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

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

Tall men come down to my height when I hit 'em in the body.

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

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.

By forgetting the past and by throwing myself into other interests, I forget to worry.

A champion owes everybody something. He can never pay back for all the help he got, for making him an idol.