FROM THE ARCHIVES:THE ANONYMOUS writer of this London letter was on hand to watch Jack Doyle, the hard-living boxer, tenor and film star known as the "gorgeous Gael", contest his first wrestling match.
The fanfare [of trumpets] was repeated and repeated again; and then, spotlighted in the entrance, there appeared the gorgeous Gael.
There was a roar – made up in equal parts of cheers and boohs – as he walked round the ring and climbed into his corner. Mindful of his obligations as a perfect dresser, he was wearing a white satin dressing-gown with green facings; and as he took it off and displayed his manly chest one observed that his shorts were white also and bore the initials “J.D.” in green.
Nobody noticed his opponent going into the other corner. He was a shorter man and lighter; an Estonian, according to the programme. His name was Bucht, so the crowd very rightly referred to him as Butch.
There were three judges to ensure fair play – Mr. Maurice Lean, Mr. Daniel Ryan and Mr. Gerald Egan, all from Ireland. The referee, who was introduced as Pat Magee, gave the contestants a lecture. The bell went, and Butch came swiftly out of his corner. His arm was around Doyle’s neck and in about five seconds the gorgeous Gael hit he mat.
Doyle rose, looking a little bewildered. Butch was on him again with two or three forearm blows to the body and Doyle went down a second time. The crowd roared and booed while the referee counted up to five.
Doyle was up again and down again – this time in a toe hold. The manly chest was on the mat and he writhed and thrashed as Butch twisted his foot. With an agonised bellow, the Gael kicked off the Estonian and rose to his feet. He gazed with astonishment as Butch advanced again and with a rain of body blows put him to the mat once more.
The second round started and Doyle went down again. Then suddenly he threw Butch – and as suddenly was thrown himself and pinned to the floor with the huge legs kicking helplessly in the air while the referee awarded one fall to Butch.
The third round, and the Gorgeous Gael rushed from his corner like a bull elephant aroused. A whack from his forearm sent Butch to the mat. As he rose, another bull-rush hurled him back to the floor. A third charge and the great forearms whirled around – and then Butch went down and rolled on the mat while the referee solemnly counted him out. That devastating forearm smash, it seemed, had done its stuff.
There was pandemonium as the referee announced Doyle the winner. Cheers, jeers and boos split the ceiling. Two Irish pipers in saffron kilts emerged from somewhere and fell in behind him, and, in a sort of triumphal procession, he marched out of the arena through the spotlighted entrance to the dressing rooms.
But I did wonder, as I left Harringay for home, whether there were any Estonian pipers in reserve in case of Mr. Butch’s victory.
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