Welcome to another deep dive. Glad to be here
as always. Yeah. And if you are a sports history
buff or honestly just someone fascinated by the
true definition of greatness, we have an incredible
journey for you today. We really do. We are exploring
the life of an American boxer named Lefty Lou
Tendler. He lived from 1898 to 1970. And our
mission today is to unpack a very specific, almost
tragic paradox. Right. We want to figure out
how someone can be universally recognized as
one of the absolute best in their field, an undisputed
legend of 1920s sports. yet never actually win
the ultimate prize. It's a phenomenal paradox.
I mean, the tension of his career is just palpable.
When you look at major statistical bodies, like
the boxing website BoxRec, they rank Tendler
as the 10th best lightweight boxer of all time.
Wow. Yeah, and Nat Fleischer, who founded The
Ring magazine, he placed him at number nine.
That is elite company. Exactly. He is inducted
into four different halls of fame, including
the International Boxing Hall of Fame and the
International Jewish Sports Hall of Fame. So
we're talking about... one of the true titans
of the ring. Absolutely. We are talking about
boxing legends here. Yet, despite being a top
-rated contender for both the World Lightweight
and Welterweight championships, he never held
a world title. Okay, let's unpack this, because
you really cannot understand Lou Tendler without
understanding exactly where he came from, the
crucible. Oh, yeah. The early years are rough.
We are going back to September 28, 1898, in the
South Philadelphia Jewish ghetto. This is where
Tendler is born and his early life is, well,
it's incredibly brutal. When Lou is only two
years old, his father dies after a protracted
illness. And this plunges the family into dire
financial ruin. By the time Lou is six years
old, just six, he is out on the city street corners
selling newspapers. Which is a vicious job back
then. Right. He isn't just selling them. He is
literally using his fists. to defend his corner,
his territory, from fierce rivals. What's fascinating
here is the socioeconomic reality of that era.
In the early 1900s, newspaper corners were fiercely
guarded turf. There were these micro monopolies
on information distribution. If you didn't hold
your corner, you didn't sell papers. Exactly.
If another kid pushed you off your corner, your
family didn't eat that night. This isn't just
a generic, tough childhood narrative. It is the
exact literal origin story of a fighter. He had
to fight. He was fighting for his actual survival
and his family's survival long before anyone
ever paid him to do it. The cobblestone streets
of Philadelphia were his first training camp,
and they forged a style built purely on aggressive
survival. And he graduates from the streets to
the ring remarkably fast. He actually starts
amateur boxing around age 12, often fighting
in tournaments hosted at local burlesque houses.
Twelve years old. Yeah, and then he turns professional
in 1913. He's fighting as a bantamweight, and
he's unbelievably young. Yeah. Just 15 years
old. He's still just a kid. What I love about
this is that his very first professional bout,
which took place on November 6, 1913, against
a fighter named Mickey Brown, was arranged by
Phil Glassman and the Philadelphia Newsboy Association.
That is just such a great detail. Right. He's
representing the very newsboys he used to brawl
with on the corners. Think about the mindset
required to do that. Think about what you were
doing at 15 years old. Definitely not fighting
grown men. Exactly. Tenler wasn't trying out
for a high school sports team. He was stepping
into a professional boxing ring under those hot,
smoky lights to put food on his family's table.
It frames everything that follows in his life.
A completely different kind of pressure. There
is a relentless driving necessity behind every
single punch he throws from that point onward.
Which brings us to the sheer mind -boggling volume
of his career. Tendler had a total of 171 professional
fights. That's an insane number. 171. But to
really understand how his record breaks down,
we have to talk about a very weird concept from
this era of boxing history, the newspaper decision.
Yeah, this is a crucial piece of context for
1920s sports. Because it's so different from
today. Very different. Back then, in certain
states like Pennsylvania and New York, actual
official decisions by judges were banned. This
was largely due to anti -gambling laws. Lawmakers
thought if there was no official winner, people
wouldn't bet on it. Right, which of course didn't
stop the betting. But officially, if a fight
went the scheduled distance without a knockout,
it was recorded in the ledger as a no decision.
Just a blank. Basically. However, the sports
writer sitting at ringside, the reporters working
for the local newspapers, would publish who they
thought won the fight based on the action. And
that unofficial verdict became known as the newspaper
decision. Exactly. So if you look at his official
sanctioned record, it looks strangely incomplete.
But if you include these newspaper decisions,
which accounted for a staggering 97 of his bouts,
his total record is phenomenal. We're talking
145 wins, 38 by knockout, and only 16 losses.
He was an absolute machine. He really was. But
if he's not getting official wins on paper for
over half his career... Who is he actually fighting?
Is he just beating up local nobodies to pad this
massive number? Far from it. He was clearing
out future world champions and highly ranked
contenders. Take February 1916, for instance.
He decisively beats future world bantamweight
champ Pete Herman in six rounds. Tendler repeatedly
scored with his right, bloodying Herman's nose
and controlling the entire pace of the fight.
Wow. Then, in October 1917, he outfights Johnny
Dundee, another future champion. Dundee was a
highly skilled, famously elusive fighter. But
Tindler figured him out. He used his reach and
stamina to completely dominate at long range,
finishing incredibly strong in the sixth round
to take the decision in the Philadelphia Papers.
And it's not just points and reach either. Look
at June 1919 against George K. O 'Chaney at Scheib
Park. Oh, that fight is legendary. Tindler delivers
a devastating knockout. in just 1 minute and
12 seconds of the very first round. He lands
a hard right to the jaw, instantly followed by
a left, and Chaney is completely down for the
count. Just incredible power. And then we have
the September 1920 bout against Frankie Callahan
in an open -air arena in Massachusetts. In the
second round, Callahan tells his manager Tendler
broke his rib. And Callahan actually tries to
fight through that broken rib for three more
rounds before his body just gives out. Resulting
in a technical knockout before the sixth round.
Yeah. Ouch. Just hearing that makes me wince.
I can't even imagine trying to take a breath
with a broken rib, let alone taking another punch
from Lou Tendler. It sounds absolutely brutal.
It was a brutal era. And the newspaper decision
rule actually made it worse. Because fighters
knew they couldn't get a points victory on their
official record, it incentivized them to fight
aggressively. always hunting for the knockout
to guarantee the win. That makes sense. It shaped
a relentless style of combat. And to put Tendler's
accomplishments in perspective, He started his
professional career at bantamweight, which is
around 118 pounds, and eventually fought for
the welterweight title at 147 pounds. That's
a huge jump. He was moving up significantly in
weight, fighting naturally larger men, and still
carrying his devastating knockout power with
him. So how was he managing to dissect these
larger world -class fighters so effectively?
If we connect this to the bigger picture, a massive
part of his success comes down to his stance.
Tendler was a southpaw. A left -handed fighter.
Which was rare then. Very rare. In the 1910s
and 20s, orthodox right -handed fighters simply
did not have the sparring experience to figure
out how to adjust to his angles. They were constantly
stepping into his power. So they were basically
walking right into his best punches. Exactly.
He was a master tactician, leading with his right
hand to create openings and then delivering that
incredibly powerful left hook. Here's where it
gets really interesting though. All of this dominance,
all of these victories over top contenders, leads
to the absolute climax of his career, the Benny
Leonard epics. Yes, the fights everyone will
remember. We are in Jersey City, July 27, 1922,
at a massive wooden arena called Boyle's 30 Acres.
This is a lightweight world title match. Now,
for anyone who knows boxing history, Leonard
needs no introduction. He's the absolute gold
standard of the 1920s lightweight division. But
for the first half of this 12 -round fight, Tendler
makes him look completely lost. A record audience
of over 60 ,000 enthralled fans are watching
Leonard fail to penetrate Tendler's southpaw
defense. Leonard is widely considered one of
the greatest tactical minds in the history of
the sport. But for five straight rounds, Tendler
has him completely baffled. It's just schooling
him. He cannot figure out the distance or the
angles. And then we reach the crucial eighth
round. This is the single moment that defines
Lou Tendler's entire career. Yes. In the eighth
round, Tendler crashes a terrifying left to the
head, followed immediately by another terrific
left straight to the midsection. What a devastating
combo. Leonard is genuinely hurt. He sinks to
one knee, holding onto Tendler's hip. The crowd
is going wild. Lou Tendler is literally moments,
maybe one single punch away from winning the
World Lightweight title. This is where the psychological
warfare comes in, and it's brilliant but heartbreaking.
Leonard is down on one knee, completely vulnerable,
trying to catch his breath. The fight is basically
over. It should be. But instead of panicking,
he looks up at Tendler and actually mumbles a
few words to him. Unbelievable. We don't have
a historical record of exactly what he said,
but the distraction works perfectly. Tendler
pauses. He hesitates just long enough to process
what Leonard is doing. Just a split second. But
Leonard uses that split -second hesitation to
stand up, instantly wraps Tenler up in a clinch,
and rests his weight against him for the remainder
of the round. He survives the round because of
a mumbled sentence. It's unbelievable. And because
Leonard buys himself that time to recover in
the clinch, he ends up dominating the final four
rounds of the fight and wins the newspaper decision.
It's crushing. Tenler came that close. But wait,
let me play devil's advocate here for a second.
They have a rematch a year later, right? They
do. on July 24th, 1923, at Yankee Stadium in
the Bronx. Another world title match, an extraordinary
crowd of 58 ,000 fans. But this time, Leonard
wins a unanimous 15 -round decision. Right. And
the statistics from ringside accounts say Leonard
landed three blows for every one of Tendler's.
He totally outclassed him. Doesn't that prove
Tendler was ultimately just a tier below the
true greats? It's a fair question, but it actually
proves the opposite. What that 1923 rematch shows
is Benny Leonard's absolute mastery of ring tactics,
not a lack of greatness on Tendler's part. How
so? Leonard spent an entire year obsessively
figuring out how to neutralize Tendler's strong
left hand. He executed a flawless, highly technical
game plan that forced Tendler to become sluggish
and unable to mount his usual offense. He solved
the southpaw puzzle. Exactly. It highlights the
razor thin margin between being a legendary Hall
of Fame contender and a world champion. Sometimes
the difference isn't raw talent or power. Sometimes
it's a split second distraction in the eighth
round or a champion's ability to perfectly adapt
to your strange southpaw stance over the course
of 12 months. The Yankee Stadium fight is also
notable for the business side of things. Leonard
walks away with a massive payday of over $130
,000, which was an astronomical sum for 1923.
We are talking millions. today's money serious
money Tendler didn't win the belt but he certainly
made his money in these massive stadium shows.
And he doesn't just give up after the Leonard
fights. He moves into the later stages of his
career, jumping up to the welterweight division
to challenge Mickey Walker for the championship
in 1924. Yeah, they fight at Chi Bay Park in
Philadelphia. It's a fast, incredibly exciting
10 -round bout. In the seventh round, Tenler
is driving Walker from rope to rope, landing
rights and lefts to the body and head. So he's
looking great again. He has the champion reeling,
but the extra weight... and the grueling pace
take their toll. Tendler tires out in the final
two rounds, Walker scores with heavy body blows,
and Tendler loses the unanimous decision. It's
a recurring theme. Fighting brilliantly against
the very best in the world, pushing champions
to the absolute brink, but just falling short
of the official title. Always right on the edge.
But I want to talk about January 1925 because
this blew my mind. Tendler fights Jack Zivick
in Pittsburgh. And for the very first and only
time in his entire 171 fight career, Lou Tendler
is knocked out. It's a shocking moment. In the
fifth round, Zivik drops him spinning to the
floor for a count of nine. Tendler gets up, but
another barrage of lefts and rights sends him
to the canvas again. And that's it. Yeah, Tendler's
manager, his old friend Phil Glassman, the same
guy who arranged his first professional fight
when he was 15, has to throw in the towel to
stop the bout. For a fighter who had never been
stopped, who had fought 140 plus times by that
point, and absorbed punches from absolute legends,
that has to be devastating. Heartbreaking. But
talk about resilience. Just five months later,
Tendler jumps right back into the ring for a
rematch against Zivic. He didn't waste any time.
They fight in Philadelphia in front of 30 ,000
fans. And Tendler completely dominates him. He
wins a 10 -round unanimous decision. Total redemption.
The local newspaper quotes are fantastic. The
Pittsburgh Gazette -Times wrote that Tendler
outboxed, outslugged, and outpunched Zivic, especially
in the closing rounds. It's a massive statement
of character. He avenges his only knockout loss
in completely dominant fashion. He proved it
was a fluke. He continues fighting top talent
for a few more years, like drawing against future
welterweight champion Joe Dundee in 10 hard -fought
rounds before finally retiring from boxing in
1928. What's fascinating is how he channeled
that relentless street corner survival instinct
into his next chapter. He didn't just fade into
obscurity or blow his fight purses. No, not at
all. He took his ring earnings and applied that
same tactical mindset to the hospitality business.
Exactly. In 1932, right in the thick of the Great
Depression, he opens a restaurant in Philadelphia
specializing in steaks. He calls it Tenler's
Tavern. Which is a bold move in the Depression.
Surviving the restaurant business during the
Depression requires serious business acumen.
It becomes so successful that he later expands,
opening branches. locations in Atlantic City
and Miami Beach. And his personal life is just
as solid. Around 1911, before he was even a pro
boxer, he married Celia Lasker. They stayed married
his entire life. That's beautiful. They had three
sons. When he passes away in 1970 from an arterial
clot, he leaves behind a massive legacy, including
nine grandchildren. It is an incredible contrast
to his beginnings. You have a kid fighting for
pennies on the literal street corners of a ghetto
just to defend his right to sell newspapers.
And he grows up to run a successful multi -state
restaurant empire, dying surrounded by a large
loving family. It's a remarkable American life,
completely self -made through discipline and
a phenomenal left hook. Definitely. So what does
this all mean? Why should you, sitting here today,
care about a southpaw boxer from the 1920s who
never won a title? I think Lou Tendler trues
undeniably that your legacy isn't strictly defined
by the trophies sitting on your shelf or the
official titles next to your name. That is so
true. You can be the absolute best at what you
do. You can be feared and respected by your peers
and by historians a century later without ever
officially wearing the crown. When you look at
his entire arc. You are looking at a 171 fight
career in one of the most physically demanding
and brutal eras of sports. You have a pioneer
of the southpaw style who forced an entire generation
of fighters to adapt. And a true survivor. And
you have a lifetime of resilience from surviving
severe poverty to rebounding from a devastating
knockout to translating his grueling work ethic
into decades of business success. This raises
an important question, though, something for
you to think about long after this deep dive
is over. Put yourself back in that wooden arena
in Jersey City in 1922. If Benny Leonard hadn't
mumbled those distracting words while down on
one knee in the eighth round, Tenler almost certainly
would have landed the knockout blow and become
the lightweight champion of the world. He was
a second away. But if he had won that belt would
we view Tenler today merely as a great champion
among many? Does the sheer tragedy of coming
that close to the ultimate prize losing it to
a mumbled word actually make his legend endure
even longer? It's something to mull over. It
really is. A legendary career defined just as
much by what didn't happen as by the 145 times
his hand was raised. Thank you so much for joining
us on this deep dive into the archives. Until
next time, keep your guard up and stay curious.