“A box-fyteh!? So that’s what you become? For this we came to America? So that you should become a box-fyteh? Better you should be a gangster or even a murderer. The shame of it. A box-fyteh!”
So went one of the subtitles from a 1924 silent film about the life of a Jewish boxer.
Boxing in America used to be immensely popular among young Jews, and many of them were not content to be spectators. One was Milwaukeean Milt Rickun, who dreamed about stepping into the ring from a young age.
“I had visions of being a one of the great fighters of all time,” said Rickun, 75. “A lot of people thought that about myself, but as time went on, I realized I wouldn’t be that kind of person.”
It might sound strange today, but there used to be a culture of boxing among Jews in the United States. In fact, at one time boxing was a predominantly Jewish sport. There was a golden era of Jewish boxing in America from about 1900 to the 1950s.
In the early part of that time, on Milwaukee’s Ninth and Vine Sts. stood the ancestor to the Jewish Community Center, the Abraham Lincoln House.
Larry Lederman, 87, executive secretary of the Wisconsin Association Amateur Athletic Union of the United States (and probably the Milwaukee Jewish community’s most decorated athlete), said one of the programs there was “Thursday night amateur boxing for two full hours, 7 to 9 p.m.”
The auditorium “could hold 300 people, standing room only, with the ring in the middle,” said Lederman. “The person in the middle would ask for the next fighters. Weight class meant nothing, only height was a factor. They fought one fight after another, two rounds each fight [and the winner was declared] by applause after each fight.”
Lederman continued: “In the 1920s, everybody used to spar in boxing as an athletic outlet, a workout, an expression. It was something to do, and why not? Because in those days there wasn’t much for individual expression.
“Basketball was nothing. Judo, martial arts, karate, tae kwon do, wasn’t in existence. Baseball was the only thing acceptable to everyone, and even football wasn’t a big thing in those days. So, people would spar.”
‘I’d bang guys up’
Rickun may not have become a title-holder, but he left his mark on the sport — and on many of his opponents’ faces.
He started as an amateur fighter at 17 after joining the Marines during World War II, but he was slugging on the streets well before that.
“I was fighting as a kid,” said Rickun. “I fought every day. I didn’t hear the word ‘Jew’ directed at me [in a derogatory manner] because if I did, I’d split their heads open. I’d bang guys up if they called some other guys ‘Jew.’”
“I just had no direction at all,” he added. “Maybe that’s why kids like that become fighters.”
As an adolescent, Rickun had many Jewish boxers to idolize. According to New York City attorney Allen Bodner, author of “When Boxing Was A Jewish Sport,” “There were 30 Jewish boxing champions” during the heyday of Jewish boxing.
In Milwaukee alone, Lederman cited nine Jewish boxers who fought professionally: Joey Sangor (1924-32); Johnny Mendelsohn (1927-32); Niggi Kwass (1929-33); Harry Kahn (1929-33); Len “Whiskey” Bernstein (1931-36); Milt Babbitz (1933-35); Toots Bernstein (1937-52); Sid (Shiki) Hurwitz (1935-38) and Billy Miller (1947-52).
While there were many Jewish boxers, information about their achievements is not plentiful.
“I think [their memory] has been suppressed, because Jews weren’t so proud of it,” said Bodner in a telephone interview. “The fans [were proud], the parents were [proud] the opinion makers were not. Jews weren’t supposed to be into violent sports.”
Bodner, 62, wrote his book based mostly on interviews with elderly, retired Jewish boxers. He said boxing for them “wasn’t about being Jewish. They fought to make some money. They liked to fight, they thought they were good at it, but they were motivated to make money.
“They didn’t think they represented Jews, but they all wore shorts [emblazoned] with the Star of David. They were proud Jews and the fans associated with it. But they could make a lot more money than their fathers in the sweatshops.”
Rickun said even today poor people tend to be attracted to boxing “because of economics. You don’t find middle class people becoming fighters, usually.”
But economics were not the only reason Jews once were attracted to boxing. “Other organized sports had anti-Semitism connected to them,” said Bodner. “Boxing as a sport could be done without anybody stopping you. If you were good at it, you boxed. It was a way to get out of the ghetto for second-generation immigrants.”
‘No feeling like it’
During World War II, Rickun served aboard a cruiser in the Pacific and found himself dodging Japanese kamikazes as well as the fists of boxing opponents from all branches of the U.S. armed forces.
Weighing in at 180 pounds and fighting as a heavyweight throughout his boxing career, Rickun said he had “some 80-odd fights in the Marine Corps,” between 1944 and 1946. Then he returned to Milwaukee and fought as an amateur “briefly.”
But it was in Milwaukee, training at the Golden Gloves Gymnasium on Third and Wells, where Rickun became friends with Len “Whiskey” Bernstein, who trained him.
Rickun also gave college a shot, but only lasted one month (“I was just not a student”). Already married to his childhood sweetheart, Rickun soon had a family to support, so he worked in construction.
But he was always fighting. “In 1949, I had a real famous Jewish manager named Jack Laiken. He had a fellow in Milwaukee who paid my wife a paycheck a benefactor who liked Jewish fighters.” Rickun went to Detroit and fought professionally under Laiken’s management that year.
Rickun had six fights that year, took a break, then competed in two more fights in 1951 and 1952 respectively. By the time he finished with pro boxing, he had a record of eight wins and two losses.
Rickun likened his boxing style to that of former heavyweight champion Mike Tyson. “Every fight I ever had as a pro ended in a knockout. Either I stopped them or they stopped me. I knocked guys out as quickly as I could. I was a knockout puncher with a glass jaw.”
Though he’s been hit hard himself, Rickun said he was never knocked unconscious. “I got dropped, but I never got knocked out completely. It doesn’t hurt. Not at all [because] you are so pumped up with adrenaline.”
After fighting professionally, Rickun began working as a bartender. By 1954 he bought his own pub on 26th and State Sts., naming it Rickey’s. But he never severed his ties to the boxing world.
“I became a [certified boxing] referee for the State of Wisconsin and I just loved it,” he said. “I loved it almost as much as boxing.”
Rickun refereed fights until 1990. Today, he laments boxing no longer being a Jewish sport.
“I have refereed some Jewish boxers, but they weren’t original Milwaukeeans,” he said. “It is really sad, I think I was the last [professional] Jewish boxer here.”
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