Katie Taylor is 39 years old. At 39, most boxers are either retired, commentating, or explaining to younger fighters why roadwork used to be harder in their day. Taylor, meanwhile, is still headlining stadiums and rearranging orbital bones for a living. If that’s a “girl,” then someone needs to update the dictionary — preferably between rounds.
To be fair, McGuigan’s praise was genuine. He rightly lauded her discipline, her legacy, her transformative impact on women’s boxing. All true. Undeniable. She didn’t just win fights; she shifted the sport’s centre of gravity. Before Taylor, women’s boxing was tolerated. After Taylor, it sold out arenas.
But the “girl” refrain lands like a glove just slightly off target. Not malicious — just dated. It’s the linguistic equivalent of patting a world champion on the head while she’s holding four belts and contemplating a fifth.
Croke Park as a farewell is fitting. A cathedral of noise. A place where legends take their final bow. And when Taylor walks out — focused, devout, terrifyingly composed — she won’t look like a “girl.” She’ll look like what she is: a generational athlete closing the curtain on a career that redefined her sport.
If anything, the slip is almost charming — a reminder that even in praise, old habits die hard. But make no mistake: Katie Taylor isn’t anyone’s “girl.”
She’s Ireland’s greatest prizefighter.
I just can’t watch women boxing. I am too old and set in my ways. Of course Katie is world famous, she is one of only two female pugilists I know. Muhammad Ali’s daughter being the other. The use of the word girl reminds me of the offence caused by male Republicans if they dared refer to the girls in Armagh. Getting back to Katie, I would never knowingly or unknowingly insult her in case she boxed my ears in. The way of the coward.