The Belfast Warrior
I can hear the crowd as I sit here in my dressing room. I always hated the MEN Arena for some reason; the acoustics or whatever it is. The noise when you get in there just deafens you, distracts your thoughts like.
My opponent tonight is a homeboy too. I've fought in Manchester twice before, among a few other places in the UK. Most of my fights though were in the States. I left Belfast when I was 17 and never looked back to tell you the truth.
"You ready champ," Gus, my trainer, says to me.
"Chump ye mean. I was never no champ Gus," I say back to him.
The old man gives me a wizened little laugh, then I Iook up at him and laugh as well. Gus has been my trainer for 20 years.
I see us both in the mirror, him tying my gloves up, and it's like we are in black and white or something.
The plaster of paris is setting around my fists inside the gloves.
There's a delay as the ref isn't happy with one of the ropes in the ring and wants it fixed up.
Then Gus tells me some TV reporter wants a quick interview. I tell Gus that's fine, let him in.
I haven't been interviewed since I got banned for five years back in 2003.
We’re on live TV.
"Is this your last fight, Adam?" he asks me.
"Aye."
"Ian Williams is being touted by many as a future world champion. He has said you are the greatest middle weight never to win a world title. How do you rate him?" he asks me.
"I've watched a few of his fights, aye, but he hasn’t fought anyone special, if ye know what I mean. I wouldn't think he'll make a world champion...but who knows, it's a funny game," I answer, not really wanting to think too much about it.
“Although you were subsequently cleared of fixing allegations after years of appeals, how has this affected your career?” he asks.
“It has finished my career…nearly. My purse for this fight is twenty per cent,” I snicker.
What I don’t tell him about is the two million I’ll get from a betting consortium for taking a dive in the third.
"You haven't had a fight in seven years; your opponent is almost half your age; and nobody gives you a chance in here tonight. What message do you have for those who are writing you off?"
"Ach, I don't have a message for them. I wish I was twenty years younger...My gold medal in Barcelona seems like a million years ago...hey, that's life... ."
Gus puts a hand on the reporter's shoulder. He gets up to go, taking my hand to shake it, thanking me.
No problem, I tell him.
I walk in front of the mirror and limber my arms up a bit, then put my hood over my head and look at Gus.
“Ten years ago you would beat this guy with one hand - the left hand.” he tells me
“And a big patch on my eye,” I say.
I can hear the announcer now. As he calls my name out boos ring around the arena.
The Irish national anthem comes on and the boos get louder.
A big smile breaks across Gus's face and I can't help laughing myself.
“Show-time!” he roars.
I get a big shock as I come out of the hall and see the crowd. It's impossible to prepare yourself for it really. I'm trying not to turn my head, but can't help looking around for a tri-color, for reassurance. I see a couple in the upper tiers, and then focus my attention on the ring, throwing my arms out to limber up.
My name is sh*t in the boxing world now. I was dead lucky to get this fight, no promoter wants to touch me.
Ireland expected me to be a world champion, a champion for them; I failed them though. I failed my younger brother too when he became an activist back home and ended up shot dead for nothing; I failed my wife and kids when I was off out of my head, not wanting to be near them; I've failed a lot of people.
Williams comes out and the crowd erupt in cheers. As he steps into the ring, I make eye contact with him and something snaps in my brain. Fu#k it, I'm going to kill him. Fuc#k the two million. Two million doesn't buy pride.
This time next year I will fight Taylor and take his title off him. Ireland will have their champion.
The announcer's mic struggles to overcome the din of the crowd:
"In the blue corner, with a record of 12 fights, 12 wins 10 by way of knockout, from Manchester, England...
Ian " The Whirlwind" Williams!!"
The crowd go mental, but I feel like my body's on fire and their screams are sort of fanning the flames. It's euphoric. My nervous system feels likes it plugged into a switchboard as I dance and shimmy round the ring to warm up. I've been playing this out in my brain for seven years, I don't care about the money now. The plan was to retire to Kerry somewhere and open a pub. At this moment in time, that idea couldn't appeal to me less.
"Introducing...In the red corner, from Belfast, Northern Ireland...with a record of 46 fights, 40 wins, 29 by way of knockout...former European middle weight champion, former European super-middle weight champion, and former number one contender of the world...Adam "The Belfast Warrior" Magill !!"
The boos ring out again but it's only throwing petrol on the fire.
The ref motions us to the centre of the ring and goes through the spiel.
."Clean fight boys..no butting, no elbows," he looks at me as he says this.
"Touch gloves"
Williams holds out both gloves. I stare into his eyes, stare past them, and I don't see fear in him. I smash his hands down with my left glove and step back, waiting for the bell.
Williams’s body looks like it has been sculpted by a renaissance artist compared to mine. This doesn't bother me in the slightest though cos I know he can't knock me down in a month of Sundays. I haven't lifted a weight for this fight, just sparring and road work.
The bell goes. Williams comes straight towards me with both hands tucked under his chin, which indicates that he wants to put me to bed and have an early night.
I circle and pin him with a straight left jab, which puts him on the back foot.
"Easy lad, we've all night," I say to him.
I move around the ring for the next thirty seconds, using a bit of footwork, throwing a couple of feints to keep him from storming in like a bull. I'm taking my time, sticking my left on him and moving away. It's going to plan, I feel in control of the fight now. I hear the ring of the 10 second bell and Williams still hasn't landed a punch on me. I move forward and to his left, waiting for him to throw that big right hand of his. He takes the bait and misses me, I pivot my right foot and smash him with an overhand right. He wobbles and slips back, the ropes breaking his fall. I storm in with a left jab and hit his gloves as he blocks up. He leaves his body open to a hard right hook, and another right hook which comes all the way from my heels. He makes a groan like a winded horse. The bell rings. I hear the crowd again as I walk back to my corner, drinking in their boos.
The bell rings for the second. Williams comes out slowly this time, a bit like a dog who has been trained to walk beside its master.
I weave around and show the crowd some of the old skills, some of the shimmys and shuffles that used to fill stadiums twenty years ago. I take the fight to Williams now. It feels like there's an invincible shield in front of me, like I can't be hit. The adrenaline is surging. I move in close and feint to his right, pulling back just in time and nailing him in the head with a straight right. I back out, circling him again. Left; Left, I catch him plum with two good shots to the head. Williams comes forward, launching an assault of lefts and rights, I side step to his left and he mostly misses, just grazing my head with his last punch. He comes forward again, but I miss-time my duck and he ploughs his right hand straight into my nose. Everything is a blur and I circle away quickly, waiting for my vision to come back. I put both my hands out cos I can’t see where he is. Then I feel him on top of me and I clinch him, holding both his arms. I catch him a couple of good kidney shots too. My vision comes into focus.
"Break," the ref calls.
"Break!!"
I catch him flush on the nose with my forehead causing it to bleed, then I swing away and let go of him. His corner are screaming at the ref, but he didn’t see it. Williams stares in dumb protest at him, then comes in again, tail up, and misses with a left that I didn't know much about to be honest. I can hear him puffing. Again he comes in, like a shaken nest, but I step to him and throw a flurry of lefts and rights, mostly missing. I get on my bike and start to move around the ring. He knows I can out-box him. Springing off the ropes I vault into the middle of the ring, then quickly shuffle to his left, anticipating a wild swing, which comes, leaving him open. Left... he opens up, dropping his hands. I land a torpedo right which sends him skittering across the length of the ring on his ***. The stadium goes silent. There's something God-like about silencing 20,000 Brits, let me tell you.
"4...5...6", he gets up on 6 and the bell rings.
I sit in my corner and notice my nose is broken, spitting what feels like gallons of blood as it runs from my nose to the back of my throat. Gus doesn't know about the two million.
"You WILL be world champion Mags” (he calls me Mags sometimes).
“Shud a been twenty years ago son, but there's no time like now. You finish this off now and you get your shot son", he says, while attending to my nose.
"Water". I open my mouth and my corner man gives me water. I hold it in my mouth. The bell rings.
"Seconds out...Round 3".
"You got THIS", Gus grabs my face and smiles into my eyes.
I move out cautiously and to the left side of Williams, blocking the refs view. I spit my water down between his feet and charge in with a right hand. Williams slips on the puddle and I drill him down on the canvass with the charging right. He sits up and shakes his head, getting up on 7. I go to him again and the two of us stand toe to toe reigning blows on each other. Still a bit of fight in him yet. I retreat my steps, coming out the worst of the exchange.
"Maintain...Maintain...stick and move", Gus roars.
My feet feel heavy and I can’t get out of his way as he lands another solid left jab on my nose; which is pissing blood now, but I don’t feel it because my whole face is numb. He backs me in the corner and goes to work with a frenzy of head and body shots. I block most of them though and manage to squeeze out of the corner. He bursts forward again with a solid left followed by a slamming right to my head, making me stagger backwards. The crowd get to their feet. My vision is jarred and I can only put my hands up to block his shots.
I back against the ropes unable to move as he assails me relentlessly for about ten seconds, pounding me with body blows and paralyzing hooks to the side of the head. The ref comes right up beside us. I put my guard down and go for it before he drops me.
Williams throws a slow right, I duck and follow up with a stiff uppercut to his nose, which bursts and sprays everywhere, leaving him stunned. I can hear his low groaning, like the wilder-beast makes as the crocodile drags him from the steep bank and back into the water. I want him to die before his body hits the canvass. I whip him back across the ring and tail him into the corner to stop him falling down…then I cut loose with a combination of punches to the head, feeling the plaster of paris inside the gloves rip my knuckles to shreds… He drops on the canvass knees first, like a felled tree.
I’m shot, and am barely on my legs.
“3...4...5...6...7,” unbelievably, he starts to get to his feet.
“8...9,” he’s up.
He comes forward and I miss him with a heavy right hook, he lands a huge uppercut on my chin, all the way from his waist, and I feel my neck vertebrae crack. I fall back and hit the canvass hard.
"2...3...4...5..." I get to my knees and the ref puts his hands out to me. I reach for his hands but fall back.
Everything is spinning. I look in the front row and see my two daughters on their feet cheering,
"Get up Dad!"...
Angela, my wife, is there too, so is my brother Michael.
"Come on Adam", he says.
""6...7...8...9", I put my hand on the lower rope and the place stops spinning, but I’ve more sense than morals so I stay down. My family isn’t there anymore…`
"It's over", the ref is standing over me, crossing his arms wildly.
"I know", I tell him.
