McGOORTY, THE FIGHTING FOOL

Hawera Star, Volume LIV, 9 March 1935, Page 13

McGOORTY, THE FIGHTING FOOL

JpADED thougTi tlie passing years have left it, this old photograph that lies at my side has captured and held a moment from, the past that I had long forgotten. Prom it two familiar faces stare out at me—-the one, broadly grinning, is my own, and. the other, square and grim and unsmiling, as, indeed, it ever was, is that of Eddie McGoorty, who became a Fighting Fool. Now, as I take it up, I remember how he and X we re taken together in the parlour of the Bull and Bush at Hampstead, where he was training soon after his arrival from -America. This was in the days before McGoorty became known as an irresponsible type—in the days when, young and strong, and perfectly developed, he was looked upon as the coming middleweight champion of the world. Yes, Eddie McGoorty, at the time of this picture, had his feet firmly planted "on the ladder of fame. It seemed, indeed, that nothing could stop him climbing to the top; that nowhere was there a man to stand in his way. But search the scroll of bygone champions to-day and you will not find his name.

connected there was usually no need for the Teferee to begin counting. McGoorty’s first real test in England was in 1911, w r hen he was matched with that happy-go-lucky Irish scrapper, Pat O’Keefe, at the National Sporting Club. Two weeks previously, at Liverpool, the big, saiidy-naired American' boy had

knocked Harry Croxon clean out of the ring with a smashing left hook, and everyone, knowing Pat’s weakness for a slam, was anticipating a gory battle.

They were wrong. McGoorty used his left hand like a Tapier instead of a hammer. And for fifteen rounds, in which he did not make a single error, he gave the fighting Irishman the boxing lesson of his life. It was the first indication given in England of his real form, and when it was over everyone was tipping Eddie as the future world champion. Certainly he looked it, every inch. I can picture him now, wrapped in that startlingly magnificent dressinggown, sitting coolly in his corner waiting for O’Keefe to enter the ring. Eor some reason or another—perhaps to accustom himself to the atmosphere of an arena in which he had never fought before —McGoorty left his dress-ing-room unduly early. He was alone in the ring for nearly half an hour before thfe Irishman appeared. It was an experience that would have rattled many a boxer, but it left Eddie completely calm and unmoved. He leaned back with his big arms flung carelessly back along the ropes, chatting easily to Pat Callahan, his uncle and manager. When the gong sounded at last he came out of his corner without the least trace of concern

For McGoorty, despite all his brilliant promise, despite the great things that were so confidently expected of him, did not make the grade. Think of it! Here was a youngster moulded on the lines of a Greek statue. He possessed not only the physique, but the skill, to become a world beater. He was a scrapper whose left-hand punching was something to marvel at, whose speed and wizardry placed him among the greatest of them all—yet he failed! AMONG THE BING TRAGEDIES That failure I count among the tragedies' of the ring. Nevertheless, I give him a place among the Kings of the Bing—a King, if you like, without a crown. Eddie met the most dangerous opponent of his career when he took his first drink—an opponent that had him licked from the first gong. It was the high life, the wild and rackety life he led, that ruined him, sapped his splendid strength and clouded his once active brain. McGoorty, at one time, used to celebrate his successes by becoming hopelessly and helplessly convivial, until as a natural consequence, defeats took the place of victories in his record, and he became nothing but a might-have-been, satisfied with the losing end of a purse. Hard fighting and hard drinking do not mix, and that was Eddie’s trouble —he tried to do both.

O’Keefe, of -course, as was Ms custom, went after his man without hesitation. As long as Pat could get in close enough to send his fists thudding against the other fellow’s ribs he did not object to taking a little of the same medicine in return.

That was the style of fighting that ho relished and thrived u,pon; but against McGoorty it would not work. Always when he rushed in the American’s left was there, just a split second too fast for- him, flicking his head back and stopping him dead. Eddie’s right glove might have been fastened behind his broad back for all the use he made of it in those opening rounds. He was all left hand, left lead and left hook, and a perfect armour it proved.. ALWAYS TRYING HARD. O’Keeffe was after him all the time. He was always trying, and trying hard; but even when he did manage to slip past that deadly . left he found the American effectively covered. For a long time Eddie was content to score points with light, flicking lefts to the Irishman’s face. But later he began to warm up and hammer the same glove, hard to Pat’s stomach wdth a speed and accuracy tnat left him gasping. Each time that O’Keeffe endeavoured to fight back Eddie slipped out and took cover behind his impenetrable defence.

He was only a boy when he made his first trip to Europe, but lie had already a long and impressive unbeaten Tecord to his name.

Eddie had' learned his boxing in a college gymnasium, where he acquired a style that was a sheer joy to watch. It proved so effective, indeed, that, at the age of fifteen, after fighting three men in one evening, he found himself Wisconsin State champion.

Less than a year later he began fighting professionally, and put to sleep his first two opponents, seasoned campaigners, both inside four rounds.

As a scrap, one-sided though it was, it was full of interest because of McGoorty’s flawless tactics and his upcanny skill. Almost, it seemed, he could do as he pushed with O’Keeffe; and yet this same O’Keeffe had won his spurs as one of the toughest battlers in Europe, and was soon to become champion of England. ,

McGoorty had won something like 50 fights right off the reel when he wbnt to Dublin and m.et with his first reverse, being outpointed over twenty rounds by Tom Lancaster.

It was a decision which was very much disputed. But the fight proved beyond all doubt that Eddie McGoorty was something more than the mere slogger his k.o. suggested. American though he was, he did not fight according to the American plan. There was nothing of the whirlwind, two-fisted, punch-swapping in-fighter about him. .

McGoorty whs winning every round by a mile, and with only half the distance covered O’Keeffe’s bolt was shot.

With a monotonous regularity Eddie’s left kept jerking his head back, and by the eleventh his face, with a gashed cheek and one eye rapidly closing, presented a sorry sight. But still McGoorty did not produce his famous “Electric Left,” that swift and terrible hook which had put so many of his opponents down and out. He was content to take things easily and win by so wide a margin of points that O’Keeffe, great sportsman that he was, went to his corner to congratulate him on his first victory in London before the verdict was announced.

He had, in fact, one of the most perfect English styles I have ever seen in the ring. His long left, straight and rigid as a bar of steel, he used like a rapier. He kept it continually poking and jabbing into his opponent’s face; and always he fought with an icy calm that nothing could upset. I have seen Eddie, in the days when he was beginning to slip, taking terrible hidings, being punched from corner to corner; yet his coolness never deserted him.

Two months later McGoorty was back in the States adding to his brilliant record, but now, on the threshold of world honours, he began to slip. Success, I suppose, went to his head) and he began stepping out.

Nor did he ever smile. Always he was grim and serious, that square fighting chin tucked into his chest, his face an expressionless mask, the deep-set eyes intent and watchful under lowered brows.

When he went t'o Australia to meet the great Les Darcy, Darcy twice knocked him out in 15 and eight rounds, and Eddie returned to America paying tribute to him as a wonder fighter. But fighting fit, I am confident that n<st even Les Darcy could have held him. HECTIC LIFE IN PARIS, Then the war and the hectic life he led in Paris finished McGoorty. He continued to fight, it is true, but he was no longer the McGoorty of old—he was now a Fighting Fool. Money meant nothing to him. He

But McGoorty was not only a boxer;' he was a fierce fighter, too, and he had the punch, the strength and the stamina to stand toe-to-toe and mix it with any man of his weight. McGOORTY’S ELECTRIC LEFT His terrible left hook —McGoorty’s Electric Left —was something to marvel at. It was one of the most devastating punches I nave seen—fast, accurate and perfectly timed —and when it

The Champion with the Frozen Face DEVELOPED A STYLE WHICH WAS A JOY ’Y'HE story of Eddie McGoorty is one of the most tragic in the annals of the ring. He possessed skill, endurance' and pluck that should have placed him amongst the greatest of them all, says James Butler. , He fought all round the world and licked some of the best. Yet, at the end of his career he had nothing to show for it. He had no crown, no title—nothing but the bitter memory of what might have been. ...

Last year, almost forgotten by the crowds he once thrilled, Eddie McGoorty, once “the man with the Electric Left, ’ ’ died, brought to an early grave by a foolish and hectic life.

spent it as fast as he made it —and most of it went on having a good time. I remember how, after the WildeLynch scrap, he ordered two dozen magnums of champagne, and threw a party in the Strangers’ Room at the National Sporting Club.

returned to him, and by that time he had no idea what the cheque was for! But 'whether hitting the high spots; or not, the American always remained grim and serious. I never remember seeing him smile, in or out of the Ting, and he had a grim sense of humour, that fitted his demeanour. |

The only time I ever experienced it was when Bettinson, Tom Dunning, of the Sportsman, and I went down- %» Maidenhead to watch him train.

After his work-out McGoorty insisted on taking us to tea at -Skindie’s. “Wait a few minutes, boys,” he said, “and I’ll get a carriage to drive us

over.” As soon as he was dressed we left the gym., and there, at the door, a funerah carriage drawn by two coalblack stallions awaited us.

: That was McGoorty’s idea of a joke; ! ( and, what is more, he insisted that we should ride to tea in this sombre equipage! Towards the end he began to soften and put on flesh, so that he was forced to step up into the heavyweight division, and one of his last fights in this country was with Joe Beckett, who then held the British title. To those who remembered the old Eddie McGoorty, tlie McGoorty who had so brilliantly outpointed Pat O’Keeffe, the sight of Beckett battering his way to victory was something of a tragedy. McGoorty at his best would have boxed rings round Beckett, for he was a greater fighter than Cnrpentier. THE PENALTY OF FOLLY. i But when he faced Beckett, MeGoorty was paying the penalty of his folly. The speed and the fire and the brilliance that haa made him invincible had gone. He was slow and dull-witted —a young man grown old before his time. Again and again he tyied'to whip in that famous left hook, but it had long lost its terror. More often than not it did nothing more dangerous than carve holes in space, and when it did connect Joe just shook that bull-dog face of his and waded in for more. Yet for all that, it took the champion 17 rounds before he could -stretch McGoorty on the canvas—down and out. Soon after this McGoorty returned to America, a back number. He had fought all Tound the world, met and licked some of the best of . them, yet he had nothing to show for . it.

He ha-d no crown, no title to boast of; nothing but the bitter, empty consolation that ne “might have been. . .” Last year, long since ' forgotten by the crowds he once thrilled, Eddie McGoorty died, brought to an early grave by the hectic life he had led. >

I look once more at that old and faded picture, the brilliant promise in the grim face and level eyes, and I sigh.

What a champion he would have made!

There was another memorable occasion when he celebrated a victory over Harry Reeve. After the fight “Peggy” Bettinson handed him his share of the purse by cheque, and some hours later Sid Smith, the former flyweight champion, found the cheque on the floor of Eddie’s dress- j ing-room. Three or four days passed before Me-, G-oorty was fit to have his property |