There was a time in Minnesota’s capital city that James J O’Hara
might have run for mayor without putting up a yard sign, without uttering a single word endorsing public support.
He was an iconic figure on the streets of St. Paul, a man recognized by countless of his fellow citizens. He was very simply Mr. Boxing.
Affable, likable and kind, he was nonetheless a man of conviction and not to be taken lightly. When he said “no” there was finality in his voice. Violate the standards he held dearly and there was a price to pay.
He was widely known as Jim, but to his friends he was simply Jimmy. Either way, he was truly one of a kind, a man with a burly exterior, a kind heart and a knack for getting the job done.
He was a man of St. Paul’s streets for the majority of his 76 years, but he was comfortable in any city or state government building. He was a man without a higher education but with more insight into human nature than associates with doctorates. He could size up a person quickly and accurately and divine his intentions before he uttered a word.
“There was something about him. He really understood human nature,’’ said former Pioneer Press columnist Don Riley, a lifelong friend of O’Hara’s. “His greatest skill was probably bringing people together, getting sides to agree.’’
His appearance was one thing, gruff and tough with a commanding presence. His ability to negotiate peace between long-time rivals was nearly legendary.
“He could have been anything he wanted to be,’’ Riley added. “He could have been a politician or a labor negotiator. A million jobs could have used a man like him.’’
O’Hara knew the intricate workings of the boxing business as well as anyone and could spot a phony the moment he saw him.
“He knew the boxing business inside and out,’’ said long- time international referee Denny Nelson. “Nobody pulled anything on him. He dealt with nice guys and tough guys and he could handle both.’’
When boxing clubs brought their fighters to town, there was Jim O’Hara to deal with, first as a long-time commis- sioner with the Minnesota State Boxing Commission, later renamed the state Athletic Commission, and then as that body’s chairman.
Although he had a secretary for a period of time, O’Hara was a one-man office much of his career. He answered his own calls, providing responses to questions from the press, rival fight camps, fighters and others who aspired to the profession. As often as not, he served as referee between warring factions, paving the way to a meeting of the minds. There were times, too, when promoters and fighters angrily badmouthed him for bringing ethics to the game, for nixing soft-touch opponents or matches that stunk before they were made.
“Guys would come into town with fighters and he knew what was going on from the start. He had them figured out before they got here,’’ Nelson added.
Nelson recalled a time when the two of them were on a downtown corner together and a fellow approached them on the street. “Jimmy I need this or that,’’ Nelson recalled. . “He helped the fellow out. Jim seemed to know everyone in the city, the politicians as well as the guys at the Dorothy Day center.’’
“...he was comfortable in any city or state government building.
He was a man without a higher education but with more insight into human nature than associates with doctorates. ”
O’Hara was a salesman in the produce business and worked on beer delivery trucks at one time. Stout fellow that he was, cases of beer were like mere six-packs to him.
O’Hara had a brief professional boxing career and learned how the game was conducted from first-hand experience. “He knew his boxing,’’ Nelson added, “and nobody got anything by him.’’
O’Hara rubbed elbows with acquaintances on the streets as well as the city’s big shots, the lawyers and senators in the legislature.
“The advice he gave to people was always right on track,’’ Nelson added. “He’d say ‘forget about that, don’t worry about it, we’ll work it out.’“
There was also his sense of humor, often used to ease tensions between rivals, other times to amuse a friend or most often his wife, Kitty.
“He used to come home at lunch and tell jokes to me every day. He made me laugh all the time. We had a good time together,’’ she recalled. “He was home at lunch every day and we’d chat and he’d tell me stories.’’
She was also acutely aware of her husband’s talents. “He knew how to fix things, how to bring people together,’’ she said.
His boxing style perhaps left something to be desired.
“He was a big guy but a boxer,’’ said Riley. “He wasn’t a big hitter and he carried his hands low, like the great fighter from Pittsburgh, Billy Conn, the way Muhammad Ali later did. We always kidded him about his Pittsburgh style.’’
What Riley, about half O’Hara’s size, recalls with particular fondness was his friend’s agility. “For a big guy he was extremely agile,’’ Riley said. “We used to put on a show for the some of the patrons in a saloon. I’d show up, call him a name or two. Then I’d grab him and he’d flip over on his back somehow, making it look as though I’d thrown him.’’
Riley would then say something like, “next time will be worse,’’ leaving nearby patrons engrossed and then stunned.
“Jim had a terrific sense of humor,’’ Riley said. “He could have been a great professional wrestler.’’
Again, it was his ability to ameliorate intractable situations, to bring harmony to discord, to replace a scowl with a smile, that was O’Hara’s trademark.
“He was the only guy I every knew who could agree with both sides and then have both agreeing when he got through with them. He could keep people off each other’s throats,’’ Riley said.
Jim O’Hara, truly Mr. Boxing in Minnesota for decades, left the world in 2002, much too soon and with work still to do. Even Kitty isn’t quite sure what made him such an attraction to people around him.
“We’d walk into a room somewhere and everyone wanted to be near him. I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t know what it was,’’ she said.
Whatever it was, that mystery element served Jim O’Hara well and reserved his place in the Minnesota Boxing Hall of Fame.
