety and strength were in expressing the homelier virtues and pleasures of mankind. He had a feeling for tools, horses, unmistakably American landscapes, Whitmanesque humanities. He would write a word like "roots" or "bones" as though it were thrusting out of his nature to the very depth...