Belfast, on the morning of Saturday, 20 October 1962, awoke to a fine autumn day. Within a week, four men from Liverpool, known collectively as The Beatles, would enter the British pop charts for the first time with their single ‘Love Me Do’. The world would henceforth change, and change utterly. In Rome, the Second Vatican Council was getting under way, and the Irish News, to the relief of its loyal Catholic readership, was reporting that Italian detectives were ‘carefully monitoring’ the movements of the Reverend Ian Paisley in St Peter’s Square, ‘in case he tried to disrupt proceedings’. Meanwhile, Armageddon was at hand. That very week, the world was on the verge of nuclear war, as the USA and the USSR stood at loggerheads in the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Nevertheless, life continued as normal in Belfast, as final preparations were made at the King’s Hall for the clash of the two local superpowers. From early morning, the south Belfast arena was alive with familiar sounds as the final preparations were made and the start time drew ever closer. The noises of hammers and drills were interspersed with the testing of public-address systems, while a plethora of officials of varying importance, with obligatory clipboards, ran through mandatory checks. On the previous evening, a full-scale rehearsal had taken place in the hall, with hundreds of stewards, car-parking attendants and programme sellers put through their paces.
For the first time ever, the extensive car-parking facilities at the rear of the King’s Hall would be opened for a boxing bill, as almost a thousand cars were expected. It was a sure sign that the middle classes had been captivated by the prospect of the clash. Throughout the day, business would be brisk in the bookmaking shops of Belfast. The odds, though fluctuating, leaned slightly towards a Caldwell victory. The Falls Road man had also been tipped for victory that morning by Jack Magowan in the Belfast Telegraph, which, in the spirit of the day, had published a ‘sporting special’ for its readership. In the Irish News, however, Left Lead favoured Gilroy, ‘the harder puncher’, to take the honours. The fight remained too close to call.
A mile from the King’s Hall, at Windsor Park, police were putting in place arrangements in anticipation of the arrival of fifty-eight thousand spectators for the soccer clash between Northern Ireland and England in the British Championship. Parking restrictions were imposed within a five-mile radius, and spectators were warned not to leave their transistor radios visible in their cars, as thieves were expected to be out in force. By lunchtime, the thoroughfares around the ground were thronged with spectators eager to see if their local heroes could beat England at the Belfast venue for the first time since 1927. It was, alas, not to be for Northern Ireland, led by Danny Blanchflower, as England failed to read the proverbial script and triumphed by three goals to one.
As the football match concluded, crowds were already forming at the King’s Hall, where the race for the best seats in the balcony became the number-one concern. At 6.30 PM, the doors opened and the hall began to stir with spectators, creating the beginnings of a crescendo of noise that was due to peak three hours later. Caldwell and Gilroy would not arrive at the arena until at least 9 PM; they would finish their final psychological and physical preparations in the privacy of their own local gyms. In the King’s Hall, a procession of supporting contests began, but the crowd was strangely subdued: it seemed that everyone was saving their emotions for the fight.
In his programme notes, co-promoter George Connell wrote that, ‘Frankly, it would be easier to guess the number of sweets in a jar than to estimate how many fans will watch tonight’s “classic”.’ Predicting that that number could top fifteen thousand, Connell wondered where an arena could be found which would accommodate the winner’s clash with Éder Jofre. In Jack McGowan’s programme notes, he pointed out that, since the bust-up between Caldwell and Docherty, the two had scarcely passed the time of day. These were ‘hardly satisfactory circumstances for any fighter to prepare for a title fight in’, McGowan wrote. Bill Rutherford of The People suggested that all talk of the clash being a ‘hate fight’ could be banished. It was merely a clash which had to take place between Gilroy and the apprentice plumber who had succeeded him as Irish flyweight champion in 1956. Most notably – and perhaps ironically – within the programme was an advertisement for the Belfast Artificial Teeth Hospital, where a double fracture could be fixed for as little as eight shillings.
First into the ring were Belfast veterans Sammy Cowan and Paddy Graham, in a clash that Cowan won, as Graham, who was in the twilight of his career, retired in his corner at the end of the second round. This contest was followed by two fights which saw international boxers take the honours over Belfast opponents. In the first, Boswell St Louis, the talented journeyman from Trinidad, outpointed Jim ‘Spike’ McCormack, while Ghana’s Dennis Adjei proved too fast and accurate for Peter Lavery. With less than an hour to go until the main event, Alex O’ Neill provided some comfort for the Falls Road contingent with a neat victory over Danny Lee of Glasgow. The final bout of the undercard saw Eddie Shaw, who would find fame as Barry McGuigan’s trainer, display his class as he easily disposed of Sheffield’s Neil Hawcroft.
By this time, the arena was full and the chanting had begun. Through a pungent fog generated by Gallaher’s Blues, Park Drive and Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes, countless thousands of eyes peered towards the back of the arena, trying to catch a glimpse of either Freddie Gilroy or John Caldwell. Eventually, the lights dimmed and, after a prolonged moment, a roar embraced the arena as Caldwell, the challenger, was caught in the spotlight. All around the King’s Hall, balancing precariously on top of their wooden seats, men strained to see their hero. From the balcony, a wall of sound rolled over the hall, as the occasion began to match the pre-fight hype.
Along the narrow aisle, Caldwell’s entourage made slow but steady progress through the illuminated scrum, as thousands of cheers and whistles threatened to test the foundations of the building. For his supporters, Caldwell was a hero, representing the Falls Road, coming home to prove a point – and his greatness. This was their chance to show their appreciation for the man who had taken a world title and fought so bravely against Éder Jofre earlier in the year. However, the majority in the hall were not Caldwell supporters. From them, a chorus of boos and catcalls rang out as the Glasgow-based fighter made his way towards the ring. For the neutral, Gilroy was the true Belfast boy, while Caldwell had chosen to leave his native city. Caldwell had a lot of hearts to win over.
The crescendo of noise came to a climax as Caldwell reached the ring and, after a momentary lull, the roar came back with a vengeance as he climbed through the ropes. He danced confidently towards the centre of the ring to acknowledge his adoring fans. He smiled as he went through his paces – the epitome of cheerful confidence. This was his moment, his big chance of redemption as he stood momentarily under the heat of the dazzling spotlights with his arm raised in acknowledgement. However, there was work to be done and, after such a reception, it was time for composure and contemplation. The roars dissolved slowly into a raucous chant of ‘Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!’ as Caldwell threw a combination of shadow punches and made for his corner. The advice given to him by his seconds would be lost somewhat in the din as the challenger sat waiting for Freddie Gilroy to arrive.
Within moments, the champion’s entry was greeted with a decidedly superior reception, as the spotlight fell on the Gilroy camp in the corner of the arena. Gilroy’s fans were most definitely in the majority. Again, a colossal noise engulfed the arena. The spotlight captured the Ardoyne man’s methodical progress. Gilroy was effectively on home territory. He had built up a significant following through his nine appearances at the south Belfast venue and was definitely the favourite of the neutrals in the hall. He was, after all, the British and Empire champion. Eventually, referee Andy Smyth called the two protagonists to the centre of the ring to remind them of how he wished them to interpret the Queensberry Rules. The fighters touched gloves and went back to their corners as the crowd erupted again.
The moment had arrived. Gilroy glanced briefly towards the heavens. Caldwell blessed himself. The bell sounded. Would Gilroy be able to display the stamina he needed after the weight loss he had endured? Would Caldwell’s craft see him home? A scrap would suit Gilroy: he knew that the fight had to be won before the tenth. For the purists following the challenger, a clean boxing match would suit Caldwell. The two boxers went at each other with gusto in the opening minute. It soon became clear that strategy was largely irrelevant: it was hit and hit all the way. The noise ebbed and flowed as each man tried to establish dominance. The exchanges were fierce, with no quarter given. It was three minutes of total boxing.
Gilroy showed none of the lethargy he had displayed against Libeer; Caldwell was described as a ‘restless gypsy’, trying desperately to expose Gilroy to his searching right hand and combinations. The champion, however, stood his ground, catching Caldwell with a sweet left hook to the jaw that momentarily unbalanced the challenger, sending him to the canvas briefly. When Caldwell lost his composure, the crowd rose as one, but he was made of sterner stuff and was soon back in his stride. He recovered so quickly, and tore into Gilroy with such ferocity, that it was difficult to believe that the blip had even occurred. The bell sounded and the boxers returned, through the noise, to their corners. Gilroy had shaded the round, which had exceeded all expectations. The Belfast Telegraph’s Jack Magowan described the opening three minutes as ‘the best ever’, and wrote that they had reduced the crowd to ‘a state of gibbering, uncontrolled hysteria’.
The fight became even more frantic, as courage and determination were displayed in abundance. As boxing writer Roger Anderson noted, ‘This was a clash of ring titans; a furious blood-stained epic so frighteningly intense that the King’s Hall was in danger of self-combustion.’ The two bitter former friends fought like alley cats, cheered on by a frenzied crowd trapped in an occasion where mercy had vanished. In the second and third rounds, Gilroy’s body punches began to dictate matters. With only seconds left in the third round, however, Caldwell exploded a right hand onto Gilroy’s chin, and the champion was in trouble. The bell intervened to allow Gilroy to recover.
In the sixth, however, Caldwell again connected with a vicious right to the jaw, but, by that stage, Caldwell’s strength had been sapped and Gilroy walked off the effects of the blow. It was Gilroy who was dictating the fight, throwing fierce and sustained two-handed salvos which landed with increasing accuracy on Caldwell’s frail body. Time and time again, he landed crippling blows cleanly on Caldwell’s ribs; the challenger did not flinch, but the crowd could sense that he had been hurt. Gilroy was the clear leader, but then Caldwell began to get a second wind and out-boxed the champion to even up the contest.
By the end of the seventh round, the fight was too close to call, with the tantalising prospect remaining of a further eight rounds of all-out action in store. The real drama of the fight, however, was merely moments away. Again, the two boxers began by thrashing away at each other in the middle of the ring. The fight had surpassed the description ‘classic’. It was now a battle to the bitter end. And then, from within the ring came the unmistakable, sickening, hollow sound of bone against bone. There had been a clash of heads as the boxers broke from their clinch, and Caldwell had come off worse. Much worse. From over his right eye, a trickle of blood was noted by all in the arena; it soon became a torrent. The tide had turned in favour of Gilroy. Each punch to Caldwell’s cut would reduce the ability of the challenger to continue. As the bell sounded at the end of the round, Caldwell returned to his corner in a state of panic.
Caldwell’s cut man was supposed to be the best in the business. Danny Holland had been brought over from London to deal with just such an eventuality, and he battled frantically to stop the flow of blood as the official doctor looked on anxiously. Around the arena, there was collective pessimism about Caldwell’s ability to continue. In the sixty seconds allocated him, Holland applied copious amounts of adrenalin and Vaseline to Caldwell’s eye to address what he, and most likely Caldwell, knew was a hopeless cause. Bravely, Caldwell, who needed stitches, not Vaseline, stood to face Gilroy in what was to be a do-or-die ninth round.
The bell sounded. Gilroy could sense victory; for Caldwell, the goal was damage-limitation. Gamely, the Falls Road man threw punch after punch to keep Gilroy at bay, but the champion had time on his side and waited for his chance to connect with Caldwell’s bleeding eye. Afterwards, Caldwell would say of the ninth round, ‘I was just hitting him from memory, as I could neither see nor breathe; my castle just crumbled beneath me.’ The cut had been breached again and was pumping blood onto Caldwell’s face, body and shorts – and the white canvas of the ring. It was hopeless. The bell sounded for what would be the last time.
Caldwell went back to his corner. Holland’s efforts had been in vain. As the doctor arrived at ringside, Caldwell’s corner knew that the game was up. Blood was running from Caldwell’s right eye and nose into his mouth; his eyesight was all but gone. With a wave of his hand, the referee signalled that Caldwell could not continue. The Ardoyne contingent began a mass celebration; most of Caldwell’s Falls Roads supporters stared for a moment in disbelief and then headed off into the chilly autumn night.
The ring was pandemonium as family members and supporters tried to get to their heroes. First over to Caldwell was Gilroy, who threw his arms around his friend in sympathy. It had been an unsatisfactory end to a classic fight. The two men posed for the cameras, but it was a false show of camaraderie. The fight, as well as opening up a serious cut over Caldwell’s eye, had opened up a bitter gulf between the men. A rematch was the obvious way to resolve the rivalry, and promoter Jack Solomons, at ringside, puffed contentedly on his cigar as he contemplated the prospect.
Under the spotlights, a bruised and bloodied John Caldwell was distraught, but Gilroy had retained his titles, and he was not complaining about the manner of the victory. Eventually the ring was cleared. Caldwell exited it with his mutilated head wrapped in a gory towel. The two contingents made their ways to their dressing rooms at the back of the arena. Gilroy’s room was packed full of well-wishers giving hugs and backslaps; all stood and applauded him for a full minute.
The atmosphere in Caldwell’s well-guarded dressing room was muted. The sounds of celebration and victory cheers pierced painfully through the door. Muhammad Ali once said, ‘No one knows what to say in the loser’s locker room.’ That was certainly true that night in Caldwell’s. As he sat silently amid the loneliness of defeat, accepting the further pain of stitches from a doctor – and some hollow comfort from a priest – the bitter taste of tears mingled with congealing blood to add to the finality of his defeat.
For Gilroy, it had been a good night. For Connell and Solomons, it had been an excellent night. For Caldwell, it had been a sad night. Eventually, he left the King’s Hall with his family and walked into a Belfast night as black as his despair.