The warden at Leavenworth Federal Prison had scheduled the fights to start at 3 in the afternoon. But guests started arriving at noon and officials struggled to find enough seats to accommodate the crowd of 2,000, including 300 reporters, state officials and other notables.
The rest of the crowd was made up of prisoners dressed in their usual striped outfits, who, after eating Thanksgiving dinner, were led out to the yard by guards and armed soldiers. A band made up of inmates played while snipers and cameras looked down on the specially constructed outdoor boxing ring. The former kept watch while the latter filmed the momentous event. It was the first time in years that Jack Johnson — Inmate #15461 — would box on U.S. soil.
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Most Americans hadn’t seen Johnson since he fled the country seven years earlier. When he fought on that Thanksgiving afternoon in 1920, Johnson was 43 and at least a decade past his athletic prime. But he was always more than a boxer. The first African-American heavyweight champion and a man unafraid to cross racial lines in his romantic life, Johnson embodied the country’s anxieties over race. His success prompted a backlash from people as high as former President Theodore Roosevelt, who advocated for boxing’s banishment, to those who invited Johnson to Mississippi to show him their brand of hospitality.
In 1913, Johnson was convicted under the Mann Act for allegedly transporting a white woman across state lines for immoral purposes. During the trial in Chicago, protesters hanged Johnson in effigy. A dummy with its face blackened with paint swung from a tree and included a placard reading “This is what we will do for Jack Johnson.” Three weeks later, a group in Midland, Texas, sent a letter to the prosecuting attorney, informing him that if he killed Johnson, they’d contribute $100,000 for his defense. When rumors spread of Johnson’s assassination — either by a white woman or her relatives, depending on the version — several newspapers published regretsthat the boxer remained alive. When a reporter informed Johnson of the rumor, he replied, “Do I look dead?”
Eight years later, he was in Leavenworth, still alive. Johnson entered the ring that day wearing a skullcap and bathrobe while the prison band played and inmates cheered. It was likely the first time most people at a Johnson fight had rooted for him. But despite all the people there, his wife, Lucille, the one person who’d always cheered for Johnson, was missing. “Sorry you can’t come to see me,” Johnson wrote her in a telegram, “but you will understand — no ladies admitted.”
A 40-year-old Jack Johnson conditions hinself by pitting his strength against that of two horses.
GETTY IMAGES
Johnson planned to fight twice that day. In the weeks beforehand, he relied on his wife to send along supplies: boxing shoes sized 10-E, or “10 half D,” and 5-ounce boxing gloves. For his training, he asked her to send arm bracelets to “pull against horses.” They communicated through long letters and telegrams, and Johnson ended his correspondence each time with a loving phrase: “Love and kisses to you,” “Best love for you,” “Love with kisses.” Their love was strong, although they had a complicated relationship — to say the least.
“Sorry you can’t come to see me,” Johnson wrote his wife, “but you will understand — no ladies admitted.”
Lucille, who was white, was at the center of what landed Johnson in prison. When they first met, she was 18 and, depending on the source, may have been a prostitute. He was 35 and widowed. Soon after they met, her mother demanded police rescue Lucille from Johnson, who she claimed had abducted her daughter. It didn’t matter that Lucille repeatedly mentioned she loved Johnson and planned to marry him. Authorities and her mother dismissed those claims as lunacy. Lucille’s mother would later claim that she’d rather see her daughter “spend the rest of her life in an insane asylum than see her the plaything of a n—–.”
Jack Johnson with his second wife, Lucille Cameron.
AFRO AMERICAN NEWSPAPERS/GADO/GETTY IMAGES
Police arrested and charged Johnson with violating the Mann Act and raided his Chicago nightclub in search of white slaves. They also arrested Lucille, hoping to use her as a witness against Johnson, but also out of worry she’d run away and marry him. Authorities released Lucille only after her mother promised to take her from Chicago. Lucille quickly ran back to the city and married Johnson in a ceremony at his house filled with what one newspaper described as “color-blind kisses.” The case against him collapsed until authorities found another woman to testify against Johnson. During the second trial, an all-white, all-male jury convicted Johnson after deliberating for 90 minutes. The judge sentenced him to a year and a day in prison.
“This defendant is one of the best-known men of his race,” the judge explained during sentencing, “and his example has been far-reaching, and the court is bound to consider the position he occupied among his people. In view of these facts, this is a case that calls for more than a fine.” Johnson and his wife fled the country.
In his first fight that Thanksgiving Day, Johnson toyed with his African-American opponent, Frank Owens, a modestly talented pro from Chicago and a friend of Johnson’s who had come down for the exhibition. He knocked Owens down 12 times before ending the fight in the sixth round with a left hook to his jaw. Afterward, Johnson stood in the ring and rested a few minutes before facing his second opponent.
It was no more than 40 degrees out — average for that time of year in northeastern Kansas. As he told his wife in one of their many prison telegrams, “weather doesn’t bother me.” By that point, compared with everything that had occurred, whether it was cold or hot must have felt trivial.
When Johnson chose self-exile, he and his wife traveled across Europe and Latin America for seven years. In the nine months before arriving at Leavenworth, Johnson was a guest of Mexican President Venustiano Carranza. This was the same Carranza who in 1914, when the Mexican Revolution had devolved into civil war, threatened to capture and turn Johnson over to the United States if he set foot in the country. The threat came after Carranza’s foe, Pancho Villa, attempted to increase his war chest by hosting a fight between Johnson and Jess Willard in Ciudad Juárez. But with Johnson unable to arrive safely, promoters moved the fight to Cuba, where Willard defeated Johnson on April 5, 1915.
Jack Johnson fights Jess Willard in Havana, Cuba in 1915.
TOPICAL PRESS AGENCY/GETTY IMAGES
The rest of the crowd was made up of prisoners dressed in their usual striped outfits, who, after eating Thanksgiving dinner, were led out to the yard by guards and armed soldiers. A band made up of inmates played while snipers and cameras looked down on the specially constructed outdoor boxing ring. The former kept watch while the latter filmed the momentous event. It was the first time in years that Jack Johnson — Inmate #15461 — would box on U.S. soil.
ADVERTISEMENT
Most Americans hadn’t seen Johnson since he fled the country seven years earlier. When he fought on that Thanksgiving afternoon in 1920, Johnson was 43 and at least a decade past his athletic prime. But he was always more than a boxer. The first African-American heavyweight champion and a man unafraid to cross racial lines in his romantic life, Johnson embodied the country’s anxieties over race. His success prompted a backlash from people as high as former President Theodore Roosevelt, who advocated for boxing’s banishment, to those who invited Johnson to Mississippi to show him their brand of hospitality.
In 1913, Johnson was convicted under the Mann Act for allegedly transporting a white woman across state lines for immoral purposes. During the trial in Chicago, protesters hanged Johnson in effigy. A dummy with its face blackened with paint swung from a tree and included a placard reading “This is what we will do for Jack Johnson.” Three weeks later, a group in Midland, Texas, sent a letter to the prosecuting attorney, informing him that if he killed Johnson, they’d contribute $100,000 for his defense. When rumors spread of Johnson’s assassination — either by a white woman or her relatives, depending on the version — several newspapers published regretsthat the boxer remained alive. When a reporter informed Johnson of the rumor, he replied, “Do I look dead?”
Eight years later, he was in Leavenworth, still alive. Johnson entered the ring that day wearing a skullcap and bathrobe while the prison band played and inmates cheered. It was likely the first time most people at a Johnson fight had rooted for him. But despite all the people there, his wife, Lucille, the one person who’d always cheered for Johnson, was missing. “Sorry you can’t come to see me,” Johnson wrote her in a telegram, “but you will understand — no ladies admitted.”
A 40-year-old Jack Johnson conditions hinself by pitting his strength against that of two horses.
GETTY IMAGES
Johnson planned to fight twice that day. In the weeks beforehand, he relied on his wife to send along supplies: boxing shoes sized 10-E, or “10 half D,” and 5-ounce boxing gloves. For his training, he asked her to send arm bracelets to “pull against horses.” They communicated through long letters and telegrams, and Johnson ended his correspondence each time with a loving phrase: “Love and kisses to you,” “Best love for you,” “Love with kisses.” Their love was strong, although they had a complicated relationship — to say the least.
“Sorry you can’t come to see me,” Johnson wrote his wife, “but you will understand — no ladies admitted.”
Lucille, who was white, was at the center of what landed Johnson in prison. When they first met, she was 18 and, depending on the source, may have been a prostitute. He was 35 and widowed. Soon after they met, her mother demanded police rescue Lucille from Johnson, who she claimed had abducted her daughter. It didn’t matter that Lucille repeatedly mentioned she loved Johnson and planned to marry him. Authorities and her mother dismissed those claims as lunacy. Lucille’s mother would later claim that she’d rather see her daughter “spend the rest of her life in an insane asylum than see her the plaything of a n—–.”
Jack Johnson with his second wife, Lucille Cameron.
AFRO AMERICAN NEWSPAPERS/GADO/GETTY IMAGES
Police arrested and charged Johnson with violating the Mann Act and raided his Chicago nightclub in search of white slaves. They also arrested Lucille, hoping to use her as a witness against Johnson, but also out of worry she’d run away and marry him. Authorities released Lucille only after her mother promised to take her from Chicago. Lucille quickly ran back to the city and married Johnson in a ceremony at his house filled with what one newspaper described as “color-blind kisses.” The case against him collapsed until authorities found another woman to testify against Johnson. During the second trial, an all-white, all-male jury convicted Johnson after deliberating for 90 minutes. The judge sentenced him to a year and a day in prison.
“This defendant is one of the best-known men of his race,” the judge explained during sentencing, “and his example has been far-reaching, and the court is bound to consider the position he occupied among his people. In view of these facts, this is a case that calls for more than a fine.” Johnson and his wife fled the country.
In his first fight that Thanksgiving Day, Johnson toyed with his African-American opponent, Frank Owens, a modestly talented pro from Chicago and a friend of Johnson’s who had come down for the exhibition. He knocked Owens down 12 times before ending the fight in the sixth round with a left hook to his jaw. Afterward, Johnson stood in the ring and rested a few minutes before facing his second opponent.
It was no more than 40 degrees out — average for that time of year in northeastern Kansas. As he told his wife in one of their many prison telegrams, “weather doesn’t bother me.” By that point, compared with everything that had occurred, whether it was cold or hot must have felt trivial.
When Johnson chose self-exile, he and his wife traveled across Europe and Latin America for seven years. In the nine months before arriving at Leavenworth, Johnson was a guest of Mexican President Venustiano Carranza. This was the same Carranza who in 1914, when the Mexican Revolution had devolved into civil war, threatened to capture and turn Johnson over to the United States if he set foot in the country. The threat came after Carranza’s foe, Pancho Villa, attempted to increase his war chest by hosting a fight between Johnson and Jess Willard in Ciudad Juárez. But with Johnson unable to arrive safely, promoters moved the fight to Cuba, where Willard defeated Johnson on April 5, 1915.
Jack Johnson fights Jess Willard in Havana, Cuba in 1915.
TOPICAL PRESS AGENCY/GETTY IMAGES