BENGALS ACCORDING TO GRIFFIN

By Jack Griffin

(Reprint from the Chicago Sun Times)

Sure, and it was a grand time for the laying on the shillelegh, for it was the night of St. Pat’s, and the Irish of Notre Dame celebrated it in the proper fashion -- by trying to bash each other’s head in.

Mrs. Ragen’s boy, name of William, fetched Mrs. McGrath’s son, name of Robert, a proper lick on the chops, and a mighty roar went up in the Notre Dame Fieldhouse. Then Robert responded by striking William between the eyes, and the din became ecstatic.

Michael Lavery stroked Michael Schaefer with a rambling right hand, and Mrs. Schaefer’s boy asked only one thing of the referee -- sort out all of those four or five Laverys he was seeing and tell him which one he should deal a blow.

"Atta boy, Schaefer," came a cry from his corner. "You got him now. Go get him." This may have been somewhat of a surprise to Schaefer, who was picking himself off the canvas at the moment. But he was willing. He squinted at the referee and asked that worthy to point him in the right direction and he’d give that Lavery what for.

These were the Bengal Bouts, a set of 10 of the wildest fist fights in all the history of the sweet science and a thing of great joy at Notre Dame where they have been an institution for more than 30 years.

Oh, and it was a great gathering of the clan, this St. Pat’s night. There was much wearing of the green, and the packed fieldhouse sparkled with the glory of it. And there were the colleens, their eyes as blue as the summer sea.

"Don’t hesitate," yelped one sweet thing. "Walk right into him, Bill." And Bill Regan did just that and got a proper crack on the nose. But sweet Billy cranked up a right hand and smote Bob McGrath a blow that left his eyeballs dancing.

"Great move," shouted Billy’s corner. "Go after him now." Billy went after him, and got his nose bent when McGrath swiped him with a mighty left hand.

These are billed as boxing bouts but listen, me boyo, these are fights, as grand as any that brightens the day in a pub of the Old Sod.

Now and then, a boy will walk out in the classic stance, his right hand cocked in close and the left out straight. But the first belt on the nose erasing all this, and it becomes the finest of donnybrooks.

Every punch is for broke, each one comes from the heels. Nobody goes in for such fancy stuff as shooting to the body. Bother that kind of thing. It’s the head, me boyo, and finest target of all is the nose.

Nobody backs up. He may be knocked down, but no boy backs up. And if he is stroked to the canvas, he does not lie there listening to the referee count. He gets up, shakily maybe, but he gets up and he goes in search of the spalpeen who fetched him the whack.

There is no such thing as one-two combination. When one of these buckos unlimbers his punches come in series of 15 and 20, or until the stream goes out of his arms. And nobody clinches. If an Irishman wants to dance he hires a band.

But when it is all over, when the three rounds are done, the two boys who have been doing the damage fling their arms around each other, and are as brothers. There is no dishonor in losing, if it has been a good fight.

In an age when amateur athletics know the hand of deceit and the touch of money, the Bengal Bouts of Notre Dame are a grand refreshing throwback to the days when a boy went into a sport for the fun of it.

The only rewards for the Bengal fighter are a piece of hardware if he wins, and a sore nose if he loses. More than 100 students come to that grand little man, Dominic Napolitano, in October, and he tutors them the best he can. Most have never worn a pair of boxing gloves before.

They give mightily of their time because Nappy sets a tough training schedule. There is no varsity letter, just that one night of glory and the knowledge that all the proceeds, between $5,000 and $6,000, go to the Notre Dame Holy Cross Mission in Bengal of Pakistan.