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Be Like Billy Miske

When you are thinking of giving up, remember Billy Miske.

He might be the greatest heavyweight boxer no one ever heard of, The St. Paul Thunderbolt, William Arthur “Billy” Miske. If a movie were to be made about his life, someone like Matt Damon should play him. Another time, another place, he would have been America’s icon, and at least the heavyweight champion of the world, back when being heavyweight champion of the world meant something. He is easily the greatest fighter to ever come out of the Minnesota. An undersized pugilist he took on all comers, black-and-white, it did not matter. His punch felt like a mule’s kick. Hunched over, reporters and opponents noticed that he had an unusual fighting style, but they did not know why. What no one understood was - Billy Miske was dying of Bright’s disease and should have never been in the ring in the first place.

In 1918, just 24-years-old, it seemed Billy’s dream had come to an end. The finely-tuned body that made him one of the most feared men in the Midwest was giving out on him. The young German-American youth had a kidney disease that most people have probably never heard of, named after Dr. Richard Bright, the physician who first described the disease in the 19^th century. All he probably noticed was the severe pain in his lower back and kidney area, the blood in his urine, some vomiting, headaches and that he did not have the stamina that he normally had. When you are young, your own death seems far off, so it must have been difficult to hear the physician describe the next few painful months of his life. While his condition would progress slowly, and there would be moments he would feel healthy, but the disease was like a noose slowly tightening around his neck. He had two, maybe three, years if he was lucky. Those around him would first notice the dropsy. It would probably start in his face. His eyelids would stop moving and the natural lines in his face would disappear until his features would become immobile as it spread across his body. In time, his kidneys would become so inflamed that they would shut down. He, in all likelihood, would develop cancer or internal lesions. If those two things did not kill him, in all probability he would contract scarlet fever, diphtheria, typhoid fever, and pneumonia. At the end he would be confined to a chair because the dropsy of the pleura, congestion in his lungs and the swelling of the limbs would make lying down impossible. In whatever chair he found himself, he would languish in mind numbing, unrelenting pain until death was a blessing. Some doctors believed patients with Bright’s literally died of exhaustion. It was not a pretty way to go.

In order not to exacerbate the disease Billy was told he needed to retire. There was to be no excursion, overwork, chills or stress. He was going to have to monitor his diet. Boxing was the worst possible thing one could do with Bright’s Disease. One little problem, Billy owed a lot of money. His son later claimed it was somewhere in the area of $100,000. Like a lot of athletes, he was a bad businessman. To secure his family’s future he had opened a car dealership and trusted the wrong people. Now, $100,000 does not sound like much, but it is the equivalent of roughly $1.5 million today. Most people would have walked away from that kind of debt. Billy was a man of honor and he was determined to pay back every dollar he owed. So, he did the one thing he was good at. Within a few months he climbed back into the ring to pay back every penny he owed. At least 30 times, probably more than that, he fought whoever signed the dotted line and battled like a champion.

Over the next five years, Billy Miske proved to be one of the best heavyweights in the nation. For a dead man walking, most observers, other than Billy’s unusual style designed to protect his body, it was impossible to tell there was anything wrong with him. He told almost no one that he was sick, the pain that was almost crippling. He just fought, anyone, everyone, black, white, it did not matter to Billy. He was even willing to take on the heavyweight champion of the world, the great Jack Dempsey, The Manassa Mauler, a man who Ring Magazine ranks as one of the ten greatest heavyweights of all-time, three times. The first time Billy fought the champ to a ten round draw in St. Paul Auditorium. Six months later, the Mauler escaped the Philadelphia Olympia Club with the title in hand.

Dempsey knew of Billy’s condition when they met in Michigan for their third go around. It was supposed to be an easy payday. It was the first fight to ever be broadcast over the radio. There was no way the St. Paul Thunderbolt could withstand Dempsey’s vicious body blows. Dempsey decided he would carry his opponent for a few rounds to make a show of it. No one told that to Miske. When the bell rang, Billy charged out of the corner, determined to take out the champ and, to the shock of the spectators present and listening to the radio, he almost did it. He rocked the larger champion with blows. Dempsey’s manager began screaming that they had been lied to, that there was nothing wrong with the Midwestern youngster but by the third round Billy had given everything he had. Exhausted, for the first time in his career, the St. Paul native crumbled to the canvas.

Now a fighter with a death sentence continuing to battle is a wonderful story, but it was in the last few months of his life that Billy’s story truly became epic. He had paid off his debts, but his wife and children had nothing. Nineteen twenty-three, Christmas was coming up, Billy knew it was his last. He was often too weak to even lift himself out of his chair. It broke his heart that he was going to leave them with nothing. He wanted to give his family one last good memory. The St. Paul pugilist wanted to give his wife the piano she had always wanted and his two kids to find toys under the tree. He thought she had a beautiful voice and had the talent to be an opera singer. He told his manager Jack Reddy to find him a fight. He needed enough money to make it a Christmas to remember. Barely able to move, having not fought in almost a year, Reddy got him a match in Omaha for $15,000 against ranked Bill Brennan who had just gone six rounds with Dempsey. Unable to eat anything but boiled fish and lying to sportswriters about mysterious training camps that did not exist because he was physically unable to do anything, Billy was going to take a beating for those he loved. When the bell rang on November 7, Billy did the unimaginable. The flesh might have been weak but the heart was willing. Billy Miske knocked the New York City fighter to the canvas. In a real life Rocky story, Billy towered over his flattened opponent victorious.

On Christmas morning the children came down the steps of their Fairmount Avenue. There were presents everywhere. Billy sat in his rocking chair as his children excitedly opened their gifts. A new baby grand piano sat in the living room. Furniture that had been pawned long ago had been returned to their rightful places. The home rang with Billy’s laughter, especially when his mother-in-law’s weight proved to be too much for a new dressing table chair. A few hours later, Billy called his manager and simply said, "Come and get me, Jack. I'm dying." Jack Reddy drove his friend to St. Mary’s Hospital in Minneapolis. Six days later, he died on New Year’s Day. He was just twenty-nine years old.

Love.

Sometimes when things seem to be up against you, think of Billy Miske and keep on fighting.