TEN
minutes before the fighters entered the ring, La Scala Theatre was silenced by
the sound of a mine exploding near O'Connell Street. The Pillar Picture House
was damaged, a baby boy was badly injured, and the master of ceremonies, Jim
Harris, announced that by order of the military, nobody could leave the
Prince's Street venue until after 11.30pm. The edict barely raised a murmur of
complaint. Having paid to witness Mike McTigue try to wrest the
light-heavyweight championship of the world from the exotic title-holder,
Battling Siki, fans weren't going to allow the little matter of a Civil War
raging outside intrude on the festivities.
On St
Patrick's Day, 1923, Dublin was the centre of the boxing universe. So many
ticketless thousands congregated outside La Scala that the Dublin Metropolitan
Police had to erect crash barriers and redirect traffic. Inside, George Bernard
Shaw, a noted aficionado of the sport, took his seat alongside British
heavyweight champion Joe Beckett and the French legend 'Gorgeous' Georges
Carpentier. Public work-outs involving both McTigue and Siki at the Rotunda had
whetted the city's appetite and even a brief worry about the moral suitability
of holding a prize fight worth £2,000 to the victor on a holy day
had been assuaged.
"I
can't speak for Saint Patrick," said Father O'Ryan from Goldenbridge,
"but I think if I were in his place, I should be proud that after 700
hundred years of slavery, Ireland was free enough to welcome a stranger that
dare not put his foot on the 'sacred soil of Britain'. We all hope that our own
countryman will prove that he is the best man but if it should happen that the
man of colour and the foreigner, after a fair fight, proves to the world that
he is the best man, he will be assured of hearty applause."
McTigue
was first into the ring, his entrance sparking enormous cheers from the
partisan crowd. Born in Kilnamona, county Clare on 26 November, 1892, he'd emigrated
to New York at 16 and wangled a job as a beef handler. After dropping a
workplace bully with a single punch, his colleagues urged him to begin a boxing
career that stretched for more than two decades. His first 13 years as a pro
were mundane, an inability to knock out opponents made 'Bold Michael', as the
posters ambitiously billed him, a hard sell at the box-office. The nearest he'd
ever come to a title shot previously was annexing the middleweight title of
Canada in 1921, and that he got to take on Siki in Dublin for the most
prestigious belt of all was down to a curious confluence of circumstances.
In a major
upset, Battling Siki (a more impressive moniker than his given name, Baye Phal)
had knocked out Carpentier, the reigning world light-heavyweight champion in
Paris seven months earlier. Despite being a decorated French soldier in World
War One, the country's newspapers turned on the Senegalese native for
dethroning their hero. A hard-drinking womaniser, prone to strolling the
Parisian streets with a lion on a leash, or with two Great Danes whom he got to
perform tricks by firing pistols in the air, they labelled him 'Championzee'
and 'Child of the Jungle'.
The French
authorities eventually conspired to ban him from fighting and when the Home
Office also refused him entry to Britain, he had to box wherever he was
allowed.
Certain in
the knowledge that a knockout was his only guarantee of victory against an
Irishman in Dublin on St Patrick's night, Siki rushed across the ring at the
first bell, unleashing a right to the ribs and a left to the face that put
McTigue on the ropes where he quickly and cleverly took the sting out of the
attack by ducking every subsequent jab. A couple of inches taller, the Clareman
was over a stone lighter but was bringing to bear a reputation as a
counterpuncher that saw him once described as "a high priest of the
religion of defence".
The first
round set the tone for the next 19. Siki made the running and McTigue fought a
smart, rearguard action forcing his man to chase him down and then picking him
off with jabs. The pivotal moment came in the 13th. Having already opened a
gash over McTigue's left eye, Siki unfurled a massive left which had knockout
written all over it, and the spectacular way McTigue evaded it wrung huge
applause from the crowd. He returned to his corner to the soundtrack of 'Bravo
Mac' chants, and from there on, his superior ringcraft saw him earn the
decision on points in the last world title fight to go past 15 rounds.
When
Manchester referee Jack Smyth raised McTigue's hand above his head, La Scala
erupted. That the bout had been far from a classic mattered little to those
clambering into the ring. Amid chaotic scenes, one of McTigue's seconds fainted
and had to be carried to the dressing room. The fighter himself had a lengthy
and emotional embrace with his own father before demanding quiet so he could
thank the audience for their support.
"I
protest that I won the fight," said Siki. "I won at least 17 of the
20 rounds. McTigue might have won the other three but I won the fight
alright." Siki's complaints about the judging were in vain. Most neutral
observers felt McTigue had just about deserved the win.
"I
won easily, and I would have stopped him in the 13th round only my right thumb
was fractured," said McTigue afterwards. "I beat him to the punch two
to one. He didn't land a clean blow in the full 20 rounds. I had no doubt
whatever what the verdict would be. Siki had only two punches, a left and a
right lead, and I blocked them both. I was trying to get him with a right to
the jaw until I broke my thumb in the 13th round."
When the
Senegalese arrived in New York to restart his own career later that year,
McTigue was photographed welcoming him to town. Unfortunately, Siki's carousing
lifestyle soon caught up with him, and the standard joke around the sport was
that the only American sparring he ever got was in bar room brawls. On 15
December, 1925, he was found face down in the gutter in Hell's Kitchen. Somebody
had put two bullets in his back from point blank range over an unpaid debt of
$20 and the murder was never solved.
Following
a number of questionable bouts in which he didn't put the title on the line,
McTigue surrendered his title to Paul Berlenbach in May 1925. That comprehensive
defeat almost convinced him to retire but at 35, he went the distance before
losing to Irish-American Tommy Loughran in an epic contest for the then vacant
world light-heavyweight title. Past his 38th birthday when he finally quit,
McTigue opened a bar on Long Island which he ran until his health waned in the
late 1940s. He died in Jamaica, Queens on 12 August, 1966, not too far from the
cemetery in Flushing where Siki was buried 31 years earlier, the pair forever
linked by their role in one of boxing's most bizarre occasions.
"When
the audience did leave La Scala, there was great excitement in O'Connell Street
consequent on a number of shots being fired," reported The Cork Examiner.
"From somewhere in the vicinity there was a rapid burst of revolver fire.
Immediately, a wild stampede for safety occurred, many people being trampled in
the rush. Screaming women ran hither and thither whilst several more cautious
sought to cower by throwing themselves on the ground. Even by doing so they
took the risk of being trampled on. The crowd hastily dispersed afterwards and
in a few minutes the street was deserted. A man named James O'Shea of 1,
Harcourt Street was admitted to Jervis Street Hospital, suffering from a bullet
wound to the leg. He is said to have been shot on Westmoreland Street."
A
memorable evening ended as it begun, the real combat upstaging the showbiz.
No comments:
Post a Comment