In his early 20s, Paddy Ryan opened a bar in the Side-Cut, a rough and tumble neighbourhood in West Troy, New York, largely populated by Irish who had come to dig the Erie Canal and stayed to make their stand. Twenty-nine pubs stretched across just two blocks and with evocative saloon names like "The Tub of Blood", the area was notorious for donnybrooks that too often culminated in bodies bobbing in the water. To set the no-nonsense tone for his own establishment, Ryan hung a shingle behind the counter that simply read, "All the fighting done here, I do".
Already a legend around town for leaping into the canal as a teenager to save Judy McGraw from drowning, stories of his combat prowess invited challenges from various reprobates wanting to test their own mettle. In a pub called The Collins House one night, 12 thugs barred the entrance and demanded he take them on. “At the end of the affair, those who unlocked the door (from the outside) found 12 recumbent forms, an incredible number of smashed bottles, and a bent stove-shaker,” wrote Harold William Thompson in “Body, Boots and Britches”.
Eventually, Jim Killoran, athletic director of the nearby Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, invited Ryan to channel the aggression and to hone his fistic talents in a more formal setting. More than 140 years later, The Trojan Giant (as some preferred to call him) will be inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame at Canastota, New York in early June, part of an illustrious class that includes Bernard Hopkins, Sugar Shane Mosley, Christy Martin and Thomas Hauser. Belated recognition for his contribution to the sport in the waning days of the bareknuckle era when he was briefly heavyweight champion of the world and helped shape the future of the fight game.
The Ryans had departed Thurles when Paddy was eight years old, sailing to New York in search of a better life. He eventually found that once Killoran knocked the edges off the bar-room brawler with tutelage that wasn’t all technical.
During one of his first amateur bouts, the trainer repeatedly smacked Ryan with the leg of a chair between rounds because he was going too easy on his overmatched opponent. In his very first professional outing, he defeated the English champion Joe Goss (who taunted “You Irish son of a bitch!” throughout) for the de facto world title at Collier’s Station, West Virginia in 1880. A contest fought under London Prize Ring Rules that allowed for as much grappling as punching spawned the inevitable victory ballad.
“The referee the time did call.
But Joe could not reply
And the fight was freely given
To our bold Tipperary boy”
Not everybody was enthused by his triumph. He was stabbed by a gang on the train back north. His fortunes took another turn for the worse when a young John L Sullivan emerged from Boston as the next serious contender. The bad blood between the pair was exacerbated by the involvement of Richard Kyle Fox, the visionary Belfast-born publisher of the National Police Gazette, the most popular tabloid of the time. He wanted to use Ryan to put the mouthy upstart in his place. A decent plan except for one small problem – Sullivan was a far superior fighter.
Fox's desire to cash in in on the pair's enmity ensured their bout became the first truly modern sports event with the Gazette providing forensic coverage that included diaries from both training camps. Ryan's regime of muttonchops for breakfast and a bottle of Bass ale with his dinner perhaps didn't reek of a professional approach. Oscar Wilde, then in Philadelphia, was caught up in the excitement, declaring, "I'd go farther than New Orleans to see a good fight like that between Ryan and Sullivan is going to be." Rumours abounded that Jesse and Frank James (avid readers of the Gazette) planned to be ringside.
On a February morning in 1882, thousands of fans boarded trains in New Orleans not knowing their final destination, as the fight stayed one step ahead of the authorities. They ended up in the seaside resort of Mississippi City where enterprising locals rented out their rooftops as vantage points. In cities across America, massive crowds gathered outside newspaper and telegraph offices to hear updates from the wires following each round.
Guaranteed a purse of $2,500, Ryan wore pants emblazoned with the harp of the Fenian Brotherhood on one leg and “Excelsior”, the motto of New York state, on the other. Taller and heavier, he was still out of his depth.
“They rush at each other again and deal each other mace-like blows; their skulls resound like anvils beneath the hammer,” wrote Joe Marti, the Cuban poet, in his account of the contest. “Ryan’s jersey is crimson with gore, and he falls to his knees. The Strong Boy skips back to his corner, laughing. The roar is deafening. Ryan rises shakily. Sullivan moves in for the kill with his lips twisted in a smile.”
Ryan's corner threw in the sponge before the 10th. His reign had ended but the way in which the fight had been promoted and sold changed boxing forever. In retirement, he starred in a play called "Terry the Fox", playing a prosperous boxer who returns from America to Tipperary and gets involved in a land dispute. A quiet man long before John Wayne.
