There was something about Mazzioni that made grown men tremble. A man-mountain who boasted of going weeks without relieving himself, everybody knew that the Mob had spent thousands making sure that no-one could touch him. There were rumours that Mazzioni was routinely performing triple loops in training, drinking seven bottles of red wine without even having to cross his legs. Although a mere babe at 23, Mazzioni already had the world at his feet. Money, women and his dominating physical presence had made him an instant celebrity in New York.

Joe Brazier was the son of a sharecropper from South Carolina who had fought bigotry all his life the only way he knew how - at the urinal. There were tales of how at a mere six years old, the young Brazier had stood next to hardened peers, black and white, and out-peed them all. In 1934 he won the US Amateur Championship, the 'Golden Bowl' and launched into a decade of domestic domination. However, by '52 the once great Brazier was weakening. Sure, his massive frame cut an imposing figure but next to Mazzioni, no one thought he had a chance.

And yet, as Mazzioni fought his way past hundreds of fans into the neon-lit bathroom of Luigi's on 32nd and Broadway, Brazier looked calm. Typewriters rattled, men and women screamed and the lucky few who'd made it into the bathroom gulped what little oxygen was left in anticipation.

In the Speed round even his own corner knew that Brazier was out of his depth. Moving the Peeball with unerring accuracy for such a huge man, Mazzioni completed an astonishing 21 laps of the 6 x 12-inch wall-standing urinal in his allotted minute. As the roars of the home crowd faded, Brazier stepped up to his mark. Sixty seconds and thirteen laps later, first blood had gone to the Italian-American.

As both men retired to the bar to re-fill their drained bladders, a steely glare came over Brazier. Those present still swear that no man has ever looked more determined to pee his very guts out. On Mazzioni's table the drinking was heavy but critics would later comment that maybe it wasn't as committed as it should have been. Some say Mazzioni ate a small bowl of nuts at this point while other claim it was a pair of pickled new green cucumbers. Whatever he had eaten though, he only had to win one of the remaining rounds to claim his allotted throne as the greatest Peeballer in the world.

And so Brazier stepped up to the urinal ninety minutes later for the tricks round with a metaphorical mountain to climb. And climb he did, rattling off reverse double loops, twisting Pavlovas, 360 degree Armitages and, to cap his performance, an improbable "George Mikan" bouncing dunk. For the first time in his career, the pressure was on Mazzioni.

In the months that followed, commentators and analysts argued over why Mazzioni failed to perform. Some said the occasion played tricks with his mind. Others assumed that the reports of his talents had been greatly magnified. The fact remains that in potentially the biggest round of his young life Mazzioni flopped. The fabled quadruple never materialised as a disjointed routine, never gathering pace or precision, left the stunned crowd silenced and Mazzioni courting his darkest demons.

In his corner Brazier never smiled nor even acknowledged his opponent's failings. And then, to no one in particular he uttered the immortal words, 'I need a beer', before stomping towards the bar through the tension-fuelled mob.

After a brutal hour's drinking the combatants stepped to the commode for the final time, the crowd were roaring Mazzioni on. He would be first up for the endurance round.

With an almighty grunt the giant New Yorker unsheathed himself and commenced his stand. And what a stand it was. Mazzioni breezed past the four-minute mark without allowing the ball a moment's rest. As he kept a steady trickle flowing through the five-minute barrier the sphere finally came to a halt after 6 minutes and 4 seconds, the best time in the world that year. Again, the pressure was on Brazier.

Internally, his legendary bladder was on its last legs. Brazier's age was finally taking its toll and he unleashed a grunt of relief as he began his stand.

"Slow down!" howled his trainer, 'Mississippi' Rivers, whose expert eye instantly recognised that Brazier's initial flow was far too powerful. There was no way Brazier would make it past five minutes, let alone near Mazzioni's magnificent mark. At least, that's what the crowd thought.

But Brazier had other ideas. Reducing the flow to a barely visible trickle, his years of experience finally began paying off as his precision muscle control and minimal movement of the ball once again demonstrated the profound touch of a master. As the seconds ticked by the crowd fell silent. Four minutes thirty. Five minutes. Five minutes thirty. As Brazier neared the six-minute mark the silence was deafening and pain was etched across the great man's face as he summoned the last drops of urine from the depth of his guts and the ball staggered drunkenly around the bowl. And still the seconds ticked onwards. 5-50, 5-51, 5-52.

Then it happened. A small ripple of applause from the back of the bar turned into a roar as New York's once partisan Peeball fans realised they were witnessing magic. As the clock neared six minutes the once partisan crowd were openly screaming for Brazier. And with every ounce of concentration the champion squeezed the last desperate teaspoons of fluid from his innards. 6-01, 6-02, 6-03... As he passed Mazzioni's mark a colossal cheer enveloped the arena and with nothing left in the tank the Peeball fell still after six minutes, seven seconds of peeing. Brazier collapsed into the urinal and in a flash the crowd stormed into the lavatory, picked him out of his own his urine and hoisted him onto their shoulders.

The champion was still king. He never took the stand again.

Taken with kind permission from Hank Collins, "The Great Peeballers", published 1965.