BOXING

Greymouth Evening Star, 17 August 1933, Page 12

BOXING

Yet Doyle before the contest began, was the most self-possessed boxer I have ever seen. He waved gaily to his friends in the audience, preened himself in his green dressing-gown, shook hands amiably with anyone who greeted him, and smiled affably at the world at large.

Petersen, on the contrary, seemed more determined and set than usual, as if he realised that there was stern business to come.

He had reason to be thoughtful, for when the two men stood together during the referee’s homily, Doyle’s height and breadth of shoulder and deep chest made it easy to realise that Petersen was giving away nearly two stones in weight. A superbly built fellow, this Doyle, and a cheerful one until the bell rang and the fight started. EYES BLAZING. Then we saw a different Doyle indeed. He came out of his corner, eyes blazing, teeth clenched, quick of foot, and at. once hooked short punches to Petersen’s head. Petersen was ready for him, though, and met him with a left to the jaw and a right to the body which would have steadied most opponents. It was then that we had a taste of Doyle’s fighting fury; he crowded in, battering Petersen to the ropes, and holding with his left. Petersen swung away, catching Doyle with a right as they broke, and then came the first of the low punches, and a warning from the referee. More holding and clinching—Doyle’s blows swinging dangerously low—another warning—a savage attack by Doyle, the bell, and a punch in the groin which obviously hurt Petersen, though he made no sign. Before the men came out of their corner for the second round the referee cautioned Doyle once more, but after a minute of wild slogging Doyle threw restraint to the winds, and Mr Douglas ordered him back to his corner.

It was some time before the boxers realised that the fight was over, but then Doyle sat down, apparently in stunned amazement, to hear the' announcement of his disqualification.

What would have happened if the fight had not ended so wretchedly it is hard to say. Doyle was punishing Petersen severely, without a doubt, and Petersen was swept out of his ordered plan of campaign. Still, what science there was clearly belonged to Petersen, and he might well have landed the decisive punch. Anyway, both men live to fight again.

ONE LONG SCREAM. Rene Mac Coll writes in the “Daily Telegraph":—Seventy thousand of us were yelling for a knock-out at the White City last night. We did not get it. Jack Petersen, of Wales, retained his British heavy-weight championship against Jack Doyle, of Ireland, Doyle being disqualified for a low blow early in the second round.

What an anti-climax! What a sorry ending to a slashing, tearing fight! Imagine a lighted match dropped into a bucket of petrol. The gong was the match: Petersen and Doyle the petrol. As the two Celts. Welshman and Irishman, went hurtling into one another with contorted faces, a scream of excitement arose from the massed spectators. That scream continued without abatement for the three mad

minutes of the first round. It went on continuously during the minute’s rest, and for the fragment of the second round we still screamed. Then came the disqualification. Doyle, head erect, blood pouring from his nose, gazed at the referee, Mr C. 11. Douglas, with glaring, uncomprehending eyes. The noise from the onlookers died for a moment, and then as the lamentable result was announced a roar of angry disappointment went up. Occupants of the highest-priced ringside seats paid at the rate of 13/6 for each minute the fight lasted—assuming that, they bought their tickets firsthand. With mounting tension we had waited for (his light. The vast stands with their thousands of faces faded into the dusk. The blue sky darkened. The electric lights glared down on the ring. In the distant stands nine out of ten onlookers gazed through field glasses. Women were numerous. About the ring were dainty evening gowns, rich furs, and costly jewellery. We had made our way to our seats Ihiough a kind ol “Western Front" scene of wooden bridges athwart wire entanglements.

A “JUMPY" CROWD. I The crowd was “jumpy”—on edge, There was easy laughter—as when the announcer’s microphone went wrong and easy anger—several “private” fights took place on the fringes of the crowd. A preliminary bout keyed us up still further. The blows were only fotei unneis, we felt, of others more crushing.

A pause. A crash of cheers. Doyle! Extraordinarily -self-possessed he climbed into the ring. Debonair, handsome, quite at ease, in a vivid green gown, he smiled round at the crowd. A greater cheer. Petersen—the champion! A vociferous welcome from an all-Welsh section of the crowd, who

PETERSON—DOYLE FIASCO. LONDON, July 13. “Back to your corner, Doyle!” That brief sentence brought disappointment to 70.000 people at the White City last night, when Jack Doyle, the young Irish giant, was disqualified for hitting low in the second round of his fight with Jack Peterson, the heavyweight champion of Great Britain. It was a miserable ending to an amazing fight. That Mr G. M. Douglas’s decision was correct there is no doubt whatever. To my mind he should have acted as he did more promptly and far sooner, ( writes the Boxing Correspondent of the “Daily Telegraph.”) Three times in the first round, and once after the bell had gone, Doyle slung in low punches, but it was not until he had been warned on three occasions that he was finally disqualified. The referee found it extremely hard to control the boxers at all; they took little notice of his orders, and, more than once it seemed probable that the contest would develop into a fight to the finish, regardless of referee, rules, timekeepers, and stewards. It. is difficult to understand what caused Doyle to throw away his chance of a championship so recklessly. It. is equally difficult to believe that he will ever become a champion while he is so lacking in self-control. Perhaps his Irish blood was too much for him; he fought, at any rate, as if he had suddenly been plunged into a tavern brawl, when his only concern was at all costs to hammer his man to the floor.

cry to him in his native tongue. Petersen wears a dingy old brown gown. He looks far less self-possessed than the black-haired Irishman. His face shines with applied grease. Far away at the top of those distant stands the tiny frieze of figures silhouetted against the darkling

sky bob and jump under the same stress of emotion that is gripping us at the ringside. The fidgetty preliminaries are over. The gong! They’re at it! Nearly 30 stone of young manhood ploughing about the ring in a rage of flailing arms. That non-stop scream rises. A woman near me is beating her arms into her lap and shouting “Petersen! Petersen!

Petersen!” over and over again. The first round is over. The referee has warned Doyle several times. Again—the gong! Another brief flurry. Then, alas! the referee is waving the men to their corner. It is over. Control of the fight appeared not to be strong. Repeatedly .the referee endeavoured to part the men following a glaring infringement by Doyle, but taking no notice, they brushed him aside and battled on. “Stand back!”

he shouted several times. The only answer of the fighters was to hit the harder. Those at the ringside were shouting in protest at some of the palpable fouls, but Mr Douglas was late

in taking firm action. The crowd appeared overwhelmingly in favour of Doyle.

The fury dies out of the men’s faces. They smile and shake hands. Thev

turn and duck through the ropes, while a wave of noise—compound of boo, cheer, groan, and hiss—goes up to show the disappointment of the multitude.