Diarmuid O'Flynn
There is one sport above all others I’d love to have had a real go at — boxing. No room to run, no place to hide, no-one to rely on but yourself.
Where hurling in a way is simulated clan warfare, boxing is single combat, the ultimate test of individual courage, character and will-to-win. I would love to have taken that test.
Growing up in Ballyhea in the 1950s and ’60s that was never an option. I gobbled up everything I could read on both the amateur and pro side of the sport, watching on television the exploits of Cassius Clay in the early hours of the morning, or following the fortunes of the Irish team in the home internationals, but that was as close as I could get to the ring.
In the years since that period I’ve grown as cynical as many others about the pro game. The blatant corruption, the proliferation of titles; I also despaired at the occasional outrageous judging decisions in amateur boxing. Never, however, did I lose my respect for those who lace up and step through those ropes.
Last Friday I was in the National Stadium in Dublin for the Irish Elite championship finals night. A ringside seat, 12 title fights, two for the women, ten for the men; four hours of boxing and at the end of it all, my admiration for these men and women had grown.
It was a full house and a typically National Stadium raucous house, loud and partisan, exactly what you want on a night like this. First to sample the atmosphere were Lynne McEnery and Oliwia Samsanov in the light flyweight division.
Beforehand I had been backstage so to speak, interviewing middleweight Darren O’Neill (Darren has already qualified for the London Olympics, was crowned champion without a blow being thrown on the night, Conor Coyle withdrawing with an injured hand — that interview will appear on the Irish Examiner this week), and down the corridor Lynne was pounding the pads — I mean pounding.
As is the case with the men, these girls can hit and that contest set the tone for the night. The decision went to Lynne, in the red corner, and that too set the tone for the night — every single decision thereafter also went to the red, so that at one stage one punter openly wondered if the blue buttons were working at all.
Not for the first time, it struck me that to fully appreciate any sporting event you have to be there. In boxing this is especially so. The camera will bring you up close, it will bring you different angles, it will keep you abreast of the scoring as it happens; it won’t bring you the taste, the feel — it can’t.
John Joe Nevin (also qualified for London) came into the ring to take on his young cousin Michael Nevin — for those of us ringside it was obvious very early that the youngster was in awe of John Joe. With good reason too, let it be said — JJ gave Michael a boxing lesson.
The real advantage of being at the stadium, however, came when big Joe Ward faced up to Kenny Egan in what was always billed as the fight of the night. Last year, when he was a mere strapping of 17, Joe ended Kenny’s long reign in the light-heavyweight division but there were those who made excuses for the vastly experienced Olympic silver medallist, that he wasn’t fully fit or fully committed. On this night, as he made his way to the ring, as he danced in the corner readying himself for the opening bell, we could see how fit Kenny was, how strong, how focused.
More particularly, however, we could see up close the power of Joe Ward. We could feel the venom in every punch, we could sense that even before the first round was over, there was going to be only one winner. This guy is a force of nature, and while Kenny Egan lost no caste in defeat, fought with honour until the final bell, this was emphatic. The king is dead, long live the king.
Fight of the night was at welterweight, between Adam Nolan from Bray and 2008 Olympian John Joe Joyce and again, you had to be there to appreciate just how tight this one was, how little love was lost as they tore into each other from first second to last, yet how much mutual respect was there at the end.
That wasn’t what made the night for me, however. It was the heavyweight bout, the penultimate fight of the night. Christy Joyce, younger brother of John Joe, was facing Tommy McCarthy from Belfast and again, those of us up close knew early that Christy was in trouble. Tommy had the hand-speed, the power, the footwork and the balance, Christy was having trouble trying to score.
He was behind after one, well behind after two, which left him with a decision to make as he headed into the final round; he could settle for survival or he could go after McCarthy. In doing so he would leave himself open but what the hell — if he was to win his first senior title he needed a knockout.
Would he have the courage to go for it? Would he hell, and hell for leather he went after Tommy. He failed, left himself open and took a real haymaker, knocked out, but it was glorious failure.
That was boxing at its purest, boxing at its best. Up against a superior force, being beaten on almost every front, Christy Joyce summoned up the courage, the character, his iron will-to-win dictated that there would no running, no hiding, and he went for it. He lost, ultimately, but ultimately also, because of the way he honoured the spirit of this sport, he proved himself a winner, all the way. The fighting Irish? Yeah, that’s us, ever and always.
Source: http://feeds.examiner.ie/~r/iesportsblog/~3/V-Za89QqhsU/post.aspx
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