Tell him he can have my title, but I want it back in the

Jack Dempsey, the “Manassa Mauler,” a titan of the boxing ring whose fists carried the weight of thunder, once spoke with both jest and defiance: “Tell him he can have my title, but I want it back in the morning.” At first glance, these words may sound playful, even careless, but within them lies the very soul of the warrior—the refusal to surrender identity, the unshakable will to reclaim what is lost, and the eternal fire of competition that refuses to be extinguished.

For the title in question is not only a belt or a crown of sport. It is the symbol of honor, of sacrifice, of blood earned and sweat endured. To offer it lightly, even in jest, is to reveal the paradox of the true champion: he knows that trophies are fragile, that titles pass like shadows, but he also knows that his spirit cannot be stripped from him. Thus Dempsey says he will give it up for a moment, but only for a moment—for at dawn, he will rise again, fists ready, heart unbroken, demanding it back.

This spirit echoes across history. Consider the tale of Hannibal of Carthage, who crossed the Alps with elephants to strike Rome. He won battles of glory, but could not hold Rome itself. To many, this was loss; to Hannibal, it was a challenge deferred. His will to fight again, to seek the morning of triumph after the night of setback, carried him across decades of war. Like Dempsey, he knew that titles, cities, and victories may be taken, but the fire of return belongs to the soul of the warrior.

Even in Dempsey’s own career, this truth was evident. After losing his heavyweight crown to Gene Tunney in 1926, Dempsey could have faded quietly into the shadows of history. But he refused. He returned to the ring, training with relentless hunger, and though he lost again in the famous “Long Count” rematch, he showed the world what it meant to fight with pride and resilience. His words about lending his title for a night were no idle remark—they were the creed of a man who believed that defeat was only ever temporary, that morning would always bring another chance to rise.

The meaning for us is clear: what you lose today does not define you. Positions, honors, possessions—they may be taken by fate or by rival. But the will to reclaim, the determination to rise with the morning, this belongs only to you. Titles may rest in another’s hands, but they are never gone from your spirit so long as you hunger for their return.

The lesson, then, is to hold lightly to the symbols of victory, but fiercely to the spirit of perseverance. When life strikes you down, say with Dempsey, “Keep it for now, but I will rise again at dawn.” Do not let loss become despair; let it become a pause, a single night’s sleep before you take back what is yours. In this lies true resilience—the refusal to let defeat have the final word.

Therefore, in your own battles, whether in work, in love, or in the trials of the soul, embrace Dempsey’s creed. Accept the momentary setback, but never relinquish your fire. Rest if you must, but rise with the sun. Titles may be borrowed, crowns may be lost, but the morning belongs to those who refuse surrender.

For in the end, Dempsey’s words remind us of the eternal truth: a true champion may fall, but he always rises. And the one who rises with the dawn will never truly be defeated.