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On Second Thought Scribes Eating Well These Days By BARNEY NAGLER NEW YORK, N. Y., June 2. Its getting so in the fight business a man cant keep his waistline slim. He can, of course, by skipping the dessert-to-entree lunches the competing .fight clubs are throwing at Demp-seys dark den these afternoons. It would be both impolite and uneconomical to turn down the free feeds, howeVer, and at least one reporter must report that, weight-for-i age, hes considerably slower than he was a few weeks back. It all star6ed with those television networks seems one is called ABC and the other Shumont or Fumont or Lumont became involved in internecine warfare. Each scheduled a fight show for all to behold and in the fight business the struggle is recorded as the great incohscopic war. Well, amid the enthusiasm, both ABC and Shumont or Fumont or Lumont, and their front fronts, hit upon the notion that it would be well to face-feed the reporters by way of subverting their waistlines and their senses of proportion. The Shumont or Fumont or Lumont folks, led by matchmaker Sullivan, gave a luncheon at Dempseys today. Theyve got Archie Moore fighting Bert Whit-hurst at St. Nicks Monday night and Moore turned up at the fete to help corral some black-on-white newspaper comment. Thursday noon, the other mob, or ABC boys, are shelling out at the same place by way of removing the bushel basket that has been obscuring their offering next Monday, Joey Maxim, twice a victim of Moores ring guile, and Floyd Patterson, the unbeaten fugitive from the Olympic ranks. Joe Arata, who was accused of an. ambivalence hitherto hidden from view when he took over as the bossman at Eastern Parkway, will be the host. Arata is the man who was described as both "a dummy and a figurehead" by the lawyer for the Shumont or Fumont or Lumont network. He has denied the allegation. At any rate, the boys are eating real well these afternoons. The International Boxing Club gets into the eatstakes with its regular Monday luncheon next week and then par for the course will- be. three luncheons per week. Things were never so good in boxing. The fight mob has always shown a weakness for prandial exercises. Some years ago, when Jimmy Braddock was led down the road of dark despair as a restaurateur, he ran a place in 49th Street, wrong side of Broadway. One afternoon, along Jacobs Beach, there came the word that somebody was tossing a free feed at Braddocks. The welkin rang. Citizens hidden away for days came into the bright sunlight and headed for Braddocks. They came by the score, managers, ex-fighters, trainers, rubbers and hangers-on. They sat and ate, and when somebody was indiscreet enough to ask just when- the bag was on, nobody was discreet enough to reply. When it came time for somebody to pick up the tab, nobody volunteered. Nobody signed a chit. There just wasnt any host. It was all a mistake and Braddock had to pay himself for the mistake. One of those present that afternoon was a citizen whose name is best dis-remembered, although it will be furnished those who send in a stamped, self-addressed envelope. Citizens of Madagascar and Brooklyn are not eligible. At any rate, the aforementioned citizen decided one evening to round up all the hangers-on on Jacobs Beach for purely social purposes. He tossed a champagne party for them at the Latin Quarter or the Copa, or some such place. There was Fat Benny and Ruby and the late-lamented Meyer all dressed up to kill. Their host squired them to the Latin Quarter or the Copa, or some such place, fed them well and poured champagne. Each in turn was required to make confession to the host, detailing in detail the cause of his downfall. There was great unanimity on that occasion. Each guest agreed that boxing was the cause of his plight. Boxing took a hell of a beating that night of filet mignon and champagne. Always does, for that matter, i , ,,
