Tom Bradley crouched low, measuring his opponent, and
sensed the match was almost over.
His adversary, Whip Smith, swayed with exhaustion and
glistened with sweat, having suffered several power
moves and debilitating holds. At six feet two inches
and 244 solid pounds, Bradley’s height and
conditioning lent him a visible advantage as the match
pressed on. The crowd of over fifteen thousand shouted
and shifted as the grapplers studied one another.
Smith summoned his remaining strength and lunged, but
Bradley ducked under his clumsy offensive and moved
behind him. Smith rebounded off the ropes, and took a
flying dropkick from Bradley, which sent him down.
Moving in on the dazed man, he jerked Smith to his
feet, then pulled him into his arms.
The mat shuddered as Bradley body slammed him hard to
the mat. He lay dazed and incoherent, shifting his
arms and legs as Bradley climbed to the top of the
turnbuckle. With a smile and wave to the crowd, he
leaped; his elbow slammed into Smith’s sternum,
forcing the air from his lungs. The crowd roared its
approval as Bradley hooked a leg and covered Smith for
“Lookin’ good, my man.” Tiger Jackson high-fived Tom
as he returned to the dressing room. “‘Course, Smith
ain’t exactly a contender, but you put ‘im away pretty