Just a few days ago—Saturday, May 31, to be exact—marked the 42nd anniversary of the death of Jack Dempsey, the ninth man to hold the world heavyweight crown and one of boxing’s most enduring icons.
That somber milestone brings to mind one of the sport’s most storied chapters: the infamous “Long Count Fight,” a contest that, even now, nearly 98 years later, remains etched in boxing lore. On September 22, that anniversary will once again stir memories of a night when the rules, the crowd, and fate itself all collided under the lights at Chicago’s Soldier Field.
There are only a handful of heavyweight bouts that live in the same historical breath—those seismic nights that altered the landscape of the sport. Think of Joe Louis vs. Max Schmeling, both the 1936 shocker and the 1938 redemption; or the unforgettable night in Tokyo in 1990 when Buster Douglas stunned a 42-to-1 favorite Mike Tyson in the 10th round; or Muhammad Ali’s masterclass in Kinshasa in 1974, when chants of “Ali bomaye!” thundered through the humid night as he toppled the seemingly invincible George Foreman.
And then there’s Dempsey-Tunney II—the Long Count Fight—perhaps the most dissected contest in the century-long chronicle of the sport.
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A WARM NIGHT IN CHICAGO…
It was a hot summer evening in Chicago, September 22, 1927. More than 120,000 fans packed Soldier Field, many of them just to witness a spectacle. In the ring, 32-year-old Jack Dempsey, the “Manassa Mauler,” stood poised for redemption. Once the undisputed heavyweight king, Dempsey had surrendered the title a year earlier to Gene Tunney in a shocking upset in Philadelphia. Now, with a ledger reading 54-5-9 with 50 knockouts, he aimed to reclaim the throne.
Across the ring stood Tunney, 30 years old, boasting a brilliant 63-1-1 record with 44 knockouts. A cerebral ex-Marine and World War I hero, Tunney was no ordinary prizefighter—an avid reader of Shakespeare and lover of classical music, he was as much scholar as slugger, a curious fit in the brutal world of boxing.
Despite Tunney’s decisive win in their first bout, Dempsey once again entered as the betting favorite. The public still believed the former champion would bulldoze his way back to the top, obliterating the more methodical Tunney. Promoter Tex Rickard, meanwhile, was smiling ear-to-ear—the live gate had topped $2.5 million, nearly double that of their first encounter.
The early rounds were competitive but unspectacular. Dempsey charged like a bull; Tunney stayed elusive, moving and countering with precision. The action simmered without boiling—until Round 7.
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THE SEVENTH ROUND THAT SHOOK THE SPORT
Midway through the seventh, Dempsey finally landed the kind of punch that made him a legend—a thunderous left-right combination that sent Tunney crashing to the canvas. Chicago erupted. But then came the moment that would immortalize the fight.
New rules had recently been implemented: when a knockdown occurs, the standing fighter must immediately retreat to a neutral corner before the referee can begin the count. Dempsey, either unaware or too locked in on his hurt opponent, hovered over Tunney like a vulture, delaying the start of the count.
Referee Dave Barry ordered Dempsey to a neutral corner, but precious seconds ticked by before he complied. By the time Barry actually began his count, Tunney had already been down for an estimated 14–16 seconds. Still groggy, Tunney rose at Barry’s count of nine, narrowly beating the official count—if not the stopwatch.
What followed was a masterclass in survival. Tunney used his legs, his jab, and his composure to weather Dempsey’s storm and retake control of the fight over the final three rounds. The decision went to the champion—unanimously—and controversy was born.
The bout was forever branded The Long Count Fight. And the retelling of that count? It’s only grown longer with time.
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EPILOGUE OF LEGENDS
Dempsey never fought again. He walked away with an official record of 54-6-9 (44 KOs), though some sources list it as 61 wins, 50 by knockout. By the time of that second Tunney fight, his interests had shifted to Hollywood and business ventures, and the fire that once made him the most feared man in the sport had begun to fade.
He’d become champion in 1919 with a savage beating of Jess Willard in Toledo, knocking the giant down seven times in the first round. He defended the title against names like Billy Miske, Bill Brennan, Georges Carpentier, Tommy Gibbons, and Argentina’s Luis Ángel Firpo—the first Latin American to fight for the heavyweight crown. That wild brawl with Firpo ended controversially but solidified Dempsey’s myth.
Then came Gene Tunney.
James Joseph “Gene” Tunney was the son of Irish immigrants and a product of New York’s streets. He honed his craft in city gyms, working his way through the ranks to become light heavyweight champion. His only professional loss came in a brutal war with Pittsburgh’s Harry Greb—a 15-round bloodbath that left Tunney with a broken nose and temporary blindness. Tunney would later avenge that loss—and beat Greb three more times.
In the first Dempsey bout on September 23, 1926, Tunney entered as a 3-to-1 underdog. He boxed circles around the Manassa Mauler, winning at least nine of the ten rounds in a display that stunned the boxing world.
After the Long Count victory, Tunney fought just once more—a successful defense against Tom Heeney at Madison Square Garden in July 1928. He retired with a record of 65-1-1 (48 KOs), his lone loss avenged, his legacy secure. He lived a quiet, comfortable life thanks to smart investments and frugal habits. In 1990, he was inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame.
Tunney died in Greenwich, Connecticut, on November 7, 1978, at the age of 80.
Dempsey passed five years later, on May 31, 1983, in New York City, aged 87.
Two titans, one unforgettable fight, and a count that still echoes through time.
