BOOK EXTRACT: MY CALL TO THE RING BY DEIRDRE GOGARTY

Fascinating peek into a wonderful book

DEIRDRE Gogarty held the Women’s International Boxing Federation featherweight title from 1997-98 in a career that saw her campaign in the UK and the USA as well as her native Ireland.

Just to climb into a ring, she had to break down barriers that prevented women from even training, let alone boxing competitively.

By 1992 she was finally being allowed to train at the St Saviours amateur boxing club in Dublin. Her coach there was Pat McCormack, who had held the British professional light-welterweight champion in the 1970s.

Now Deirdre’s remarkable story is the subject of a book, My Call To The Ring, written by acclaimed author Darrelyn Saloom. In this exclusive extract Deirdre is preparing her first fight on the “underground” female boxing scene in London.

IN the evenings I cycle to the gym and picture myself as Rocky Balboa in his training sequences. I skip rope until my heart and lungs threaten to burst. I tune my shoulders and hand velocity on the speedball until the metal swivel emanates heat. Stomach muscles burn as Pat urges me to increase my usual fifty sit-ups. He then pounds my tensed abdominals with a fifteen-pound medicine ball to prepare me for body shots.

Sparring four rounds with league champions and holding my own, I discover my defense improves if I relax and gaze at an opponent’s chest and simultaneously use my peripheral vision to view an opponent’s arms and legs. The technique allows me to better react to unexpected movements or block incoming punches and jabs.

“Get worms!” Pat yells as I spar. “Gotta have worms!” (He wants me to pretend I’m full of wriggling parasites in order to bob and weave unpredictably.)

A new coach in the gym quietly observes my workouts. His name is Jimmy Halpin and he’s a retired amateur boxing star.

“You’ve lovely balance,” Halpin tells me. He’s not the first person to notice my balance, but Halpin’s sincerity confirms Pat’s decision to force me to practice nothing but footwork my first two weeks of training. And now it’s become one of my best assets, increasing my punch power and improving my much needed defensive abilities.

Halpin offers to hold the hand pads for me. I’ve only been lucky enough to work with hand pads twice: once with the Irish National Team coach, Nicholas Cruz Hernandez, and once with Pat’s brother, John. Pat never holds hand pads, not with me, not with anyone. And he never explains why.

Dancing round the ring, Halpin instructs me on every shot and suggests a corresponding follow-up shot. I’m so excited by his lesson that I can’t concentrate. I have to stop myself from grinning for fear he’ll think I’m laughing at him. Then news arrives that my match is cancelled. The boxing higher-ups refuse to allow women to fight. But my bout is quickly rescheduled for Saturday, April 11, 1992, at an undisclosed location. At last, Pat and I fly to London and take the Underground for Gayhurst where we will stay with Pat’s friend, Paddy Sower.

Our host (originally from Dublin) is a big man with dark, bushy eyebrows. Paddy is a retired professional boxing referee with a strong London accent. He takes us to his corporation flat, a high-rise block of concrete with pointed railings, and entertains us for hours. As the retired referee recalls his years in boxing, even Pat can’t get a word in to interrupt with his own stories.

* * *

The next morning we travel to Park Tavern pub in Streatham, a London suburb, for my scheduled afternoon fight. Leaving the sunshine, we descend into a small basement gym. Our underground fight is literally underground.

Fight organizers have gathered and include our friend Mike Hussey and the infamous Sue Atkins. I thank them both for the fight opportunity. Apparently, Atkins played a large role in arranging my fight with her former opponent. I’m excited to finally meet the champion, who (in my mind) has risen to legend status.

“Are you boxing today?” I ask her.

“No,” she replies. “I’m coaching Jane.”

That’s odd. Why is she coaching her adversary?

“And I’m doing an exhibition with John the referee,” she adds, pointing to a beer-bellied, middle-aged man with a thick, black moustache.

I wonder why she would waste her time with an exhibition match when she could have fought me. But I don’t say anything.

The arrangements are casual at best. Even the formality of a weigh-in is disregarded. My dressing room is in a corner next to the ring and is only separated from spectators by a partition wall on one side and a flimsy curtain on the other. I change into my custom-ordered outfit—a gold gown with matching sleeveless top and shorts, complete with white tassels. Tommy Hearns’ trademark Kronk Gym colors inspired the gold, Sugar Ray Leonard the flashy fringe. I’ve put more contemplation and effort into this outfit than anything I’ve worn before. My moment has arrived. Here I am, out in public, shadowboxing my way to the spotlight in a tassel-festooned, shiny-gold getup.

I step into the tiny homemade ring and shed every trace of self-consciousness. To intimidate my opponent, I demonstrate my speed by rolling my fists in a feverous warm-up. Johnson’s sleeveless terrycloth robe accentuates her burly arms. She is slightly shorter than me but thickset in a red-and-black outfit. Word spreads about our illegal fight, and curious pint drinkers shuffle in from the upstairs pub.

“In the red cor-na, we’ve got ‘Rocky’ Jane from Tunbridge Wells,” announces the referee in a thick Cockney accent. “Com’ on!” he declares to the small crowd, “show yer hands for ‘Roc-keee’!”

“And in the blue cor-na, we’ve got ‘Dangerous’ Deirdre from Dublin.” I’m surprised by my new nickname and the friendly applause from the English patrons.

“And two better lookin’ fighters I’ve never seen,” continues the referee. “No hittin’ below the belt by the way.”

Round one begins with a weak ding of a bell. Johnson starts fast but, just as Pat taught me, I block her jab with my right palm and counter with my own jab. Keeping my opponent on the end of my longer reach, I’m able to make slight shifts away from her dangerous right and counter with snappy one-twos. Repeatedly, I pierce the face of the shorter Johnson and enjoy the loud thud of my punches in this intimate setting. I can also hear the anxious voices of Jane Johnson’s supporters.

“Jab her, Jane!” shouts Sue Atkins. “Jab her! Body, Jane! Body!”

As Johnson tries to rally to her coach’s instruction, I fire sharp rights over her low left hand and snap her head sideways.

“Hands up, Jane!” cry Johnson’s team. “Hands up!”

I continue to penetrate my opponent’s guard when she retaliates and lands a stinging right to my cheekbone that jolts my head backwards.

“That’s a gurl!” a man shouts.

Johnson’s power rings my brain as I turn on the pressure to show I’m in control of the fight. I land a sharp right and follow with a left hook. Glassy-eyed, my opponent dips downward to search for safety. So I dig body shots into her open ribcage. She bends further, groaning and breathless. Excitement fuels my assault. I smell a stoppage.

“Hands up, Jane!” her supporters beg. “Hold her, Jane! Grab on!” they scream as I pummel her on the ropes and back her into her own corner.

“Ah ref, stop it,” a man pleads. “Stop it!”

The referee moves in as I batter my rival’s head with a combination. The bell dings and grants Johnson a reprieve. Atkins leaps in the ring, grabs my opponent, and props her onto her stool.

As Pat calmly instructs me, I watch Johnson’s three-corner crew, two men and Sue Atkins while they work in frenzy. The referee hovers nearby to observe my opponent’s condition while her team massages her limbs. Atkins then pours water over Johnson’s head and sponges her with advice.

During the second round Johnson revives. She charges towards me and fires blistering right hands into the side of my face. Her strength drives me back to the ropes. I slide sideways to escape and pump my jab to prime my right-hand weapon. My fist spears over the top of her left hand and penetrates her gloved guard. I press my opponent to the ropes and work in close with short punches and uppercuts. Johnson gasps for air as I punish her with body shots.

“C’mon on, ref, give ’er a breather,” a man begs.

To compel the referee, I explode with a torrent of punches. A right hand jerks my opponent’s head sideways and ignites a burst of sweat from her short, spiked hair. The referee steps in and peers into Johnson’s watery eyes. He quietly asks her if she wants to continue. Without hesitation she replies with a yes.

Johnson charges with a vicious attack. My energy evaporates as she drives me backwards and pegs me with powerful rights.

“Stick it out, Jane!” The crowd senses an advantage. “That’s a gurl! Go at her! That’s a gurl!”

I try to gain control of the match by sticking my jab in her face and circling. My strategy works, so I continue to jab until my opponent’s outburst of energy fades. I manage to escape the round without further damage. But I’m perplexed by my lethargy.

“Box, Deirdre. Box!” implores Paddy Sower as I begin round three.

I restrain Johnson with jabs as my body slowly recharges. My opponent manages to cut through my defense to land a few rights, but my renewed strength allows me to throw crisp, sharp combinations.

In order to neutralize Johnson’s best asset, a relentless right hand, I slip it by turning to my left and twisting back to shoot a left hook into her body. I miss with a follow-up hook to the head, but she is visibly hurt by the body shot. I then fire a straight right to the solar plexus and freeze her momentarily. Johnson drops her arms to protect her mid-section, and I’m able to connect a searing left hook to her chin and follow with a head shot that folds my opponent and prompts the referee to give her a standing eight count.

“Deirdre,” Pat shouts, while I wait in the neutral corner. “Nice and sharp. Gotta go to work.” And then he emphasizes, “Go. To. Work!”

Back to full strength I unleash left hooks and straight rights to stagger my rival backwards and pin “Rocky” Jane in her corner.

“Stop it, ref! Stop it!” the fans cry.

“That’s it, that’s it,” the referee declares and steps between us as I freeze a punch over my cowering opponent.

Ding! The anemic bell sounds.

Johnson’s coaches rush up to the ropes to console her brave effort.

“No! The bell went!” insists the timekeeper. “The bell went!”

Seconds pass before it dawns on everyone that the fight is not over.

Did the timekeeper ring the bell to save my opponent?

“Put a stool in and let her sit down,” a man yells to rally Johnson’s corner back into action.

In the fourth and final round, I go straight to work, determined to score my first stoppage. The left hook hurts her, so I hook off my jab to land combinations with ease. No amount of encouragement can help my opponent now.

As I punish Johnson into the ropes and spin her around, I resist the urge to hit her while her back is to me. She acknowledges this with a nod of battered relief as the ref steps in to turn her around. Face-to-face, I stagger her with a jolting left hook and whip her head with a four-punch combination.

“That’s it, that’s it,” the referee steps in and pushes me away. This time there is no convenient ring of the bell. The fight is over.

The referee puts his arm around me and waits for the applause to die down.

“You’re a better fighter than Barry McGuigan,” he proclaims to another round of claps and whistles.

“Listen,” the ref continues and points to Sue Atkins, “no one wants to fight this lady over ‘ere, the British Lightweight Champion.” He then turns his attention to me and asks, “Does she?”

I raise my hand to make it clear Atkins is next on my mission to beat the best.

As we pack up to leave, Sue Atkins offers me money from a collection at the door. Since we never discussed money before the fight, I refuse her offer. Fortunately, my wise coach says, “Don’t be bleedin’ stupid, Deirdre. Take the money!”

* * *

Back at the flat my coach, Paddy Sower, and I discuss my performance and my future. We agree my best opportunities reside in one place—America.

“You ever ‘ear of a Yank cauled Beau Williford?” Paddy Sower asks as he grabs a copy of Nat Fleisher’s The Ring Record Book from his collection. “Have a look in there,” he says, and hands me the book. “He was a professional fighter. But he’s a manager and trainer now.”

To my amazement, I open the hefty yellowed book right to Williford’s record.

“There ya go, that’s ’im. That’s the fella I’m talkin’ ’bout,” says Paddy. He tells me Williford revitalized the careers of English boxers, Glenn McCory and Dennis Andries, which led them both to world titles.

“Nice fella is Beau,” Paddy continues. “Write ’im a letter, Deirdre. He’ll know if there’s any fights for you in the States. Believe me, anything Beau Williford don’t know, ain’t worth knowing.”

* * *

On the train to Heathrow Airport, Pat and I rumble above London’s mossy, pigeon-ridden rooftops. Pat helps me count the collection money, and I feel like we just committed a heist. Even though I’d gladly have fought for nothing, it’s a thrill to count fight money.

“This doesn’t even cover what you spent on our flights,” Pat scolds me.

“Deirdre, you gotta understand, this is a harsh sport. You need to earn what you can while you can. Atkins did the right thing, but there’s plenty of wankers who’ll take advantage of you. Never say no to what’s rightfully yours.”