Lore 267: Curveball

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First came the cough, then the fever.

The boy struggled for air and each breath was like a knife to the chest.

After a visit from the doctor, there was no doubt it was pneumonia.

And finally, on one icy Chicago day in 1920, Robert Ruckheim passed away.

He was only seven years old.

And yet, his story wasn't over.

Because, as it turns out, little Robert was destined for a strange sort of immortality.

You see, Robert's grandfather, Frederick Ruckheim, was something of an entrepreneur.

And in 1893, Frederick and his brother Louis had started hawking a new snack product at the Chicago World's Fair.

It was a hit, and the brothers began mass-producing a packaged version of the treat.

Now, of course, the product would need a flashy logo, something to signal wholesome, patriotic fun to consumers across the nation.

And in 1918, after a number of less-inspired iterations, Frederick landed on a design that stuck.

He decided to honor his then five-year-old grandson Robert by putting his face on the box, dressed in a sailor suit with a dog at his feet.

Little did Frederick know that less than two years later that smiling little boy would be dead.

The only thing left of him would be that picture, emblazoned like a memorial on thousands upon thousands of Cracker Jack boxes.

That's right, Sailor Jack, the kid depicted on the classic baseball game snack, is actually a drawing of poor little Robert, a boy who never grew up.

But I'll be honest, when it comes to spooky baseball stories, that one is just the beginning.

So today, we'll dig deep into America's favorite pastime, emerging with prizes more strange and haunted than any cracker jackbox could ever hold.

I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore.

It wasn't just a good game for Jim Davenport.

It was a great game.

The Giants player had hit not one, but two home runs, and now, back in the locker room, he was pondering his success.

How had he played so well that night?

What had changed?

After all, his skill hadn't grown between this game and the last.

His opponents were no less formidable.

But as he glanced down, he spotted the anomaly right there on his uniform.

It was a button, or rather the lack of a button.

In his rush to get ready that morning, he had accidentally missed a buttonhole while dressing.

Yes, that empty buttonhole must be his lucky charm, his secret to success.

And so after that day, Jim would leave that buttonhole undone on purpose.

for the rest of his career.

Now, it may sound absurd if you aren't a baseball fan, but for those who do follow the the sport, you'll know that superstitions like this are even more common than strikeouts.

And as it turns out, there's a pretty good reason for that.

Philosopher and baseball writer Dr.

Amber Griffin describes it best.

She writes, A poorly thrown fastball can result in a strikeout, and a perfectly executed slider can be blooped into the outfield for a base hit.

A ball popped up in the infield can be lost in the sun, and the wind can turn a would-be home run into a foul ball.

The best teams win only approximately 60% of their games.

In other words, despite requiring extreme talent and finesse, many of the outcomes in baseball depend largely on chance or luck.

Now, if there's one thing that we know about the human brain, it's that it hates leaving things to chance.

In fact, we'll do just about anything to manufacture a sense of control, even convince ourselves of impossible, impractical cause and effect relationships, like say the ability for a single buttonhole to produce home runs.

Some baseball superstitions are learned as early as Little League, passed down from coach to player or whispered amongst peers in the dugout.

Things like never step on a white chalk foul line or never speak to a pitcher who's in the midst of throwing a perfect game or the idea that a bat only contains a limited number of hits and when those hits are used up, that's that.

The bat has to be retired.

There are superstitions about how to wear your cap, how many times to swing the bat before stepping into the batter's box, and more.

In the 1920s and 30s, players who tripped on the field would have to retrace their steps exactly to undo the bad luck.

Further back in the century, finding a lady's hairpin on the ground was considered lucky, as was seeing a white horse before a game.

The hairpin and the horse though brought up another issue.

You had to be lucky enough to organically stumble upon these things, which meant once again relying on chance.

So, sometimes managers would, well, let's just say, stack the deck.

A manager might drop hairpins on the ground hoping for players to find them.

In 1904, a manager for the New York Giants even paid a carriage driver to casually bring his white horses past the ballpark before a game.

Talk about making your own luck, right?

Now, sure, these rituals seem pretty playful and benign, but that wasn't always the case.

Some were downright, well, racist.

Ty Cobb and many other players believed that rubbing the head of a black boy would bring them good luck.

Cobb even took a young black child with him on the road during the 1908 season for just this reason.

Others employed, and I quote, hunchbacks and people with dwarfism to work somewhere in the team's orbit, viewing these human beings as no more than lucky charms.

And I have to say, as a professional observer of history, I think that America's real favorite pastime has always been discrimination.

Speaking of lucky charms, though, many players have what are called fetishes.

And no, not that kind of fetish.

A A fetish is another word for a talisman.

Players carry things like coins, poker chips, crucifixes, rabbits' feet, lucky socks, a special glove, and more for good luck and protection.

And honestly, all of this is just scratching the surface because there is as much baseball magic as there are, well, players.

Because that's the most fascinating thing about this particular category of superstition.

While some of the rituals are shared, most of them are in fact private and individual.

Things made up by a player himself and performed by him and him alone.

Take for example the favorite lucky charm for 1960s player Julio Gotai.

During every game, he carried a cheese sandwich in his back pocket, part lucky charm, part snack.

Not a bad idea, right?

And then there's left fielder Riccardo Cardi, who would prep by dunking five candles in the toilet and bathtub before bringing them to the game, at which point he would light them at the plate.

Cardinals player Edward Mohica used to dig a hole at the front end of the bullpen mound, into which he would spit half a cup of red Gatorade.

And yes, it had to be red.

Powerhouse hitter Jason Giambi, who played in the major leagues from 1995 all the way through 2014, was prone to what are called slumps, which is when a player gets stuck in a streak of poor performance.

Thankfully though, Giambi had a trick for getting his groove back.

The 6'3, 240 pound heavy hitter would simply wear a shiny golden thong under his uniform.

And hey, don't knock it till you've tried it, because it gained such a reputation for success that Giambi's teammates, including Derek Jeter and Johnny Damon, admitted to borrowing it too.

Hopefully not borrowing the actual thong.

12-time all-star and Hall of Famer Wade Boggs had a rather famous superstitious routine.

For one, he ate chicken before every game, evidently earning him the nickname Chicken Man.

He would wake at exactly the same time on game days, and for night games, he always left his home at exactly 1.47 p.m.

He would take batting practice at exactly 5.17 p.m., run sprints at 7.17, and field exactly 150 balls during warm-ups.

Quizzically, he also drew the Hebrew word for life, kai, in the dirt before coming to bat, despite not being even a little bit Jewish.

Pitcher Turk Wendell may take the cake, though.

Men's Journal magazine named him the most superstitious athlete, not just in baseball, but in any sport, and called him, and I quote, an absolute maniac when it came to magical belief.

Wendell would always chew four pieces of black licorice when he was pitching and would spit them out and then brush his teeth after each inning.

Oh, and he'd always hop over the baseline, making sure never to step on it when entering or exiting the field and at the start of each inning, refusing to pitch until his center fielder waved at him.

Oh, and then there was his lucky necklace made from the teeth of wild animals that he had hunted and killed.

And that's just a small sample of his rituals.

There is no denying it.

Baseball players have got to be some of the most superstitious people on the planet.

But all that belief also comes with a downside.

Because, you see, you can't believe in charms and luck without also believing in curses.

The Chicago Cubs were on a roll.

They had won two of their first three World Series games against the Detroit Tigers, which meant only two more wins would cement their 1945 title.

And to make matters better for the next game, they'd have home field advantage.

But hey, success was nothing new to the Cubs.

After all, they were one of the best teams in the country.

No, really, ever since their founding in 1876, the team had broken record after record for winning streaks, World Series appearances, and more.

But little did they know, that was all about to change.

On October 6th of 1945, fans poured into Wrigley Field, eager to watch their beloved team do what they did best, win.

One of these fans was a Greek immigrant named William Cyanis, owner of a local bar called the Billy Goat Tavern, and clutched in his fist were two tickets to the big game, one for him and one for his pal Murphy.

A small detail I should mention though, Murphy just also happened to be a goat.

That's right, Siantis brought a goat to a baseball game.

Why?

Well, it's hard to say.

Some claim that he was a superstitious fellow and thought that the goat would be good luck, but my guess is that it was a publicity stunt for his Billy Goat tavern.

In fact, the guy had a track record for media gimmicks, like the time he asked the State Department to issue him a license for building a restaurant on the moon, or another time when, knowing the Republican National Convention was in town, he smacked a We Do Not Serve Republican sign on his pub door, ensuring, through reverse psychology, a a paying bar packed with them the next day.

Whatever the motivation, Ciannis and Murphy marched toward the gate, determined to watch the game.

Ciannis had even blinged Murphy out with the sign that read, We Got Detroit's goat.

Yeah, that pun is low, even for my standards.

After some spirited arguing with the ushers, the dynamic duo were finally let into the stadium and led to their seats.

So far, all was well and good.

The goat was in, the game was about to start.

Luck was on the cub's side.

But then, then, it began to rain.

Now, I'm not sure if you've ever smelled a rain-soaked goat, but imagine a wet dog on steroids.

This was pungent, so bad, in fact, that fans seated nearby started to complain, and eventually Ciannis and Murphy were kicked out of the stadium.

Now, according to the legend, as the furious Ciannis and his wet, smelly goat stood outside Wrigley Field, he tossed his hands up and yelled a fateful proclamation.

The Cubs, he said, ain't gonna win no more.

The Cubs will never win a World Series so long as the goat is not allowed in Wrigley Field.

And that was that.

From then on, the Chicago Cubs were cursed.

They lost that game against the Detroit Tigers that day.

Then they lost the World Series.

The following season, their losing streak continued, and the season after.

And after that, years went by, and game after game, pitch after pitch, it seemed like all the Cubs could do was lose.

Once lauded as superstars, they had come to earn the nickname the the lovable losers.

Wait till next year became the team's rather pitiful motto.

It seemed that Murphy the goat had taken his revenge.

Now, if we've learned anything from fairy tales, it's that curses can be broken, right?

And Lord knows that the Cubs supporters tried to break this one.

Fans did all sorts of rites and rituals to turn the tide.

Even the higher-ups got involved.

In September of 1950, for example, P.K.

Wrigley himself wrote a letter to Ciannis begging for mercy.

but nothing worked.

Decades passed.

By 1972, both Ciannis and Murphy had passed away.

But the curse didn't die with its makers.

Nor did the Billy Goat Tavern for that matter, which had been passed down to Ciannis' nephew, Sam.

And Sam, well, he figured enough was enough.

Maybe, just maybe that Cianus' blood running in his veins could help him break the curse once and for all.

And so Sam climbed into a limo and headed to Wrigley Field with a special friend in tow.

That's right, a goat.

This time the sign on the animal read, all is forgiven, let me lead you to the penant, your friend, Billy Goat.

You know the old adage, those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.

Well, whoever was working the door at Wrigley that day must have forgotten history because the ushers refused to let Sam and the goat through the gate.

And once again, it seems the curse retaliated.

The Cubs lost a whopping 16 of their next 20 games.

Now look, I'm an Illinois boy, and I can tell you firsthand, Chicago is not a city that gives up without a fight.

On two occasions, once in 1984 and again in 1994, the Cubs tried to right this wrong by inviting Sam and his goat BFF to attend games as honored guests.

Their manager even told a reporter, and I quote, I've got to go down to that tavern and talk to that guy about the goat.

We'll let the goat run the bases and water the outfield.

We'll let him eat some grass and I'll kiss him, whatever it takes.

And it almost seemed to work.

Both times Sam Ciannis and his goat visited visited a game, the Cubs won.

But alas, the winning streaks never lasted.

Not until 2016, when at long last, the Cubs finally achieved the impossible.

They won the World Series, for the first time in 108 years.

The curse of the Billy Goat has gone down as one of, if not the, most famous curses in sports history.

And it's easy to see why.

After all, the tale is compelling to say the least.

And okay, I'll admit, most of the Cubs players themselves never actually believed in the hex, just playing along for show.

But maybe they should have believed.

Because if you ask me, the team really was cursed.

That is, the placebo effect is a powerful drug.

The Cubs came to expect a loss.

And if you believe you're going to lose, well, you probably will.

Add to that years of poor management, poor trades, an unwillingness to pay for top players, an overzealous desire to win the World Series, and a playful little superstition, it all became too real.

But through it all, one winner always came out on top, the Billy Goat Tavern.

Its curse-related fame led to franchising, merch lines, and an influx of cash unlike anything the pub ever would have seen without such a legend behind it.

Honestly, it seems that Ciannis had been the real goat all along.

Now, believing in barnyard curses is one thing, but as this next story goes on to show us, it's another thing entirely when a baseball team starts playing like it's the end of the world.

It's the bottom of the fifth and the crowd is enraptured.

This is it, the moment you've been waiting for, the reason you've poured into the stands, all 6,000 of you, eyes glued to the field.

At last, the innings end and the real show begins.

Instead of returning to the dugout, the visiting team starts to juggle.

That's right, juggle.

Baseballs soar through the air in elaborate loops.

One of the players performs a magical sleight of hand trick, a ball vanishing into thin air, only for him to pull it out of his long black beard.

Suddenly, there are donkeys on the pitch, players performing from their backs.

Yep, in a matter of minutes, the park has been transformed into a full-on circus.

At last comes the grand finale.

The visiting team sets down their gear, steps into the stands, and invites you to join their doomsday cult.

It's 1920s America, and you have just witnessed the world-famous semi-pro baseball team, the House of David, in all their bizarre glory.

But before you dismiss this as some kind of fever dream, let's rewind a few decades.

It'll all make sense soon enough.

If you're a regular listener of this show, you'll remember our recent episode on the self-proclaimed prophet Joanna Southcott.

Long story short, she was an English apocalypse preacher during the late 18th and early 19th centuries and spent her life warning of a second coming while delivering terrifying and slightly wacky prophecies.

She managed to recruit thousands of disciples during her lifetime and after her death in 1814, numerous cults continued to follow her teachings.

Cults like the House of David.

It was founded by a man named Benjamin Purnell and his wife Mary.

The two were not wealthy nor well-educated, but Benjamin was a damn good preacher and they spent years traveling and teaching South Kadian principles.

Well, one night Mary had an odd dream.

As she slept, a voice vividly spoke the words, Benton Harbor, Michigan, despite the fact that she had never heard of a town by that name.

When she awoke, she reported the dream to her husband and they were in an agreement.

It must be a divine message and it could only mean one thing.

Benton Harbor, Michigan would be the location of the new Garden of Eden.

So, the Purnells and a few disciples headed for Chicago.

Once there, they founded a little compound called, and I quote, the Israelite House of David, the New Eve, the Body of Christ.

But that proved to be a bit of a mouthful, so most people simply called it the House of David.

They believed that once 12,000 disciples had gathered in Benton Harbor, the old world would fall and a new era of peace and harmony would commence.

And with that, the Purnells' real mission began.

It was time to start recruiting.

Their followers grew to a few dozen, and then to a hundred, then more.

At its peak, shortly shortly before World War I, members would number around a thousand, all living communally on their land.

Like any good cult, there were rules and regulations to follow.

They were celibate, for one, even among married couples.

Alcohol, tobacco, and profanity were also prohibited, as was eating meat.

Personal property was not allowed.

And lastly, haircuts and shaving were forbidden.

Now, if you're imagining a bunch of tent-dwelling hippies, think again.

The House of David was an urban planning powerhouse.

They cultivated their own grain and maintained over a dozen orchards.

The commune had its own cannery, its own carpenter shop, its own tailor shop, and more.

Heck, they even owned and operated their own electrical plant to provide the compound with lighting.

Basically, this wasn't a commune.

It was a city.

Of course, they had to fund all of this somehow, and fund it they did.

By the 1920s, the House of David was raking in millions and millions of dollars.

How?

Well, they purchased 3,400 acres of agricultural products, selling crops in massive quantities.

They dipped into the lumber industry too.

Get this, they even ran a theme park next door to their compound called the Eden Springs Amusement Park, complete with a miniature railroad, a fish pond, a giant dollhouse, a zoo, and of course, an auditorium for performing biblical plays.

I know, I'm right there with you.

We all want to go to the doomsday cult Six Flags.

And yet, none of their ventures were more famed and beloved than the House of David baseball team.

It started simply enough by buying some land.

The cult built a baseball park on the purchase plot and began renting it out to semi-pro teams for a little easy money.

Every now and then though, the members would jump in on a game themselves, you know, just for fun.

And miraculously, they were holding their own against these semi-pro teams.

Actually, better than holding their own.

They were winning.

In fact, they soon realized that they were talented enough to form a semi-pro team of their own.

By 1915, the official House of David baseball team started barnstorming, as it was called, which was when teams would go on tour playing exhibition games.

Far from their colony in rural Michigan, the team barnstormed through the U.S.

and Canada, Mexico, and even Cuba.

The more they played, the more money they were able to send home to Benton Harbor, and the more opportunities they had to proselytize the fans they met along the way.

After all, they were still going for that 12,000-member goal back at the compound.

And what better way to recruit than by traveling the world?

But they weren't just religious zealots posing as baseball players.

These guys were good.

They won 65 to 75% of their games, sometimes playing two or three games per day, and they were a blast to watch.

They were aggressive and theatrical, never shying away from dramatic slides or stealing bases.

Not to mention their whole, well, look.

Remember, one of the cult's rules was no haircuts or shaving.

So imagine a bunch of rasputin clones running around in pristine uniforms.

Oh, and due to their facial hair, sports journalists refer to the House of David players as, and I quote, whiskerinos.

Their image became so iconic that famous major league players would don fake beards to impersonate them.

There's even a photo of Babe Ruth with a whiskarino beard strapped onto his stout, legendary chin.

But most exciting of all were the House of Davids' elaborate baseball stunts, or pepper games.

And this brings us back to what you witnessed at the start of the story.

The juggling, the vanishing trick in the beard, the donkey riding, and more.

Basically, think of them as the original Harlem Globetrotters.

Gag after gag, they performed to delighted crowds for more than 40 years.

And a lot happened in that time, but one thing that sure didn't was the second coming of Jesus Christ.

But hey, at least they found a pretty good way to pass the time.

In the late 1920s, scandal rocked the community back in Benton Harbor.

The cult's leader, Benjamin Purnell, was accused of sexual assault and child abuse.

And while he was never found guilty on those counts, he was convicted of fraud in 1927 and died shortly thereafter.

The group splintered into a broken kaleidoscope of smaller factions, each one with their own House of David baseball team.

Meanwhile, commune members were replaced one by one with hired players until the teams were barely related to the cult at all.

And as the 1950s arrived and the age of barnstorming came to a close, so ended the House of Davids exhibition teams once and for all.

And yet, while they reigned, they made an indelible mark on America.

Amidst all their antics and beards and doomsday preaching, they were also setting the stage for a new era of equity in baseball.

You see, they played against other semi-pro teams.

Yes, even the occasional major league team, but they also played Negro League teams years before baseball became integrated.

In fact, they even hired some major stars from the Negro League to play for them, making them one of the first integrated teams in history.

They even had a few female players on the team, including 19-year-old Beatrice Mitchell, who allegedly struck out both Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig.

Despite being a rigid Christian cult, they were actually practicing progressive inclusivity far ahead of their time.

At the end of the day, I can't help but wonder if the team's success had something to do with their religious beliefs.

After all, what would make you play your heart out harder, lean more fully into the thing you love, than thinking that the world was about to end?

It makes me reflect back on all those player superstitions, the cheese sandwich in the back pocket, the hole full of red Gatorade, the undone button, and the five flickering candles on home plate.

Because the thing about all these rituals is that according to the data, they actually worked.

Just as the assumption of failure was a self-fulfilling prophecy for the Chicago Cubs, so too functioned these lucky rituals.

You see, by practicing these ceremonies, by believing so deeply in their power, the players performed with more confidence, more certainty, and ultimately, because of this, more skill.

In other words, it turns out that golden thong really was magic.

I hope you enjoyed today's battle between two opposing teams, common sense and superstition.

It's a wonderful slice of the past, right?

But surprisingly, even to this day, a few stray House of David disciples continue to keep up the cult's traditions right there in Benton Harbor, still waiting for the second coming to arrive.

They've waited a century for their final story.

Our last tale, though, is coming right up.

Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it.

This show is sponsored by BetterHelp.

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I know this is going to sound obvious, but boxing is a violent sport.

From concussions to fractures, brain damage to muscle tears, fighters face a myriad of dangers when they step into the ring.

But one threat they usually don't have to worry about is black magic.

Unfortunately, though, for light, heavyweight boxer Tiger Jack Fox, that was exactly what would take him down.

The fight took place on February 3rd of 1939 beneath the glamorous lights of Madison Square Gardens.

And by this point Tiger Jack was no stranger to the sport.

He'd been boxing for over a decade and had achieved nearly 100 career wins.

Although he'd taken a break for the last couple of months after a woman he'd brought back to his hotel room had stabbed him in the chest.

Story for another time.

Anyway, tonight, he would make his way to the final bouts in a tournament to determine the new light heavyweight champion.

And to be honest, it looked like Tiger Jack had this one in the bag.

He was up against a fellow boxer named Melio Bettina, who had a reputation for being kind of a naive farmboy.

Even having been stabbed two months prior, Tiger Jack was still favored to win 3-1.

But little did he know, Bettina had a secret weapon.

And that secret weapon was his manager, a guy named Jimmy Grippo.

And if you think that sounds like a cartoon character, just wait, because old Jimmy Grippo really lived up to his name.

You see, Jimmy wasn't actually best known as a boxing manager.

He was most famous as a magician.

The Las Vegas Sun would later describe him as an expert in, and I quote, clairaudience, clairvoyance, dream interpretation, extrasensory perception, handwriting analysis, magic and sleight of hand, palmistry, precognition, pupil metrics, telekinesis, and telepathy.

But his real specialty?

Oh, that would be hypnosis.

In fact, Jimmy Grippo became famous for partnering with well-respected doctors to use hypnosis as an alternative to anesthetics.

He was a huge proponent of hypnosis' ability to help women through childbirth and was even hired to perform hypnosis on the King of Siam to calm the nervous monarch before an eye surgery.

Oh, and by the way, if you're envisioning a mysterious showman with a flowing black cape, you may want to amend that mental image.

This fella basically looked like Captain Kangaroo with dark hair, dark glasses, and a suit and tie.

Of course, the real question though is, how did a magician end up as Milio Bettina's boxing manager?

Well, he'd actually known Bettina since the fighter was a boy.

The boxer had been a meek, scrawny kid who got picked on in school.

And so his mom enrolled him in a local boxing gym and also hired their neighbor, Jimmy Grippo, to help bolster the boy's confidence using hypnosis, of course.

In Grippo's own words, I'd drill into his subconscious mind that he was going to retain the knowledge he would pick up in the gym, that he would have good reflexes, that he would be able to absorb punishment, that he was going to win.

In a wakeful state, he now had greater confidence.

It was the power of suggestion at work.

And that hypnotic power of suggestion wouldn't just influence Bettina, though.

Nope, in the championship bouts on February 3rd, it was about to come for Tiger Jack Fox.

Suffice to say, word got out about Grippo and Bettina's unconventional training methods, and rumors started to fly.

Some journalists claim that Grippo was using his powers to put Bettina into a trance, making him unable to feel pain.

And not only that, reports speculated that if he was able to meet Fox's eyes before the match, Grippo would put a hex on him too.

And it seems that Fox took the threat of a hypnotic hex seriously.

At the pre-fight weigh-in, he wore sunglasses to protect himself from Grippo's power.

It was a snowy night in New York, and as nearly 8,000 fans fans convened in Madison Square Garden, Grippo leaned into his prize fighter and gave him his final instruction.

You will be courageous, he said.

You will not quail.

You will feel no pain and you will conquer.

He will not hurt you.

You will attack, attack, attack, and you shall prevail.

And all the while, Tiger Jack was doing everything he could to avoid making eye contact with the magician.

Grippo, however, was determined.

Just before the initial bell rang, Jimmy shouted out a distraction and foolishly, Tiger Jack looked up.

The two men locked eyes and Tiger Jack moaned.

That was it.

He was doomed.

The bout started out slow, and for a while it seemed that the fighters were evenly matched.

But as the eighth round neared its end, Tiger Jack began to flag.

By the ninth, Bettina had Tiger Jack up against the ropes almost immediately and was landing hit after hit.

Somehow, Tiger Jack Fox, a quick-fisted veteran, was being pummeled by a young farmboy.

Finally, at the 122 mark, referee Eddie Josephs called the match.

Bettina had won.

Years later, a journalist would write of Jimmy Grippo, he can put people under a hypnotic spell.

Grippo is the name, Jimmy Grippo, but whenever the scholars assemble in Leatherfist Lane to discuss such erudite subjects as the supernatural and hypnotism, they refer to him in hushed voices as Grippo the Great.

Tiger Jack and Bettina would both continue fighting, the former eventually honored in Ring magazine's 100 greatest pound-for-pound punchers of all time.

But for the most part, the two fighters were forgotten.

It seems that despite the boxer's prowess in the ring, it was the magician who won the real championship-that of being remembered by history.

And even now, we are still left wondering: on that day back in 1939, did Jimmy Grippo really put a hypnotic hex on Tiger Jack, or did he just really, really psych him out?

This episode of lore was produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with writing by Jenna Rose Nethercott, research by Sam Alberty, and music by Chad Lawson.

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