Eric Bottjer here — let me tell you about a slice of chaotic history that unfolded 165 years ago. Picture it: two dudes in London, wearing wooly coats like it was a costume party, even though it was warm enough to break a sweat without moving. They met up, beeped a quick exchange — presumably admiring the unusually sunny weather with the same gusto of tourists on holiday — and then disappeared into separate train cars, each with his own merry band. Bizarrely enough, they were heading for what we’d probably call the first “super-fight” in boxing history. Only back then, it was something messier and rougher called prizefighting.
Anyway, these fellas — Tom Sayers, the English chap, and the tall American, John C. Heenan — were on a clandestine journey to a sleepy spot called Farnborough. A bunch of folks, 12,000 to be unceremoniously exact, were elbowing their way across a meadow. They landed around this ring, very DIY with wooden posts and slack ropes. Let’s be honest, it looked more like someone’s backyard wrestling setup than a professional gig. Still, it was secure enough to keep drunk spectators at bay — and by 7 am at that! Seasoned, rough-and-tumble types, they were, ready to lay bets with a confidence in the sport that sidestepped its illegal nature entirely.
Ah, but these prizefights were more gritty than graceful. A round ended only when someone hit the dirt. They were all bare knuckles and bravado. It’s said that death was uncommon, but common enough to consider. Kind of makes modern boxing gloves look like cozy mittens, right?
Now, get this — even Charles Dickens and the Prince of Wales were among those law-breaking fans at that infamous brawl. It was whispered about in pubs and strategically illegal, like everything exciting seemed to be back then. A little side note: John might not have had a winning track record, but he definitely had a flair for the dramatic. Don’t ask me why, but it reminds me of that feeling when you realize too late the party isn’t at your usual pub.
Heenan’s backstory is wild too. He tried his hand at the gold rush but struck it rich in a different sense, taking on miners in rough ‘n’ tumble bar brawls. Talk about seizing an opportunity.
And Sayers? Well, imagine an old-school Rocky Balboa. Can you see it? Standing a tad under 5’8″, a scrappy fighter in every sense. His personal life, though, read more like a soap opera. His wife, yeah, you guessed it, was putting him through the wringer with drama that could make today’s headlines blush.
While Heenan had his own set of distractions. He was tangled up with a Broadway performer, Adah Isaacs Menken, who pushed plenty of boundaries herself—not just in relationships. They were married-ish and she was back home making waves (and perhaps some scandalous art), all the while keeping him guessing.
Morning of the fight, both fighters tossed coins, claimed corners, and played a game of wait-and-watch, sizing each other up for violence. And then boom—there they were, head-to-head in that makeshift arena, locking eyes and swapping blows at some ungodly hour when most folks are still groggy from coffee.
What followed was a saga of beat-downs and bruises, each trying to outlast the other through sheer grit and a few well-timed punches. Heenan, a colossal guy in a crowd of average statures, managed to lock on like a bulldog, but Sayers proved why you should never underestimate the underdog. The rounds blended into a chaotic blur, with Heenan’s eventual blindness and Sayers’ stubborn refusal to crumble spotlighting their shared, raw humanity amid the dirt and mayhem.
The police crashed their party eventually, wielding clubs — quite the fashionably late entrance — scattering crowds but surprisingly making no arrests. Our duo even had a grand, theatrical gesture of friendship afterward. Imagine them shedding the blood-stained curtain of rivalry to drink together. I’ll bet you a pint or two that they’d share a laugh over how mad it all truly was.
Years after those fierce punches painted fleeting destinies, both men were shadows of their former selves. Sayers succumbed to a cocktail of disease and disillusionment, and Heenan veered toward an equally melancholic fate, his life a storyboard of “what ifs.”
Menken, too, faded into a lonely Paris twilight, her turbulent life leaving behind only whispers of her past—and, curiously, a photograph of Heenan. Talk about cryptic endings.
In a world teetering on the edge of today’s comforts and those rugged, hard-edged adventures of yesteryears, it’s engrossing to sift through such tales. Because, despite the tangle of faded photos and forgotten whispers, some moments — and fights — never really die.
