As everyone else spun in her orbit, Katie Taylor calmly went about her business. By the end, the crowd needed oxygen to re-inflate their exhausted lungs
KATIE’S GLOVE can almost touch that gold.
So much hope residing in those small hands.
In London’s sweltering ExCel Arena, with frenzied Irish support driving her on, Katie Taylor booked her place in an Olympic final.
Dreams, she discovered, do come true. Now, she prays for that golden moment.
“Please God,” she says quietly.
Eight minutes stand between Taylor and glory and the crowning vindication of a life dedicated to the sport she loves.
But that’s not the half of it.
When she steps into the ring, the young Bray boxer will also be carrying the hopes of the Irish people. In a remarkable build-up to these games, Katie’s vision of Olympic victory was inextricably linked to the happiness index of an entire country.
It’s been a terrible summer: the economy in tatters, the European soccer championships a disaster, and the only diversion ahead is a hairshirt budget.
Enter Taylor, sportswoman supreme. Talented, modest, unaffected, lovely young wan who just happens to be one of the most brilliant boxers on the planet and by far the most successful international athlete we have.
It took a long time for her to gain recognition – boxing competitively in far-flung parts of the globe and figuring on local undercards for the novelty value. She racked up the world championship titles but trained in a shack with no shower.
Then something clicked in the national mind. Katie makes us feel good. Now, she is loved and feted for the sporting phenomenon that she is.
But there is support and then there is the mad, besotted, joyous, heroine-worship kind of support that has followed Taylor during her short Olympic odyssey.
KT and her Sunshine Band have taken London and the Olympic boxing tournament by storm, bringing with them the miracle of the clothes and the tickets: where did you get those outfits from and how did you corner so many tickets? It’s been an interesting start to the week: a robot called Curiosity touches down on Mars and a curiosity called women’s boxing lands in the Olympic games.
Thanks in big part to Katie (but also to the British boxers who managed to spark the interest of a country gorging on Olympic treats), the first-time inclusion of female boxers has been a success. Those commentators who came to sneer left converted.
Taylor has been the subject of international media fascination: her technical brilliance, success, shy charm, Irishness, and Christian ideals, all wrapped up in a ruthless approach to knocking seven bells out of her opponents, provide ideal copy.
Yesterday in the ExCel Arena at lunchtime, as the Irish hordes milled around concession stands – many settling at the nearest beer pumps – television crews filmed like they were making a David Attenborough documentary.
There was a great sense of fun and optimism about the travelling Irish hordes as they merged with the thousands in for the wrestling, table tennis and taekwondo.
Train drivers on the route went out of their way to wish them the best of luck. On our journey, the driver name-checked “the Irish gel – Katie Taylor” to cheers along the carriages.
Everyone was in sweatingly flying form.
The stands dazzled with green. Seán St Ledger and Shay Given were there.
“Really?” asked a wide-eyed Katie afterwards.
We met Bridget Barnaville and Sinead Curran from Kilkenny, who are back today for the finals. They bumped into Katie’s mum in the queue and wished her the best.
“You’re very calm,” said Bridget.
“I might look calm on the outside, but I am far from it. I’m shaking!” replied Katie’s mam.
Damien Duddy from Galway and his son Niall were having the time of their life. They’ve been to numerous events and met Boris Johnson on the train (“great fun”), but the boxing topped everything.
Six-year-old Cormac Slattery from Trim thought Katie was even better than Usain Bolt, who is his favourite, normally.
Harry Cleary (11) from Clones had a homemade banner from “the capital of boxing”. “I thought it was amazing, I’m probably going to have a really sore throat now.” Barry McGuigan, the Clones Cyclone, was there.
British prime minister David Cameron must have been delighted to see such good Anglo-Irish relations when a UK fighter was roared on by the Irish. He arrived with pro-boxer Amir Khan to see Nicola Adams win her flyweight semi-final, but stayed for the irresistible tumult of the Taylor clash.
Pat Hickey of the Olympic Council of Ireland (OCI), with John Delaney of the FAI (and OCI), sat in front of the PM. There were high fives exchanged. We don’t know if Delaney stood the British party a round of drinks.
Singing started in earnest as soon as the judges walked out. Katie’s name greeted with thunderous roars, swirling tricolours and hooting horns.
Fans hung over the rails to get their first glimpse. She walked calmly across the floor to the ring, oblivious to the tumult.
“Katie! Katie! Katie!” She flexed, adjusted her headguard, ready in her corner.
It was an easy victory, despite attempts by Tajikistan’s Mavzuna Chorieva to goad the more skilful Taylor into a brawl.
As everyone else spun in her orbit, Taylor calmly went about her business.
While all about were losing their heads, Katie stayed supremely focused.
By the end, the crowd needed oxygen to re-inflate their exhausted lungs. They had sung, chanted, clapped and stomped their woman into the final.
Peter Taylor wiped a towel across his daughter’s face. They hugged.
Just one more step to go, Da.
For today is G Day. It’s all about winning that gold.
“This is what dreams are made of really, and hopefully I can make everyone proud,” said Katie of the skipping feet and magical hands.
Our nerves are in absolute flitters. Flitters.
C’mon, Katie!
