Generations of fighting Harris blood exploded through Roy Harris's veins that August night in 1958 as he stood in the boxing ring in Los Angeles. He was facing the undefeated heavyweight champion of the world, Floyd Patterson, who, at the time, had earned that crown at an earlier age than any other man in history. Roy faced a psychological handicap met by few other heavyweight challengers. How could a rustic backwoodsman turned gentleman-scholar-soldier cope with such a challenge? What strange events had conspired to create the meeting of such a contrast in pugilistic antagonists? Roy Harris of Cut and Shoot is, in part, the story of how and why Roy Harris emerged from backwoods obscurity to the pinnacle of fistic heaven-a heavyweight title bout. But this is also the story of the rapidly vanishing breed that spawned and nourished him-the rugged individualistic frontiersmen from the oil-rich southeast Texas thicket country. Today, Cut and Shoot is a growing community northeast of Houston. Roy has retired from illustrious careers not only in boxing, but as an attorney, real estate mogul, and the county clerk of Montgomery County, Texas, for twenty-eight years. Roy's personal memories are inserted throughout Roy Harris of Cut and Shoot, adding authenticity to this dramatic saga.

ROY HARRIS OF CUT AND SHOOT

TEXAS BACKWOODS BATTLERBy Roy Harris Robin Montgomery

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Roy Harris and Robin Montgomery
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-6066-2

Contents

FOREWORD:.........................................................ixINTRODUCTION: Cut and Shoot's a State of Mind.....................xiChapter 1. Baptism in Boxing......................................1Chapter 2. Roy Acknowledges His Birthright:.......................22Chapter 3. Oil and Conflict in the 1930s..........................50Chapter 4. Woodsmen versus Boomers, Round 1.......................65Chapter 5. Woodsmen versus Boomers, Round 2.......................89Chapter 6. The Indian Hill Monster................................114Chapter 7. The Swamp Thing........................................144Chapter 8. Reminiscences:.........................................164Chapter 9. Deep in the Heart of Texans............................181Chapter 10. Woodsmen in Cow-Town..................................203Chapter 11. Fulfillment...........................................222Chapter 12. Roy's Professional Boxing Career......................245Chapter 13. The Aftermath.........................................261Addendum: Roy Robert Harris, Sr...................................275

Chapter One

BAPTISM IN BOXING

There is an ocean of trees interlaced with vines in southeast Texas, from which the morning dew drips upon a spongy, swampy ground. A sort of stickiness exudes from the humor in the rotting wilderness and mingles with overhanging ooze, which boils in sooty clouds out of the Gulf of Mexico. So dense is the foliage and so tangled are the semi-tropical thickets that wolves still prowl from its fringes into the subdivisions of such metropolitan centers as Houston, Beaumont and Conroe. Two forks in the upper reaches of the San Jacinto River cup a portion of the forest. The bottom half of the cup contains the environs of Cut and Shoot.

When Roy was young, the wilderness of Cut and Shoot was still as savage as it was when it turned back the explorations of the Spanish Dons two hundred years before. Upon leaving the Ozarks around the turn of the century, Roy's grandfather, John Wesley Harris, established permanent roots in Montgomery County where many of his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren grew up in a stable environment. The territory had an open range for livestock. Owners would roundup, mark or brand the offspring each year. There were so few settlers in the broad expanse that it was difficult to determine ownership of the wild razorback shoats rooting between the East and West San Jacinto Rivers. This led on occasion to clashes between the clans. In such an environment, pugilistic skill was a must.

When you think of a ring, you think of something round; in boxing, the ring is square. The ring we used was made of three ropes tied to four different posts to make the corners of the ring. The ropes were very loose but helped to keep the boxer inside. The ropes were wrapped with burlap to prevent rope burns if a boxer went into the ropes. Before the ring was built, the ring we had been using had barbed wire on two sides of it instead of rope. We soon learned to "stay off the ropes" because the barbed wire was much more dangerous and hurt us more than someone's fist.

Our first set of gloves came from some of our neighbors who received a set of four gloves for Christmas; they had used the gloves to box one another not knowing how to box or what to do and decided that they did not like them.

While boxing during those early years growing up, we knew nothing about mouthpieces and cups, headgear or hand wraps. I fought bare footed in cut off blue jeans and thought I looked great! However, as I began to fight in boxing tournaments in other towns, I learned to use all the protective gear I could to protect myself. I really did not like to get hit.

My brother, Tobe, wanted those gloves because he liked to fight and wanted to box somebody every day. I was the handiest sparring partner, but we had no gloves. Tobe made a deal to trade four ducks for the set of four gloves. We had to catch the ducks and take them to the boys who had the gloves to make the trade. That set of gloves got boxing started in Cut and Shoot and was the beginning of my career. Tobe was twelve years of age, and I was ten.

In order to cope with the irrepressible Tobe, Roy was forced to develop a Spartan routine.

I worked out every day, seven days a week, even when I did not want to. We may have missed a few days, and I did not like getting my nose blooded all the time. One time I was trying to avoid having to box Tobe, although my father and my uncle wanted us to work out. Anyway, they lured me down a trail into the woods about 100 yards from the house. There my father and uncle put the gloves on me.

Taking advantage of an opportunity, I managed to escape and ran toward the house, hollering for Mama; I knew she would protect me and keep them from making me fight. As I ran toward the house, I could see Tobe was catching up with me, so I turned around and stuck my left jab in his face. Tobe went down, and I ran and made it to Mama. As I knew she would, Mama saved me from fighting that day.

As time went by I began to get heavier than Tobe. Now when we fought, I did not get a bloody nose all the time. I finally was able to out box Tobe. Other boys began to show up in the evening and box with us so that we had others to box with besides each other. In our earlier days, there were some older boys that were bigger who boxed with us and took it easy on us until we began to get big enough and learn enough to outbox them; we would then have to take it easy on them.

Many boys learned to box at our home because of my dad helping them. Some became leaders in the community as they grew up because of their boxing and having Henry work with them. He believed in working on self-confidence as well as on boxing skills. I think he could get more out of a boy than anyone I have ever seen. He encouraged them to do their best in whatever they attempted. This included me and my brothers and sisters. It seems that all of us wanted to do our best at all times to please him. We did not want to let him down in his expectations of us.

Backwoods wisdom was a key factor in Roy Harris's rise to the heights of boxing's elite. A prime example comes from conditions surrounding Roy's first ring encounter against a bona fide "blue chip" opponent. It was in the Conroe boxing tournament in 1949:

Waiting for his fight, Roy rested his hundred and nineteen pounds of bantamweight muscle in a wicker chair on the stage of Conroe's High School gymnasium. The fifteen-year-old Roy was restless, yet calm. Wildman Woodman was lying on an army cot giving advice to his neighbor, Roy, who was calm as well.

"Just fight the Killer like you'd fight Tobe," Wildman advised. "Don't take 'nary a chance a 'tall, 'cause if you do, 'taint a thing me and Henry and Tobe can do to help you." The main thing is to keep your chin behind your shoulder so's his right hand won't hurt you none. The fight will last longer if you do that, and don't dance."

Wildman, the recently crowned light heavyweight champion of Texas, was to fight the main event tonight. He was almost asleep in spite of the hubbub of the crowd out there in the gymnasium. Roy leaned from the wicker chair to get his final words of counsel.

"Your left fore arm gotta be high up a 'counterin'. He throws his powder from way back close to the ring ropes, so ride it from the outside and counter. Now warm up, and wake me up when you go on."

Roy knew little about warming up, but he did his best. Some of the other fighters behind the drawn curtain on the stage watched him do his jogging calisthenics, and then looked at each other in mingled amazement and indeed, amusement. Each were champions in various weights of their respective Golden Gloves regionals and some, like the sleeping Wildman, had the word Texas printed in gold on their black boxing trunks to prove they had represented the Lone Star State in the Tournament of Champions in Chicago.

None of the young men commented on what he saw. Each felt a mismatch was about to be offered up to the gods of greed and glory. Certainly, they felt sorry for the awkward appearing lad. Who wouldn't? Wasn't he breaking sweat to climb into the ring with one of the best bantamweights in the nation, a fighter who was multiple years his senior?

A scrawny country kid against a grown man skilled in the arts and craft s of the trade! Along the rugged amateur trail they had seen many mistakes made in matching, but nothing to compare with this one. Oh well, it couldn't last longer than a couple of flurries, they assumed. Then the youngster would be out of his misery. At least he wouldn't be cut to pieces.

Harry "Killer" Tawana danced out on the stage sending his fists through the empty air in graceful quest for an imaginary target. He bounded lightly along on the balls of his feet, bending his knees in oily rhythm to a rolling motion of his shoulders. As he worked, something akin to hate seemed to seep into his eyes, causing the lids to swell, although grim determination might have influenced the swelling. The rest of his face was set in pale drawn lines that bespoke his undaunted will to win.

Roy continued to lumber through his exercises, paying little attention to his panther-like opponent. A clang of the gong muffling through the curtains signaled finis to the bout that had been in progress. It also served as a signal for Roy and the Killer to put on their robes and make ready.

Roy shook the army cot to awaken Wildman, and then he sauntered down a flight of dark steps to a doorway that opened into the gymnasium. There he waited. He wanted the champ to enter the ring and finish most of his showing off without being in there with him to witness the spectacle. Also he wanted Wildman to have time to get the sleep out of his system and join him.

The spectators had for several years watched the best talent in Texas and Louisiana battle in the Conroe Tournament. Tawana was good. They knew that. Their only question was who, in those two states, was foolish enough to let him maul him into a corner.

Tobe had fought earlier in the evening against a regional champion and downed him. That was gratifying because the Cut and Shoot scrapper was by the far the underdog. Each bout brought on new surprises. Now Tawana was up there to entertain them. All of this was just an exciting prelude to the main event, which would pit John Tennis of Sam Houston State College against the pride of the big thicket, Wildman Woodman.

As Roy walked down the aisle to his corner, a touch of sadness daunted the half-smile that dangled around the dimples of his cheeks. That grim echo of sadness served to surround him with an aura of mystery.

Silence seized the crowd as the rank backwoodsman climbed through the ropes. Everybody knew him. He was one of the Cut and Shoot Harris's: the son of Henry, the nephew of Jack and Bob, the brother of Tobe. They knew him, so they reasoned he was too unseasoned to fight the awesome Tawana. As an occasional gasp pierced the silence, the bell sounded to start the fight.

As Tawana saw a left jab pecking toward him he moved his head downward and to the right in order to counter with his left hand to the stomach. He had worked this simple maneuver a hundred times. This time the jab failed to spend itself but curved into a wicked hook to his temple. But for the sliding motion of Tawana's head, a motion known in boxing circles as rolling with the punch, the Killer's face would have been wreathing in pain.

Roy backed to the ropes and waited. While he waited, he studied. While he studied, the facsimile of a tempestuous typhoon gone mad swarmed upon him. Lefts and rights, uppercuts, followed by crosses ... jabs, jabs, and jabs. Then the stars appeared to Roy as though the eye of the typhoon had calmed him.

A sense of sinking knocked on the door of Roy's brain, but before the brain could answer a jagged thunderbolt tore out of the whirlwind before him and landed with a ringing, stunning impact on his cheekbone. The second ring rope became a fulcrum to sustain his rigid body, which was seesawing half in and half out of the place of battle.

Tobe caught hold of his brother's shoulders and pushed him back into the ring. As the lad landed on his knees, Bill Hopson, the referee, began to count towards ten. By the count of seven the brave and determined lad from Cut and Shoot was up and back into the fray. Soon the fighter's arms were locked along the ring ropes, causing Hobson to call for a break, separating them.

Sparks of excitement filled the gymnasium, driving the spectators to the edge of their seats. Tawana had taken two right hands to the head just after the break. That was much too much for the monarch of the bantamweights, especially after he had been humiliated along the ring ropes. Grief like a capital G seemed to appear on his gloves, and the message traveled with a bang to Roy's body. A left, a right, two left s landed on target.

Then Roy countered with a right which straightened at the elbow with the shoulder and with enough kick behind it to snap Tawana's head back. Two left hooks and another straight right caused his head to resemble a kite caught in the windy cross currents of the spring equinox.

Roy swatted his adversary across the ring, digging deep into his lithe body with his right. Roy's left hand played tic-tac-toe on the right side of Tawana's head. So intent was he on the combinations that he forgot that repeated digs to the body with a right could invite disaster from an experienced gladiator such as Tawana, who knew how to jab a left straight and hard to the butt on. And so the blow came, but fortunately just before the bell, allowing the staggering Roy time to recover in his corner.

By his side in that corner, Henry Harris reflected, as usual, supreme confidence in his offspring. "Drop the hammer on him, son," was all that he admonished.

Wildman was not sleepy anymore, but he was still feeling lazy. The only anti dote to his lethargy would be to grease and glove him up and send him into the ring. Now he said nothing to Roy as he took the rubber mouthpiece to a nearby water bucket, dropped it in to soak and sat down next to his sweetheart. Wildman wanted Roy to win, but he also wanted to win his fair lady. He knew Roy was doing all right and would fight like he wanted to anyhow.

Hobson came over to the corner to check on Roy, to make sure he was able to continue. Upon expressing the courtesy of a quick "yes sir" to the question, Roy directed his attention diagonally across the ring to his opponent in the opposite corner. Their studied gazes seemed to meet in the center of the ring and to clash in invisible mayhem. Each pondered the other as he formulated destruction.

As Roy was thus engaged, Tobe dropped to his knees in the corner to give sage pugilistic counsel to his brother.

And so the fighters resumed their places in the center of the ring. Tawana threw a left that missed. He followed with a sizzling right that did the same thing. They tied up in Roy's corner, where the referee separated them. Roy then quickly swung an uppercut that grazed Tawana's chin, while retreating along the ropes to a neutral corner.

Tawana followed through, attracted by a hidden magnet placed somewhere on the person of his opponent from Cut and Shoot. In response, Roy's right hand winged high before it dipped and snapped across the Killer's left forearm on its way to where the jawbone is hinged to the left side of the head.

The impact shook Tawana. He hesitated while his numbed nerves staggered to the brain for fresh instructions on how to combat the riled young Texan.

Another right spun Tawana. A shrieking left hook bruised the tissue connecting the ribs on his starboard side as he spun. Instinct, not the brain, caused him to seek to enwrap Roy in a clinch.

Before Tawana could accomplish his goal, Roy blistered his gums and lips with three trip-hammer jabs. This was no bantering, bowing bout between gentlemen under the governorship of Marquis of Queensbury rules, but rather a raw lumberjack brawl in which the law of the Yukon prevailed. This law was survival of the fittest. The Killer, himself, was swinging at anything that looked or smelled of Harris.

The referee, Bill Hopson, a former baseball catcher and a good one, knew little of the rules of boxing. Besides, he liked this thing, and decided to turn the pugilists loose. After all, the spectators were screaming their approval.

Roy used every legal maneuver he could muster to fend off his determined opponent. The two fighters continued to pound each other through the second round. When Roy finally went to his corner, his dad looked at him proudly.

"Just drop the hammer on him," he advised yet again, with his voice dripping with confidence in his son.

The third round was brutal. Roy staggered his opponent who staggered him in return. Mars and Thor and all the other gods of war must have descended and convened at ringside. The crowd could not find its voice to scream. Instead, they rode their seats in a tomb-like awe while gurgles in their throats moaned for freedom.

Roy blasted wild with left s to keep the raving "Killer" at bay while reaching deep within his inner recesses for the powder to pound him with rights. What a glorious burst of adrenaline was his.

Then it was over, and miraculously, Roy had won. A miracle had occurred in Conroe that night, as Roy Harris had beat the odds against a more skilled, experienced and classy opponent. Beholding the unexpected scene, strong people wept as a great cry went up to rock the ceiling. Tobe felt tears for the first time since he could remember. He had tried with all the ingenuity in his sixteen-year-old brain to give Roy command of the situation. Roy had fought a giant of the ring and won.

As Wildman followed Roy's bout with another victory, Conroe could dip into the future and envision gloved gladiators marching across the spangled bridge that leads to fistic glory. Cut and Shoot, that broad wilderness to the east, was undisturbed. The scattered inhabitants of that leafy expanse who had found their way into the gymnasium that memorable night, stuck their hands into their overall pockets and laughed heartily. These were men accustomed to men and boys and beast and fowl asserting themselves in the raw. Tobe, Roy and Wildman slipped out the back door and faded into the night with their kinsmen thus avoiding the shouting crowd awaiting them in the gymnasium.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from ROY HARRIS OF CUT AND SHOOTby Roy Harris Robin Montgomery Copyright © 2012 by Roy Harris and Robin Montgomery. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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