Primo Carnera is the only man in history to be both the Heavyweight Champion of the World and the professional wrestling's World Champion. Below is his story taken from Sports Magazine in 1948.
The Strange Case of Carnera
By Jack Sher
Sport, February 1948
The title of this tale is pitifully inadequate. No single phrase or sentence can possibly capsule into a few words the incredible career of that giant-sized figure, part hoax and part hero, who stumbled blindly into the world sport scene in the Year of Our Lord, 1928, and who, curiously enough, is still part of that scene.
The story of Primo Carnera, the uncommon, outlandish giant of the 20th Century, will be a difficult one for future generations to believe. Even now, well over a decade since the most brutal episodes took place, a reporter delving into Primo's past needs a strong stomach not to be sickened by the facts he uncovers-the filth, the greed, the depravity. This is not, in essence, a sport story, but the tale of a gargantuan, simple, and yes, courageous man who was preyed upon by all the known varieties of human lice.
Those in the fight game who have read Budd Schulberg's best-seller, The Harder They Fall, recognize it as a thinly disguised novel of Carnera's life. It etches a sharp and sordid picture of conditions in Cauliflower Alley in the '30s. It throws a harsh light on the thugs who, through violence and skullduggery, made this helpless giant the heavyweight champion of the world. It shows how they then cheated, befouled, and degraded him, and left him at the last a battered, paralyzed wreck, friendless and without hope.
Everyone connected with the ring knows the shameful details. No one knows them better than Primo. "That book, yes, I have read it," he said, nodding his huge head. "It is all true." Then he spread his tremendous, ham-like hands. "But I wish he had come to me. I would tell him so much more."
Carnera could. For, although the novel tells what happened to Carnera on the American scene, although it exposes the gangsters, gamblers, politicians, bankers, bums, fighters, trainers, and petty crooks who infected his career, it does not tell the complete story. It could not tell it completely, because the story has not yet ended. It is still being lived by Primo Carnera. And it will not end, as the novel did, on a note of despair. The story, in its entirety, is not only one of man's inhumanity to man, but one that reveals the dignity of the human spirit, and shows the courage of a pitiful creature who refused to stay down.
Nobody in the fight game likes to talk about Carnera's ring career. Even those who were in no way responsible for it give their information grudgingly. They say it would be best if it were forgotten. The only one who will talk about it honestly, completely, is Primo Carnera himself, the one man who has nothing to hide, the one man who has done nothing of which to be ashamed. Of the dozens of people, the decent and the dirty, who contributed to this document, none gave so much or so freely and fairly as Carnera. At times the simple dignity of his words gave you a choked-up feeling in the throat. His lack of bitterness, where bitterness should have been, created an anger in the listener. Primo Carnera told his story from the beginning. It is the only way it should be told. It is the only way the events which took place can be wholly understood, seen in their proper light against the confusing, chaotic, shifting background of treachery and rapaciousness. It is impossible to understand the forces that act upon a man, unless you know what he is, what conditioned him, how he became a thing that could be shaped, twisted, deceived, and tortured.
This is the story, from birth to now.
A birth is a most commonplace occurrence on this spinning earth, but it is always a thing of wonder. No man is a replica of another, nor will he ever be repeated. And so, perhaps, the wonder of birth is that into the world comes not only flesh and blood, another to take its place among the billions of shapes, but something new and different.
The child, born on October 26th, 1906, in the village of Sequals, in the North of Italy, weighed, at birth, 22 pounds. It was a most uncommon weight. But the mother, Giovanna, was not aware of that when she spoke to her husband, a stone-cutter named Sante Carnera, saying, "Since he is our first child, I shall call him Primo." The word Primo in Italian means first, and the out-sized baby with the strange name was to be the first in the world in many ways-first and set apart from others, looked upon as a freak because of his tremendous proportions.
Carnera's parents were of average weight and height, as were the two brothers who followed him into the world. The family was extremely poor. They lived in a hut-like structure in the foothills of the towering Alps. Sequals is a place of some 3,000 people and Primo's father, Sante, eked out his existence in the manner of most men of the village, fashioning intricate mosaics in stone. The artistry of the craftsmen of Sequals, though poorly paid, earned them a reputation throughout Europe.
Primo and his brothers were taught stone-cutting almost as soon as they could stand. The brothers are still practicing that time-honored craft, one in Newark, New Jersey, the other in London. It would have been much happier for Primo if he had been allowed to stay at it. But the extraordinary man, the giant, has little chance of living an ordinary life. He is singled out, gawked at, prodded, exhibited, and forced along paths not of his choosing.
This pattern began early for the boy who was as large as a man, the mountainous Primo. His parents went to Germany to seek work, and the six-year-old boy was left with his grandmother. At eight, he was man-sized and apprenticed to a cabinet-maker to learn that trade. He became quite skillful at this work, attended school spasmodically, and proved to be of average intelligence.
"My childhood was miserable, very miserable." It is an adjective Primo uses quite often. "We were always hungry. I worked very hard, extremely hard. At school I was not happy, I was too large to be accepted. Miserable. It was miserable." He smiled. "I did not take part in the sports then. I was too large and clumsy. It was a bad time for me, this childhood time."
This is the way Carnera spoke. Anyone who sits down with him for extended periods of time, who gets him over his initial shyness, is usually amazed by his manner of speech. Once you become accustomed to the booming, deep-toned voice, it is easy to follow what he is saying. His vocabulary is extensive, his choice of words intelligent.
During the time Primo was touring tank-towns in America, belting over set-ups, the sportswriters had a field day ridiculing this guileless, friendly foreign giant. Stories were circulated that he was as stupid as he was large. At the time, his unfamiliarity with the English language was offered as proof of his mental backwardness.
"What do you think of Hollywood?" a reporter was supposed to have asked him. "I knock him out in the second round," Primo was reported as saying. It is possible that he did say it. An American, not familiar with the Italian language, might easily have made just as ridiculous an answer. It is a fact that Primo learned English very rapidly and, besides his native tongue, he also speaks French and Spanish fluently. The endless stories told to humiliate him did not go unnoticed, as many believed. They hurt, but Carnera took them without complaining, never losing his temper, always conducting himself with dignity.
Harry Markson, the press agent for the Twentieth Century Sporting Club, who sees more than the muscular surface of fighters, said: "Primo was a nice guy and a very sensitive guy. I remember," he went on, "how he came in to Jimmy Johnston's office one day. He took Murray Lewin the sportswriter aside and said, 'Please, Mr. Lewin, call me anything you want, but do not call me Satchel Feet any more.' He was very sweet about it and there was something pathetic about it, too."
In talking about his childhood, Carnera did not try to play on sympathy, or exaggerate it. It would be hard to exaggerate. His parents, who had gone to Germany, were interned when World War I broke out, and were placed in a forced labor battalion.
They returned to Italy in 1918, when Primo was 11 years old. The war had had the usual devastating effect, and for a year the family was close to starvation. Carnera's father finally set off for Cairo, where he had the promise of a job. When he began sending money back home, Primo decided it was time to get out on his own.
He was now 12 years old. He was around six feet tall. He looked like a man and people took him for a man. Carnera said that he had a miserable childhood. Actually, he had no childhood at all. At 12, almost penniless, he hoboed into France. For the next five years, the boy with the giant frame worked at everything he could to keep alive.
"I worked very hard," he said, "so hard I was often weak and food was scarce. I did laborer's work. I carry cement bags, lay bricks. I worked for a time at my father's profession, the stone-cutting. I did all sorts of work. I could not go back. What for? There was nothing at home for me. The years were bad. I was an innocent," he smiled. "How do you say it, an ingenuous child?"
At 17, the ingenuous child stood 6-foot-5, had a 50-inch chest, arms and legs like tree trunks. He weighed 250 pounds and was stalking through the streets of Paris hungry, with no job prospect in sight. In desperation, he appealed to the manager of a traveling circus. Here is a body, the boy said; do what you will with it, put it up for people to stare at, make jokes about, exhibit it for the world to see, do this to me, but food is necessary if I am to stay alive-and I wish to live.
The circus man did not need a sharp eye to see money in the form of the huge boy. He was the first to wring profits from the giant from Sequals, to play upon his freakishness of size, to realize that a trick nature had played could bring francs into his pocket. It was the circus that started Primo on the career that would eventually rob him of pride and self respect and place his body on the rack.
The curious, jostling throngs that crowded around the booth where Primo was on display were treated to all sorts of wild theories, mystical explanations of Carnera's size. It was not discovered until many years later, long after Primo had been in the ring, that he was afflicted by acromegaly, a tropic disease that makes giants.
Primo hated the circus life. "It was no good," he said. "It is no life to live. I feel foolish and I am very lonely most of the time. I am paid very little, which I do not realize at the time, and the work is hard and the conditions bad. I get very homesick many times, when I am with the circus, more than when I was a laborer."
Under a variety of names, Carnera was billed first as a freak, then as a strong man, finally as a wrestler. He could, at 17, snatch a 350-pound weight into the air and hold it over his head. He often wrestled as many as 10 or 12 men a day, taking on all comers. In the beginning he was a poor wrestler, but it was good business for the circus when one of the town locals could best the giant.
When circus business was slow, the manager would stage a special wrestling match. He'd paste posters around the town announcing that "The Terrible Giovanni, Champion of Spain," would be seen in an exhibition match. As Giovanni, Primo would perform against experienced mat men. He often made miserable showings, but his size pleased the crowd. He stayed with the circus three years and, toward the end, actually became a fairly competent wrestler.
Eighteen years later, in 1946, it was the things he learned about wrestling in that small-time circus that were to save him, bring him out of obscurity, give him back the self respect and the fortune that had been denied him as a fighter.
The circus, after traveling all over Europe, wound up in Paris in 1928 and disbanded. A second-rate heavyweight pug named Paul Journee, walking through a park one day, came upon Primo sprawled disconsolately on a bench. Journee marveled at his size. He sat down and began to talk to him. It was this simple action that started Primo Carnera on his fabulous ring career. Here began the blood, sweat, frame and fix that, in six short years, was to see him crowned heavyweight champion of the world.
"If I had not been broke that day," Carnera said, "if I had not been so miserable, I do not think I would have gone with Journee to talk to this fight manager, Leon See."
The fight game has had few characters of such clashing temperament as Leon See. He was a strange mixture of a man-at once sentimental and shrewd, tough and learned, a diminutive, kindly charlatan, who had earned a degree at Oxford, been a fighter, promoter, gambler, and referee, a hanger-out in the subterranean dives of Paris, rich one day and poor the next. From the first time he laid eyes on the shuffling giant, the tiny, energetic man had an enormous affection for him.
Carnera has nothing bad to say about Leon See. "He was shrewd, you have no idea how shrewd," Primo said, "but we were friends. He was always my friend, even though he did wrong many times. His son is here in America now. I do not know where Leon is now. I talked to his son. It is strange," he went on, "we meet here in the lobby of the hotel and we talk about old times. He is a fine boy."
The bustling Frenchman, who enjoyed posing for pictures standing under Carnera's outstretched arms, was delighted with his new charge. He believed him to be the strongest man in the world, and promptly arranged a fight for him. It was the first of many sad mistakes. The 21-year-old Primo knew nothing about boxing. He had over-developed muscles, and was slow and clumsy. Yet, within two weeks after See signed him, he was matched against Leon Sebilo, a Parisian pug of doubtful reputation. Even See, who loved Da Preem, could not resist the opportunity of making quick money.
Primo kayoed Sebilo in two rounds. Whether the fight was on the level, only See knows, and he has never told. From the moment he took Carnera into his heart, and his training camp, Leon See became a frenzied, driven man. It did not take him long to discover Primo's weakness, which was the fact that a slight tap on the chin by a man 100 pounds lighter would send Carnera reeling. Carnera had courage. He could take blows to the body all day long, but the giant had a glass jaw and the wily Leon was quick to find that out.
The little manager worked long and frantically to teach Primo the rudiments of defense. At the same time, undoubtedly motivated by a desire to cash in, he tossed the huge Italian into the ring at every opportunity, rushing him through 13 fights in less than a year. Primo won most of them by quick knockouts, fighting in Paris, Milan, Leipzig, and Berlin.
Whether these waltzes were on the level is highly debatable, but See was wise enough never to allow his big boy to think he was anything but invincible. Some of the fights might have been square, because some of the so-called fighters who went up against Carnera, couldn't have lasted a round with any American tank-town bum. Names like Luigi Ruggirello, Isles Epifanio, Constant Barrick, Ernst Roseman, Jack Humbeek, Marcel Nilles, to name a few, were patted over by Carnera in quick order, or as cynical French and English boxing writers put it, "to order."
The, reputation of Leon See was far from spotless. His connections among the lower depths of Parisian life were solid and extensive. In fact, in those days, there was something of an international underworld linked to the fight game. It was not long before a coterie of mobsters from New York, U.S.A., took a trip abroad to have a look-see at this large-type character who might make them a fast buck. In less than a year's time, the unknowing Primo was being "cut into pieces," parts of him being sold to sharpsters who frequented the shadowy sections of America.
"It is well known," a prominent booker of fights and wrestling matches told me, "that Leon See sold over 100 percent of Carnera before they ever left France."
The noted sportswriter, Paul Gallico, was the first to uncover the machinations of the underworld types who were preparing to use Primo to bamboozle the public into parting with their money. Some six months after Primo started fighting, Gallico happened to wander into a smoky fight club in Paris, mildly curious about the word-of-mouth publicity that had been passing around about the giant. The place was called Salle Wagram and Primo was matched against a 174-pound powderpuff puncher named Moise Bouquillon.
One of the first mobsters to buy into Primo was also there that night. He did a slow burn when he heard about the presence of Mr. Gallico. Later he said to the sportswriter, "Boy, was that a lousy break for us that you come walking into Salle Wagram that night and see that the big guy can't punch! Just that night you hadda be there. We could have got away with a lot more if you don't walk in there and write stories about how he can't punch."
Primo won that fight, taking a 10-round decision. He went on pushing down the pushovers. The only fighter of any reputation he fought before coming to America was Young Stribling. Strib was no world-beater, but he was a fair enough boy with his dukes. The fights, one in London and one in Paris, both ended in fouls. Carnera won the first, Stribling took the second after being struck a low blow. The English scribes were rather indelicate in their descriptions of the contest, implying that both fights were as rehearsed as a Shakespearean play.
Through all of this, Carnera was kept completely in the dark. This may be hard to believe, but Leon See was with him night and day, censoring what he read and thought. Leon's magic tongue worked triple-time, his words convincing Primo that his strength was as the strength of 10, and his punch devastating. Leon even arranged to have Gene Tunney, then visiting abroad, pose for newsreel pictures with Primo, "Europe's challenger for the title." As sincerely as Leon liked Primo, he couldn't ever pass up an angle. "Tunney was very friendly to me," Primo said. "I was just a novice then and he was very nice: I feel he was pulling for me. He said he hoped he would see me in America soon and wished me luck."
If ever a man worked hard and sincerely to become a fighter, it was Primo Carnera. The huge, simple, gullible giant believed with all his heart and soul that he had the makings of a great champion. He believed no man alive could hurt him. He believed that his punch was dynamite and that he had mastered the rudiments of la box, as Leon See called it.
"I dreamed of going to America," he said. "It was with me all the time, this wish, this dream. I work very hard and I was sure that I would someday soon be the champion of the world."
Those last few days in Paris, preparing to sail forth on his conquest of the new land, were very happy ones for Primo. The 23-year-old mountain-sized boy was led across the ocean to his eventual triumphs and cruel slaughter in the spirit of the knight on the white charger. Gene Tunney just happened to be down on the dock when the boat, groaning under the weight of the huge Italian, docked. Again he wished Primo luck. The big fellow was all smiles, filled with sweetness and love toward his fellowmen and his newly chosen profession.
It is no credit to us, as Americans, that we can be duped and ballyhooed into believing anything. The very people, even the sportswise, who later sneered and smeared the giant Carnera for his simple-mindedness, for allowing himself to be so blatantly tricked and cheated, were among those who created the legend of his fistic prowess. It was late in 1929, the stock market had crashed, the world was confused and churning, when Carnera came to the United States. He was immediately hailed as "a mighty killer," a "Neanderthal type with a tremendous punch," "a new, giant menace on the American boxing scene."
The lying, shameless, vicious men who pulled a gunny-sack over the eyes of the giant and the public did a masterful job of it. They were quite a collection of tawdry and dangerous individuals. There were Broadway Bill Duffy and Owney Madden, both of whom had spent time behind bars for anti-social acts of a violent nature. There were, in minor capacities, such cute characters as Mad Dog Vincent Coll (later rubbed out), Big Frenchy DeMange, Boo Boo Hoff, and other parties of odious repute. It is still considered not altogether healthy for anyone to poke his nose too deeply into some of the "deals" these charming chaps cooked up while interested in cashing in on Carnera.
The fraud started in Madison Square Garden on the night of January 24th, 1930, when Primo Carnera was sent into the ring against a built-up, fourth-rate heavy named Big Boy Peterson. The evil faces crowding around Carnera's corner at ringside were a bit anxious about the affair, knowing that if the spectators failed to swallow the hoax, their plans would be knocked into a cocked hat. Not having anything to offer in the way of a fight, they had wisely decided to give the onlookers a "show." It was some show.
Anyone who has ever seen Primo Carnera cannot help but be amazed by his awesome size. The powerful effect of that tremendous figure of a man, as he lumbers toward a ring, is enough to send shudders through even the most hardened fight fan who revels in bloody slaughter. Primo Carnera, coming down the aisle that night, looked like nothing human. This was a deliberate piece of staging. Followed by the tiny Leon See and other carefully picked midget-sized men, Carnera did not wear the usual fighter's bathrobe. Instead, he was dressed in a hideous green vest, a weird, visor-type cap, and black trunks on which was embroidered the head of a wild boar.
The humorous mutterings of the press, which had implied before the fight that it was to be a phony, were disregarded and forgotten by those who witnessed the spectacle in the Garden that night. The massive figure of Carnera, the lumbering tower of might and muscle that pawed at Peterson, somehow pleased the collected gathering. The men behind the scenes knew that they were "in" and could put the show on the road.
It was a fight that deserves little attention. Peterson managed to get his jaw in front of a glove containing Primo's pumpkin-sized hand and fell to the floor. He was counted out in the first round, undoubtedly resting comfortably on the canvas and contemplating the steaks he would be eating for the next several months. Back in the dressing room, Monsieur See was jubilantly bouncing about the room telling one and all about his fighter's glorious future. Primo sat on the table, surrounded by the tough guys, his large, kindly brown eyes dreamy and filled with wonder. That night he proudly sent a cablegram to his parents in Sequals, telling of his triumph.
"It was the first cable ever received by anyone in my town," he said. "It was very impressive."
The gang bundled up their giant and began a cross-country tour, moving from state to state and leaving behind them a trail of fixed fights, intimidated and coerced pugs and managers. Working with gangsters and gamblers, and using threats and violence, they cold-bloodedly staged one outrageous swindle after another. In one year, Carnera watched 22 victims go down under his playful pushes, more frightened by what they saw outside the ring than by the big, helpless man they faced.
In Chicago, the Illinois Athletic Commission proved somewhat more determined than the New York hierarchy. After Primo cuffed Elziar Rioux to the canvas in 47 seconds of the first round, the yowls of the press were so long and loud that the fighter's purse was held up. But the gang pulled strings and Primo was given the green light, Rioux taking the blame for a poor showing.
What Rioux knew was that it was better to do poorly and live than to tag Carnera and die. The men behind the giant were intent on cleaning up and that they did, gathering unto themselves over $700,000 on the tour. If an opponent refused to take the dive, to "talk business," he was shoved about a little by the muscle-men. If that didn't work, he often found himself, just before a fight, staring into the tiny, round opening of a .38 caliber weapon. Does it sound unbelievable? It happens to be the absolute truth.
In Philadelphia, a ***** heavyweight named Ace Clark walloped hell out of Carnera through the first five rounds. Just before the bell called him out for the sixth, a small, icy-faced man slid up against the ropes near his corner and said, "Look down here, Ace." The fighter looked, saw something gleaming and metallic beneath a coat, and performed an extremely believable dive in the next 30 seconds. A Newark pug was visited in his dressing room and treated right roughly when word reached the "crowd" that he might doublecross them and put up a fight. He too melted in the first round.
Out in Oakland, California, a large, classy puncher named Bombo Chevalier was having a lot of fun belting the amazed Primo around the ring. He might have ended the string of faked victories then and there, but midway through the fight he suddenly discovered something had gone wrong with his eyes. One of his own handlers had been bought, during the course of the fight, and had rubbed his orbs with some sort of inflammatory substance. That incident smelled so foully that an investigation followed, but the gang weaseled out of it and went on to the next swindle.
Some of the fighters Carnera bowled over were not bums, but they were all made to see the light. George Godfrey, a large, fast-moving, and skillful puncher, had a terrible time losing to Primo. It was almost impossible for this boy to fight badly enough for the huge Italian even to hit him! He finally solved the dilemma by fouling Primo in the fifth round.
After the fight, several suspicious reporters came into Godfrey's dressing room and began to ask him how hard Primo could hit. "Hit?" the large ***** grinned, "That fellow couldn't hurt my baby sister." The reporters began to laugh and then into the room walked several of the gentlefolk who were handling Carnera. Godfrey's face changed. "That white boy sure has some punch," Big George said, quickly, "I thought the house had fallen on me a couple of times there."
It was that raw. Long before Primo Carnera became champion of the world, the Duffy crowd had given the heave-ho to Leon See. As sharp as the little Frenchman was, even he could not stomach the conniving that was part and parcel of the Carnera buildup. He could visualize the end. He knew that the "fix" could not go on forever, that someone would tag the vulnerable chin of the giant and the inevitable decline would begin.
Leon did not always play square with Primo in the matter of money. But he did try to teach him to defend himself, and he did his best to keep the big fellow from suffering physical harm. After he was ousted by the gang, See took to writing a syndicated column, exposing the fights Carnera had. He stated outright that on the few occasions when opponents could not be threatened by guns and brass knuckles, then Primo lost.
While Leon See was at Primo's side, life was bearable for Carnera. "He was the one friend I had in America," Primo said, "He did not always do right. He was reckless and foolish in handling my money, but he was my friend."
Carnera saw very little of the juicy sums collected for the 80-odd fights he participated in before winning the title. In California, Leon took a chunk of Carnera's dough and invested it in real estate, buying two homes. In Oklahoma, he sunk a pot full of cash in an oil well that was dry as dust.
"I didn't know what he was doing," Carnera said, shaking his head. "The banks notified me that the homes he had bought for me were no longer mine. I did not pay something or other. The mortgage, that was it. Leon bought many things for me, but I believe he was cheated."
While Leon was with him, Primo at least had someone with whom he could talk, someone to kill the hours of loneliness. See treated him like a son, babied him, became maudlin and sentimental over the giant he knew was going to be taken away from him by the wolves. Carnera idolized the little manager. If he went out to a movie alone at night, he would scrawl a note to Leon telling him at what time he would return. Then he would rush back to the hotel to tell him all about the picture he had seen.
Shortly after Leon See was forced out of the picture, the dazed and unhappy giant was asked how he felt a manager should treat a fighter. By that time, Primo knew (or suspected) that all was not well, that he was not quite as invincible as he had been led to believe. "He who goes slow, goes surely," he said. "He who wants to travel far, is kind to his horse."
It was after the fight against Jack Sharkey on October 12th, 1931, that Primo Carnera knew that he had been tricked and deceived, that he was not the one-punch killer that he had been led to believe since the days in Paris. It was a terrible, humiliating, cruel fact for him to face. It was much harder to take than the beating the Boston gob gave him.
No one who saw that fight in New York will ever forget the look of pain and wonder on big Primo's face as he went down under Sharkey's blow. It was a sharp left hook to the jaw and it dumped Carnera to the canvas with a thud that could be heard in Times Square. He sat there dumbfounded, his eyes glazed. He finally got up on his feet, but when he saw the scowling Sharkey advancing on him, he dropped to his knees, a pitiful, abject, and stunned creature.
Those who crucified him as being cowardly, who taunted him with boos and derisive cries, did not know what was going on inside the huge man. As later fights proved, he was courageous beyond belief. He could take merciless punishment. That night, it was not Sharkey from whom he was cowering. He was hiding from himself, from the realization that he was nothing but a gigantic fraud in the hands of hoodlums, that he had nothing, neither a punch nor a defense.
Sharkey almost lost that fight. When Primo sank to his knees without being hit, the sailor started to jump out of the ring, thinking the fight was finished. It would have disqualified him, but his handlers managed to restrain him. He went on to pound, jab, poke, and cut up the giant for nine more rounds. Primo took it, then tottered down the aisle, his head hanging.
After that fight, Carnera wanted to quit. He was broke, lonely, sick at heart. "It was too late, then," he said. "They had me by the throat. They would not let me quit. Every fight was to be my last one, but it never was. I had no friends in the game, nobody I could talk to even, or ask advice. Everyone cared for the money, that's all. I knew it, and this is a very lonely thing."
The gang had an answer for everything. After he beat King Levinsky and Vittorio Campolo, they hustled Carnera out of the country until the stench of the upset would blow over. They pushed him into fights in London, Paris, Berlin, Milan. There was quick and easy money to be made in these places. Carnera's string of knockouts in America could be made to look very impressive and the Sharkey thing could always be explained as a fluke.
"After Leon left," Carnera revealed, "they did not even care whether I trained or not. I did the best I could by myself. They did not care whether I was in condition, or what I did. They just made the matches and took the money and that was all."
