In the late 1950's Scruff McGullis was the undisputed heavyweight champion. Of Naples. On Saturday nights. At The Barn, and other watering holes where fights were common, he reigned supreme.
Scruff wasn't particular. Every customer was subject to his abuse. And, if he wasn't too drunk, he was tough. Fisherman tough from a lifetime of pulling the nets.
On this evening, Scruff was disappointed. Try as he might he hadn't been able to provoke even a spirited shoving match. But, salvation was at hand.
He would’ve been much taller, the fella that walked up to the bar, maybe six-feet-three, if he wasn’t so stoop-shouldered. His walk was splayfooted and his arms hung loose like broken lanyards. Right comical he was, too, with a shock of dark hair drooping over his forehead, a big nose, squinty eyes, and a mouth as wide as an Okeechobee bass. A perfect opponent!
Scuff leaned over the bar and asked the tender if he knew the stranger. ”One of them actor fellas,” the bartender replied. “Been in here a couple a times. Down here working on some TV show about cops in Tallahassee.”
Scruff ordered another beer and stomped down to his proposed adversary.
The actor wasn’t sitting on a stool, just resting his elbows of the bar casual like. Scuff preferred to attack someone while they were sitting. But, he figured he could whip this clown on roller skates in a phone booth.
So, he made his overture: “Say, I hear tell you’re one of them actors.”
No response.
“I said,” this time a little louder, “I heard you're one of them Hollywood actors.”
The actor turned to Scruff, gave him a squint-eyed once over and said, “Actually, I’m from New York, and there are those in the business who would debate you on my acting prowess.”
Big words. Big, fancy words with a Yankee accent. There was nothing that riled Scruff worse than fancy talk, unless it was a Yankee accent. He was really gonna enjoy this.
“I heard all you actors were queer,” he said. “Queers or pre-verts, like to help sheep over the fence, and like that.”
The actor sighed, put down his beer. “Okay,” he said, “we’ve all enjoyed your witty repartee. Now, why don’t you let me finish my drink in peace, and I’ll be on my way.”
Scruff laughed. “Bet you would, ‘bout now, like to be on your way. But that ain’t gonna happen ‘less you go through me.”
The actor smiled, “That being the case, perhaps we can engage in some genial conversation. Maybe you can answer a question for me. One that always arises when I meet a gentleman such as yourself.”
Scruff frowned. “What kinda question?”
“I was just wondering, do little town’s hire buffoons like you to be the village idiot, or do you volunteer as a public service?”
Scruff didn’t know what a “buffoon” was, but he was damn sure familiar with “idiot.” Rage rolled over him like a hurricane tide. He snorted, cocked his big right arm, started to fire it and . . . his lights went out.
Eyewitness accounts vary as to just what the actor hit Scruff with. Some say a left hook, others a straight right, still others the ol' one-two. All agreed on one matter: the punch had been fast and devastating. One second Scruff was in front of the actor, bowed up, ready to unleash lightening, the next second he was on his back, eyes wide open but seeing nothing. They also remember the actor’s departure, gesturing as though tipping a hat, saying “Ladies, gentlemen, a fond adieu, and goodnight.”
Scruff would later claim that it was a sucker punch—and a damn lucky one—that had put out his lights. In truth, he knew he’d been poleaxed with a killer blow delivered by someone who knew exactly how to do it.
Fact of the matter was, Scruff was right. It hadn’t, from the start, been a fair fight. Although he didn’t look it, the actor had been forged from premium ore, polished by tenacity, sweat, and grit.
A Jewish Russian immigrant at age three, with an unpronounceable, fifteen consonants, and vowels name, he grew up poor, hard, and tough on the mean streets of the New York’s Lower East Side. He’d lettered in six varsity sports in high school, was a decorated veteran of WW II, and had once managed a gym, being expert enough a boxer to teach the sweet science to policemen as part of their self defense training.
Few are left who remember the momentous night. The Barn has long since succumbed to the developer’s blade, the site, near the intersection of Davis Boulevard and US 41, now an auto repair shop. Scruff is a ghost in the fog of local folklore.
And the New York actor fella who whipped Scruff McGullis? His role on the TV series Tallahassee 7000 was the break he needed to make it to the big time. And hit the big time he did. After a career that lasted over fifty years, he remains one of our most beloved actors. A winner of the Academy Award, Golden Globe, and every other accolade Hollywood has to offer, his biographies always overlook one other achievement. The obscure yet absolute fact that at one time, long ago, in a small Florida town, he was the heavyweight champion. One Saturday night. At The Barn. This, rumpled, stooped- shoulder gentle giant with the wry smile, twinkle in his eye, and thunderous fists we remember as Walter Matthau.
Scruff wasn't particular. Every customer was subject to his abuse. And, if he wasn't too drunk, he was tough. Fisherman tough from a lifetime of pulling the nets.
On this evening, Scruff was disappointed. Try as he might he hadn't been able to provoke even a spirited shoving match. But, salvation was at hand.
He would’ve been much taller, the fella that walked up to the bar, maybe six-feet-three, if he wasn’t so stoop-shouldered. His walk was splayfooted and his arms hung loose like broken lanyards. Right comical he was, too, with a shock of dark hair drooping over his forehead, a big nose, squinty eyes, and a mouth as wide as an Okeechobee bass. A perfect opponent!
Scuff leaned over the bar and asked the tender if he knew the stranger. ”One of them actor fellas,” the bartender replied. “Been in here a couple a times. Down here working on some TV show about cops in Tallahassee.”
Scruff ordered another beer and stomped down to his proposed adversary.
The actor wasn’t sitting on a stool, just resting his elbows of the bar casual like. Scuff preferred to attack someone while they were sitting. But, he figured he could whip this clown on roller skates in a phone booth.
So, he made his overture: “Say, I hear tell you’re one of them actors.”
No response.
“I said,” this time a little louder, “I heard you're one of them Hollywood actors.”
The actor turned to Scruff, gave him a squint-eyed once over and said, “Actually, I’m from New York, and there are those in the business who would debate you on my acting prowess.”
Big words. Big, fancy words with a Yankee accent. There was nothing that riled Scruff worse than fancy talk, unless it was a Yankee accent. He was really gonna enjoy this.
“I heard all you actors were queer,” he said. “Queers or pre-verts, like to help sheep over the fence, and like that.”
The actor sighed, put down his beer. “Okay,” he said, “we’ve all enjoyed your witty repartee. Now, why don’t you let me finish my drink in peace, and I’ll be on my way.”
Scruff laughed. “Bet you would, ‘bout now, like to be on your way. But that ain’t gonna happen ‘less you go through me.”
The actor smiled, “That being the case, perhaps we can engage in some genial conversation. Maybe you can answer a question for me. One that always arises when I meet a gentleman such as yourself.”
Scruff frowned. “What kinda question?”
“I was just wondering, do little town’s hire buffoons like you to be the village idiot, or do you volunteer as a public service?”
Scruff didn’t know what a “buffoon” was, but he was damn sure familiar with “idiot.” Rage rolled over him like a hurricane tide. He snorted, cocked his big right arm, started to fire it and . . . his lights went out.
Eyewitness accounts vary as to just what the actor hit Scruff with. Some say a left hook, others a straight right, still others the ol' one-two. All agreed on one matter: the punch had been fast and devastating. One second Scruff was in front of the actor, bowed up, ready to unleash lightening, the next second he was on his back, eyes wide open but seeing nothing. They also remember the actor’s departure, gesturing as though tipping a hat, saying “Ladies, gentlemen, a fond adieu, and goodnight.”
Scruff would later claim that it was a sucker punch—and a damn lucky one—that had put out his lights. In truth, he knew he’d been poleaxed with a killer blow delivered by someone who knew exactly how to do it.
Fact of the matter was, Scruff was right. It hadn’t, from the start, been a fair fight. Although he didn’t look it, the actor had been forged from premium ore, polished by tenacity, sweat, and grit.
A Jewish Russian immigrant at age three, with an unpronounceable, fifteen consonants, and vowels name, he grew up poor, hard, and tough on the mean streets of the New York’s Lower East Side. He’d lettered in six varsity sports in high school, was a decorated veteran of WW II, and had once managed a gym, being expert enough a boxer to teach the sweet science to policemen as part of their self defense training.
Few are left who remember the momentous night. The Barn has long since succumbed to the developer’s blade, the site, near the intersection of Davis Boulevard and US 41, now an auto repair shop. Scruff is a ghost in the fog of local folklore.
And the New York actor fella who whipped Scruff McGullis? His role on the TV series Tallahassee 7000 was the break he needed to make it to the big time. And hit the big time he did. After a career that lasted over fifty years, he remains one of our most beloved actors. A winner of the Academy Award, Golden Globe, and every other accolade Hollywood has to offer, his biographies always overlook one other achievement. The obscure yet absolute fact that at one time, long ago, in a small Florida town, he was the heavyweight champion. One Saturday night. At The Barn. This, rumpled, stooped- shoulder gentle giant with the wry smile, twinkle in his eye, and thunderous fists we remember as Walter Matthau.
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