Jack Doyle - the Big Fight!!!

    After Jack left the Irish Guards he began his career as a professional boxer. He had departed with an unbeaten record as a boxer in the army in any case - 28 fights, 28 wins, an incredible 27 of them by knockout. In little over 12 months he was fighting for the British Heavyweight Crown....

 

  'The capital was at a standstill on the evening of the fight. All roads leading to the magnificent White City Stadium, with its imposing concrete edifice and huge banks of terracing, were jammed by long lines of cars and taxis and awash with crowds of people who had spilled from the pavements. There was chaos as police attempted to control the traffic and the heaving masses.
    Jack and his entourage were forced to run the gauntlet after deciding to abandon their taxi half a mile from the stadium. Star-struck admirers could not believe their luck; they besieged him with such animated fervour that at one stage he was in danger of disappearing beneath a sea of well-wishers. Sullivan, trainers Alf Hewitt and Fred Duffett and the ever-vigilant Bill Doyle had the tough and at times hazardous job of fighting off the fans. One woman armed with a pair of scissors attempted to cut off a lock of Jack's hair.
    Once inside the sanctuary of the dressing-room, Jack's behaviour - high on nervousness and dread - entered the realms of outrageous. 'He started playing the role of court-jester,' recalled Bill Doyle. 'He began laughing, joking and singing. No one would have believed there was a big fight ahead.' He ignored Sullivan's exhortation to, 'Relax, Jack, lie down and rest.' Instead he engaged those around him in light-hearted banter as he pored over the dozens of telegrams that had arrived and took stock of several quite elaborate bouquets. Only when his hands had been bandaged in preparation for gloving-up did Jack finally manage to compose himself. He stretched out and closed his eyes for a few minutes, seemingly oblivious to those around him as, inwardly, he summoned help to aid him in the heat of championship battle.
    Jack knew he would need some kind of miracle, an infusion of supernatural strength, to enable him to wrench the title from Petersen's grasp. His biggest worry was that in the event of his failing to finish the job early, he would be punched senseless by the educated fists of ex-public schoolboy Petersen and become a laughing stock, a figure of fun, a boy who could sing but could not fight. Jack feared the spectre of humiliation like most people fear death. His phobia had its roots in his austere upbringing in the Holy Ground, when it was humiliation enough to have been brought up in poverty. That was something over which he had no control: he had been born into it. But it fostered in him a resolve that he would never be the victim of circumstance in the areas of his life he could control. This is what spurred him to become such a formidable fighter. The thought of defeat was anathema to him. From his earliest scraps in the quarry in Queenstown, through his waterfront battles with men twice his age, to the pulsating punch-ups with Pettifer and Bouquillon, in which he turned imminent first-round disaster into stunning second-round victory, the sense of shame he would have felt in defeat was the crucial motivating factor.
    Though yet to be beaten in any contest, he could be forgiven for thinking his run was about to end. He doubted with a deep sense of foreboding that his appeal to Providence would be answered. He had always been a good Catholic as a boy but, since his rise to fame, he had allowed himself to be diverted from regular attendance at Mass and from saying the night and morning prayers that had always been such a comfort to him, especially during his first days in England. Because he was now turning to prayer more or less as a last resort, he was uncertain as to its efficacy. A spurned God might not help him at all. Or, worse, punish him by making sure he lost!
    What a dilemma he faced. His championship challenge was the realisation of all the hopes and dreams he had nurtured since boyhood. Victory over Petersen, two years older and unbeaten in 23 fights, would put him within reach of the world crown that had been worn with such distinction by Jack Dempsey. In normal circumstances he would have been ecstatic that his big opportunity had arrived and brashly confident that his power of punch would prove too much for anything the more skillful Petersen could produce. Now he was having to ponder near-certain defeat before he had even thrown a punch in anger.
    As before the Pettifer fight, he was bitterly regretting his decision not to pull out. He had got away with it then by virtue of Dan Sullivan's swift intervention and a do-or-die effort in which he had discovered unknown reserves of strength. But a touch of 'flu was nothing compared with the illness he was suffering from now and, short of blasting Petersen to defeat in the opening rounds, he feared that nothing would save him.
    Jack had half considered acquainting the Board of Control doctor with the facts during his routine pre-fight medical, but thought better of it in the light of what might have been printed in the newspapers. Even so, he was amazed the doctor did not suspect anything during an almost cursory examination of his genitals. Now, as he lay waiting for the call to action, he was in a state of acute agitation. A dose of the clap would have been bad enough in any circumstances, but the thought of having to fight possibly 15 championship rounds against a man as fit and formidable as Petersen was alarming.
    A resounding roar went up when he appeared in the arena and began making his way to ringside, his outwardly jaunty demeanour contrasting dramatically with the unrest within. An even mightier cheer rang out as he climbed through the ropes resplendent in a dressing-gown of emerald green, which he removed to reveal a sun-tanned torso. His green satin shorts with white waistband had his initials and a shamrock embroidered in gold on either leg. The green, white and gold of Ireland symbolised what Jack Doyle stood for that night at White City. He was the first native of Eire to challenge for the heavyweight championship of Great Britain - permitted to do so because his country had been under British rule when he was born in 1913, just 19 years and 315 days earlier.

    The spectators packed into the arena craned their necks as he bowed like an actor to the audience and blew kisses to the women at ringside, many of whom he obviously knew. He then engaged those around him, including the MC, in cheerful conversation while awaiting the entry of the champion, who had captured the title a year earlier to the day by knocking out Reggie Meen at Wimbeldon.
    The seconds ticked by, but there was no sign of Petersen. The seconds turned to minutes and still Petersen had not put in an appearance. The agonising delay succeeded in heightening the tension and excitement and the atmosphere was electric as it began to dawn on Jack that he had suffered his first setback before a punch had been thrown. He had been duped by the oldest trick in the boxing book: that of champion cleverly keeping challenger waiting in a bid to unnerve him. The tactic had worked, but surely not in the way Petersen and his father-manager had hoped. Instead of Jack being reduced to a feeble bundle of nerves, the champion's waiting game had served to bring a slight flush to his cheeks. His calm exterior began to give way to a look of anger. Any trepidation he had felt beneath the surface during his theatrical, gladiatorial entrance had been superseded in the interim by a feeling of contempt for Petersen.
    Jack's brown eyes flashed ominously at the Welshman as the referee, Cecil 'Pickles' Douglas, brought them together in the centre of the ring.......'

Many thanks to Michael Taub, author of Jack Doyle: the Gorgeous Gael, for allowing us to reproduce excerpts of his book here. Many thanks also to his publishers Lilliput Press, Dublin.

Michael will be speaking at the Gala Dinner/Birthday Bash on the night of Jack's 100th anniversary of his birthday, as part of the Jack Doyle Centenary Weekend. The weekend events take place from Friday 30th August to Sunday 1st September.

Highlights of the weekend include:

·  A Boxing Tournament on Friday 30th August - organised under the auspices of the IABA Cork County Board. (Tickets available at the Commodore Hotel @ €10)

·  A gala dinner with guest speaker Michael Taub, author of 'Jack Doyle; the Gorgeous Gael.' Music by the 'Contenders' Saturday 31st August. (Tickets available at the Commodore Hotel €34.95)

·  Official opening of the Jack Doyle Mural on Saturday 31st August (pics below) - all welcome to attend.
·  The Jack Doyle Play with actor Luke Barry on Sunday 1st September. (Tickets available at the Commodore Hotel @ €5)

·  Guided Walking Tours and tours on the Cobh Road Train, Historical Workshops, street theatre, classic car displays, commemorative mass & subsequent ceremonies in Cobh's historical Promenade, guided tours of the Old Cemetery where Jack is buried and much more.