Johnnie Kilbane provides a detailed account of his training regimen as the former featherweight champion to prepare for an important title bout against Benny Leonard. His day begins at 5am with a 6 mile run followed by cold water plunges. He spends his afternoons sparring and doing conditioning exercises. His training includes 45 minutes of boxing with his manager and sparring partner, followed by rope skipping, bag work, and medicine ball exercises. He plays baseball daily for stress relief and conditioning. He follows a strict diet and gets massages before sleeping by 9pm. Kilbane emphasizes the importance of both physical and mental preparation to be in peak condition for the big fight.

1. How A Champion Trains
Professional boxers, as a class, are clean, hard working, ambitious
young men who win good money and a wide reputation by strict
application to business. The day of pugs and bruisers has largely
gone by though certain state legislatures don't seem to recognize
the fact. Johnnie Kilbane is a fine example of successful athlete.
IRST of all I want to disillusionize
your mind of the ante-bellum idea
that fighters are necessarily bruisers.
In the old times it was undoubtedly so. The
most popular ringster was one who could
outdrink his supporters, and one who did
not think it beneath his dignity to " go
to the floor" with an antagonist in a bar-
room brawl. To-day there is not a title
holder from Jess Willard to Jimmy Wilde
who does not live a clean, exemplary life.
How often, in scanning the newspaper
over your bacon and eggs, do you come
across an item concerning street fights
in which star boxers are concerned?
Seldom, I'll warrant. In fact, I cannot
call a single one to mind.
Perhaps it is as one boxer I know ex-
pressed it when urged into a street scrap.
He said, " I ' m not afraid of that fellow,
but if we are arrested, public opinion will
be against me. Whether I am right or
wrong people will sneer and say, ' What else
can you expect? He's only a prize-fighter.'
The old game has a lot to live down, and
I'm going to do my best to help it. Be-
sides, fighting is my stock in trade. I sell
it as a salesman does his goods. And you
wouldn't catch any salesman standing on
a street corner, giving away a thousand
dollars worth of his samples, would you ?"
What has brought about this radical
change in sentiment? Well, there is one
outstanding reason in my mind. That is
the change in the type of man with whom
the fighter is brought into close personal
contract. After 1860, when the British
aristocracy abandoned boxing because of
Heenan's abonimable treatment in his in-
ternational battle with Savers, the pugil-
istic game fell into decided disrepute. The
riff-raff of society were in many eases the
dominant factors, and bare knuckle fight-
ing—aside from its insensate brutality—
became the crookedest and most criminally
infested sport in the world.
The modern boxing bout is as different
from old time fights as a fencing bout is
from a duel with rapiers, and the class
of men who conduct the business end of
the game has changed just as radically.
Instead of professional gamblers, thieves
and cheap politicians big, successful men
like " T e x " Rickard, Jimmy Dougherty,
Matt Hinkle, Jimmy Dunn and scores of
others have found in boxing a vent for
their business and sporting inclinations.
They understood that if pugilism was ever
to be classed on a level with baseball, foot-
ball, etc. its exponents would have to be
as clean as they wanted the game to be.
Publicity, of course, is the biggest factor
in making a man or an undertaking a suc-
cess. Years ago the fight interests tried
to make themselves agreeable to newspaper
men through the medium of "booze
parties." Notice how differently we are
brought in contact now.
One Sunday, while I was training for
my unlucky bout with Benny Leonard, the
lightweight title holder, the Philadelphia
sporting writers were invited to spend a
day at the quarters. Jimmy Dougherty,
Johnnie Kilbane and his daughter Helen
Scientific Treatment as Applied to Conditioning
for a Big Bout
By JOHNNIE KILBANE
Featherweight Champion
F
Johnnie Kilbane's fighting face
Photos by American Press
549

2. who promoted the bout, and who is as big
hearted as he is muscular, arranged a
splendid program, beginning with a base-
ball game between the newspapermen and
the boys of the camp, and winding up with
a. splendid supper. There was laughter and
good cheer and healthful exercise—and
there was a lack of any feature that might
have proved objectionable to the most
sensative.
But you asked me to tell you how a
champion trains, and here I've wandered
off into a defense of the boxing game.
Now I'll get down to brass tacks.
Strict training is the well defined rut
which every boxer must follow. They used
to say that Aurelia Herrera, the wonderful
Mexican lightweight, ate and drank what
he chose, and smoked black cigars from
the moment he rose until he went to sleep
with one between his teeth. But Herrera's
career was cut short by his defiant disre-
gard of training rules, and it remains a
warning to the athlete with a grain of sense
in his head.
Some scribe, with a mathematical bent,
estimates that I received thirteen hundred
and eleven dollars a minute for my bout
with Benny Leonard. He neglected to
estimate the hours and days that I worked
to get in condition. And since that was
my last—and one of my most important,
if unfortunate, battles—I'll tell you how
I prepared for it.
When all arrangements to stage the
battle in Philadelphia had been completed
I motored there from Cleveland, with my
family and that of Jimmy Dunn, my man-
ager and dearest friend. The women folks
and children were sent off to Atlantic
City. I took up training quarters at
Jimmy Dougherty's Colonial Hotel in
Liepersville—a sleepy little village on the
Chester Pike between Wilmington and
Philadelphia.
I started the hardening process almost
immediately, and let me tell you it was a
hardening process. When I was fighting
in the preliminaries some ten years ago,
training consisted of a haircut and shave
after the day's work. This sort of train-
ing is somewhat different.
My day commences at five o'clock, when
an infernal alarm clock rattles and bangs
me out of bed. The sun in just peeping
into the world when I get on the road,
Johnnie Kilbane and a group of well known sport writers who staged a baseball
game at Liepersville as a part of the former's Boxing Training
with the sweet, clean country smell in my
nose, to do a stiff six mile run. And let
me tell you, boys, the fellow who never
sees the break o' day except when he's
rolling home from the carbarets misses a
tonic that is as good for his soul as his
body.
The six mile jog ends at a quarry pond
about a quarter of a mile from Dougherty's
home. A cold plunge puts the finishing
touch to that bounding, exhilirating feel-
ing that makes just living so vitally inter-
esting to a healthy, hungry man.
For an hour and a half after breakfast
I just loaf around, and let the meal digest.
Then comes more exertion in the form of
broncho-busting. Jimmy Dougherty had
purchased an unbroken saddle horse for his
daughter, and getting that horse tractable
was one of the most difficult yet pleasing
stunts on the calendar.
It is in the afternoon, though, that
every boxer does his hardest conditioning
work. In my case I box forty five min-
utes with Dunn, who was once a crack
lightweight, and Jimmy Downs, my spar-
ring partner. Dunn is a big man, able to
take as well as give a punch, and we go
at it hammer-and-tongs. Of course, the
gloves are big, but when a punch lands
it stings.
My work-out with Dunn develops my
punch and ability to withstand heavy
blows. Sparring with Downs helps my
speed, for Jimmy is about my weight, and
is lightning fast. Working with those two
men for three quarters of an hour a day is
no joke. On the contrary, it is the hard-
est kind of toil.
After that comes the more montonous
part of the routine—skipping the rope,
punching the bag, and fooling with the
medicine ball. If monotonous it is wonder-
fully beneficial in limbering and toughen-
ing the muscles and aids in developing the
wind as much as road work does. I keep
that up for an hour or more, and by that
time I am dripping with sweat and ready
for a session with Mike Graelis, my
trainer.
After a refreshing shower bath I stretch
out on the rubbing table, and Mike mas-
sages me, and attends to any bruises or
cuts I may have accumulated during the
day. That bath and rub-down banishes
any slight feeling of fatigue, and when it
is over I grab up a ball and glove, and
head for the diamond.
Fighting is my business, but to me base-
ball is the greatest sport in the world.
Not a clear day passes that I do not play.
Entirely aside from the pleasure it gives,
baseball is as good a conditioner of men
as can be found. I stay on the diamond
until the supper bell rings, and always
leave it reluctantly.
After supper I usually motor about the
countryside for a couple of hours, return-
(Continued on Page 592)
BASEBALL MAGAZINE for OCTOBER550

3. 592
(Continued from Page 550)
ing in time to turn out the light and crawl
between the sheets by nine o'clock.
That sounds like a pretty full day, but
there are dozens of other things that must
be attended to. Newspaper men are con-
tinually after photographs and informa-
tion. Friends and acquaintances come in
to shake hands and introduce friends of
theirs. There are letters to write. In fact
there are a thousand and one things to do
in a few odd moments even when one has
an efficient manager as I have.
After all the training period must be a
period of mental stimulation as well as
physical development. Many a fighter has
beaten himself before he entered the ring
by working himself into a nervous state,
brooding on the outcome of the fight, or
becoming so overconfident that he un-
consciously slacks his preparation.
It is all a matter of temperment, of
course. Jim Jeffries was always sullen
and restless as each day brought the
HOW A BOXER
TRAINS
B A S E B A L L M A G A Z I N E

4. 593
battle nearer. On the other hand, Billy
Papke, once middleweight champion of the
world, looked on every fight as a joke, and
often entertained friends in his dressing
room before entering the ring. Abe Attell,
from whom I won the featherweight title,
was nervous before facing his antagonist,
but became cock-sure as soon as the gong
rang. In my own case, I never allow
thoughts of what may happen to bother me
during training. My nerves are in good
condition, and I figure that my opponent
is the one to worry—not I. That isn't
egotism. It is merely self confidence—and
a good digestion.
Of course, the worry experienced by most
fighters going into a championship bout
only crystallizes during the last two days,
when the grind of training slackens suffi-
ciently for them to conjure up the possi-
bilities of disaster. The most nervous man
in the world would not have time to worry
if he kept as busy as I do while I 'm work-
ing to get in trim. From five to nine—as
I have said before—there is not a minute
I can call my own. After nine o'clock I
am asleep, so deep and dreamlessly that
it would take a good sized earthquake to
wake me up.
Every fighter has his own method of
bringing himself to top-notch physical
condition. Some specialize in road work;
others depend more on bag punching and
shadow boxing; still others institute fads
of their own. When Battling Nelson was
training for his fight with Terry McGovern
he took up Roko—a game invented by
Fenton Spink, of Cleveland—and claimed
that it did him lots of good. But, as a
whole, the same general routine is fol-
lowed. The boxer must develope wind,
speed, strength and hitting power. The
neglect of any one will lose a battle on
which thousands of dollars and his own
reputation depend.
The worst element of the game, particu-
larly to a man who accumulates fat easily,
is the constant effort to make weight. A
man whose best fighting poundage is one
hundred and twenty six, for instant, has
often to go through torture to rid him-
self of the excess weight. Turkish baths,
long runs, a minimum amount of water
tends to weaken him. If he keeps that
effort up over a stretch of years the weak-
ness is bound to become permanent.
Jockies suffer in this respect more than
fighters, but many a ringman has shortened
his life as well as his career in the effort
to make weight.
Fortunately for me I never have any
trouble getting down to the featherweight
limit of one hundred and twenty two
pounds, so I always am at my best when I
step into the ring. Many another cham-
pion has not been so fortunate, however.
The fighting game has been good to me.
It has carried me from poverty to comfort;
it has brought me into contact with some
of the finest men in the country; in short,
B A S E B A L L M A G A Z I N E

5. 594
it has given me everything I possess in
this world.
But let me whisper a word in your ear:
I would enjoy it even more than I do if
I could somehow discover the formula for
perpetual fitness, and skip the drudgery of
the training camp.
SPALDING'S FOOT BALL GUIDE
PUBLISHED
Edited by Walter Camp, as usual, Spald-
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annual appearance, its contents embracing
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The revised rules are, of course, the feature
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together with reviews of the game in
various sections of the country by writers
familiar with the play in their respective
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Wilson's letter to Mr. Lawrence Perry
of the New York Evening Post, upholding
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schools and colleges, having the place of
honor as frontispiece usually occupied by
the leading team of the previous season.
The list of officials designated by the
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pictures are there as usual, and altogether
the Guide, despite the difficulties in the
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ball.
The Guide is published by the Ameri-
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address on receipt of 10 cents.
B A S E B A L L M A G A Z I N E