In the lead up to the Jack Doyle centenary weekend here's another interesting chapter from Jack's life. The following excerpt from Michael Taub's biography Jack Doyle - The Gorgeous Gael describes Jack's toughest test in the ring after a whirlwind few months as a pro when he demolished all opposition upto that point.....
"There was, of course, a chance that Jack would suffer for his cavalier attitude to training and his sexual indiscretions. He'd have to be in top shape to beat Jack Pettifer of King's Cross - a man even bigger and heavier at 6ft 7in and 17 stones and also unbeaten as a pro.
The fight had captured the public imagination like none other in recent times. The two men, walking skyscrapers both, had set the boxing world buzzing. Large parties made the crossing from Ireland. There was a big contingent up from Brighton, where Pettifer had completed his training. Sydney Hulls, the promoter, claimed he could have sold each seat twice over. He wasn't exaggerating. Newspapers estimated the attendance to be in excess of 20,000 - a capacity 12,000 crammed inside the centre transept of the glass-domed arena and almost as many again locked outside. Cars jammed the approach roads to the stadium. Police sent for reinforcements in an attempt to control the crowds.
Women were prominent among the fans - office and factory girls, housewives who had talked husbands into taking them along, wealthy society types draped in furs and dripping with jewellery. No longer was boxing solely a male preserve: Irish Jack Doyle had opened the floodgates to a new and enquiring audience. London was not the only city gripped by big-fight fever. Jack's native Cork also teemed with activity. Thousands packed the square outside the Cork Examiner offices waiting for the result to come through. A green light was to be shown if he won, a red light if he lost.
Inside the Crystal Palace dressing-room, Jack was suffering from a more literal fever. He had felt unwell at Windsor on the eve of the fight. A doctor summoned urgently by Sullivan diagnosed 'flu symptoms. You can catch a nasty chill lying on a bed with no clothes on.
He was advised not to box, but it was unthinkable: the 'boys' had made the journey and he could not disappoint them. Now, with the bout only minutes away, he was doubting the wisdom of that decision. He faced the biggest challenge of his sporting life - both in terms of Pettifer's size and the importance of the contest - but felt lousy and drowsy. Dosed up with medication, he was barely able to summon the will or energy to go out and fight.
A roar of expectancy greeted him as he made his way to ringside. Normally the ear-splitting din acted on him like a battle hymn; this time it might as well have been a funeral dirge. It was not the thought of defeat which bothered him now, catastrophic though that would be. It was more the sense of shame he would feel if unable to make a fight of it.
That seemed to be the way of things in the first round. Dazzled by Pettifer's skills, he was punched all round the ring. He took such a hammering that he was in real danger of being knocked out. It was the very outcome he had been dreading, but he was unable to do anything about it. His limbs were heavy and lifeless; he was too weak to call the shots. Only through a combination of Irish heart and magnificent bodily strength did he manage to survive.
Pettifer was cool and confident. He strutted back to his corner to be told by jubilant handlers that he was heading for the greatest triumph of his career. Jack could only stagger back to his corner, eyes glazed, for a much-needed respite. Drastic action was called for and fortunately for him Dan Sullivan was a manager who did not mind bending the rules when disaster threatened. The alternative was to see his big-money dreams go up along with the cigar-smoke that permeated the ringside. With all the guile of a magician conjuring a rabbit from a top hat, he produced a small flask of brandy from the pocket of his white corner-man's coat and, under cover of the water-bottle, tipped a generous quantity down Jack's throat. Its effect was immediate.
The dramatic second round provoked some purple prose from London Evening Standard fight reporter Ben Bennison:
'The bell sounded for the resumption of hostilities and the buzzing audience was suddenly hushed into an eerie silence.
Then, to a shout of delight from the crowd, Doyle sprang to his feet as if restored to life by black magic. "Wait!" bawled Sullivan, who had forgotten to replace his gumshield, but, unheeding, Doyle rushed at his surprised opponent, who was slow to leave his stool, like a man possessed.
Pettifer was taken by storm. Crash, bang did Doyle send his thudding fists into the neighbourhood of his jaw to rock him and cause him to clinch.
Poor Pettifer, a hurricane now raged against him as Doyle forced his huge frame against the ropes. He tried in vain to hold off the Irishman by means of his left hand or by erecting a guard with his right in an attempt to nullify the full weight of the punches that were being rained upon him.
A fighting monster now was Doyle, his teeth clenched and his eyes awesome in the viciousness they portrayed. The crowd was on its feet and the noise deafening as he smashed to smithereens the last semblance of defence Pettifer was able to offer.
Then, with a left and a right, he dropped his man to land him almost in the auditorium. There Pettifer lay, his eyes staring at the roof, the last ounce of his fighting power beaten out of him.'
There was bedlam in the huge arena. The fans were wild, quite unable to believe the unexpected turn-round in fortunes. They had been elevated to a pitch of uncontrollable excitement by the transformation of Jack Doyle from battered and beaten fighter in the first round to cold-eyed killer in the second. The women in the audience - 'Many were crying with joy' - had been caught up in the emotion of it all. they barred his path back to the dressing-room. Some tossed flowers. Others attempted to reach out and touch him. Those close enough to pierce his cordon of police and handlers threw their arms round him and kissed him. Several hung around afterwards waiting for him to emerge, most wanting autographs, some desiring a more tangible token of remembrance.
But Jack for once was in no mood for the company of adoring females. He spent the night alone in a Turkish baths."
Excerpts courtesy of author Michael Taub and publishers Lilliput Press, Dublin.
Michael will be attending the centenary and will be speaking at the Gala Dinner/Birthday Bash on Saturday 31st August. Michael will also be doing a number of book signings over the course of the weekend.
This should be a great weekend and is eagerly awaited. Full details of what's happening will follow shortly....watch this space!!!
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