For the first and only time, I was more worried about getting hurt by the crowd than by the guy I was fighting. I got a pretty good blast when introduced. The crowd was hollering and raising hell. I looked around for my bodyguard, a colorful New York character named Wild Bill Lyons, who packed two pearl-handled pistols and used to talk a lot about his days in the West. Wild Bill was under the ring, hiding.

Tell him he can have my title, but I want it back in the morning.

A good fighter usually knows, to within a very few seconds, when a three-minute round is going to end.

I can't sing and I can't dance, but I can lick any S.O.B. in the house.

I never went to bed in my life and I never ate a meal in my life without saying a prayer. I know my prayers have been answered thousands of times, and I know that I never said a prayer in my life without something good coming of it.

I was a pretty good fighter. But it was the writers who made me great.

Don't worry honey, I'm too mean to die.