If He Can Find Way to Win, Then He Will Truly Be a Great Brit

If you found yourself trapped in a dark alley with Frank Bruno, chances are your whole life would flash before your eyes. You would be sure Jack the Ripper had come to life. Mr. Hyde. Rising 6 feet 4 inches and weighing 230 pounds, big Frank is an imposing, menacing specimen.

Then you would hear him talk and you’d think it was Ronald Colman. Neville Chamberlain. If you closed your eyes, you’d picture him in a powdered wig, hooking his thumbs in the folds of a judicial robe at Old Bailey.

He’s a man of almost glacial dignity. You’d figure he goes to work in a bowler hat with a winged collar and a rolled umbrella and regimental Lord Something-or-Other. The Queen’s Own.

He even fights like a proper gentleman. He stands upright, he telegraphs his punches. He’s Gen. Burgoyne in tights. He should wear a red coat and a fur hat. The fight is the battle of Yorktown. Bang the drum, skirl the pipes and advance in full profile.

Mike Tyson, of course, will fight him from behind rocks, out of trees, under cover of darkness--guerrilla warfare. Mike does not stand on ceremony any more than the Comanche Indians did.

Everyone agrees that Frank Bruno poses a striking pugilistic figure. Michelangelo would drool.

Tyson, on the other hand, is built more like a tank. You half expect him to have treads and an antenna. You need a bottle of gasoline and a wick to stop him. He talks in the piping sing-song of the street urchin. He’s no powdered-wig guy. He’s a no-frills street fighter.

He doesn’t even wear socks or a robe into the ring. He comes in with an old Indian blanket, like Billy Petrolle. He’s never lost a fight. He’s never really lost a round.

There hasn’t been a heavyweight champion out of the British Isles since Robert Fitzsimmons, who was from Cornwall. The British practically invented the sport but lost the hang of it to the colonials early on. They sent over enough hopefuls but they didn’t last long either.

“Phaintin’ Phil” Scott was one of the more celebrated. He pioneered a new way to try to win a heavyweight championship--horizontally. Phil’s contribution to the fight game was the aluminum cup. Phil used to claim “Phoul!” at any punch below the ears, which inspired Max Schmeling to win the championship sitting down in 1930.

Tommy Farr, a Welshman, was the most resolute of the Brits. A granite-jawed ex-carnival fighter as indestructible as the cliffs of Dover, he even took the great Joe Louis, whom he called Joe Louie, the limit at a time when Louis could have kayoed a steer.

Don Cockell got a title chance at Rocky Marciano, but you got an idea of how seriously he was taken when the great Bugs Baer, apprised that Cockell’s manager was loudly calling for a 20-foot instead of a 16-foot ring, wanted to know, “Why? His man ain’t that tall!”

Henry Cooper was a contender whose face had been stitched up so often it looked like a wall motto, and Brian London’s distinction was, he used to say he never wanted to be a fighter. He got his wish.

So, Bruno is carrying a very tattered banner into the ring here at the Hilton Saturday night. It figures to be another charge of a very light brigade.

Bruno, of course, strictly speaking, is not a home-grown Brit at all. He’s a product of the Empire--Jamaica.

The likelihood is that this son will set on the British Empire, too, and he may be as long gone as India soon after the bell rings.

Challenger Bruno has charted an irregular course to his title shot, anyway. First of all, he hasn’t had a fight in 16 months. This is a rather interesting approach to a title fight. I mean, can you get ready for Mike Tyson on cakes and ale, punting on the Thames, or hanging out in Soho in a three-piece suit? Will Bruno show up in a monocle Saturday?

A better way to get ready for Tyson would seem to be feeding lions or walking high iron or maybe just learning how to run backward without stopping for 36 minutes.

Bruno’s other idea is better. He has hired a hypnotist to convince him that he’s got a chance. First, of course, the hypnotist has to be convinced.

The beauty of British fighting is, it’s perfectly manly to quit in one’s corner when things get out of hand. After all, Dunkirk shows us the ultimate strategy is staying alive. Tyson takes no prisoners.

And what if the unthinkable happens and knighthood comes back in flower and Bruno somehow prevails?

It’ll be the greatest British victory on American soil since they burned Washington. Cornwallis’ revenge. They may want to get the tea back out of Boston Harbor. Bruno may make instant duke, eligible for burial in Westminster Abbey.

He’d better be careful or the funeral will be sooner than he’d want. As soon as Tyson sees the whites of his eyes it may be all over for the Empire once again. The redcoats will have run into yet another Minute Man.