Prologue

'It was the dream itself enchanted me.'

W.B. Yeats (from 'The Circus Animals' Desertion')

'Cus D'Amato . made me believe that I had a purpose and could live out my dream. If only he had told me to be careful what I wished for .'

Mike Tyson

IN 1885 A LARGE bronze statue was unearthed during excavations on the Quirinal Hill in Rome. An imposing, lifelike figure of a seated boxer, the discovery was dated to the second to first century BC and believed to have been from Greece. Those on the site of the dig were astounded. 'I have never felt such an extraordinary impression as the one created by the sight of this magnificent specimen of a semi-barbaric athlete, coming slowly out of the ground, as if awakening from a long repose after his gallant fights,' wrote Rodolfo Lanciani in 1888.

On close inspection, the muscular bearded figure is scarred. Some wounds appear new. Others, such as the broken nose, are older. Seated with his elbows resting on his thighs, the wraps on his hands are in full view. In real life, they would have been leather, probably with metal and wool between the thongs. Then, as now, these coverings were designed to protect the fists from damage. Deft application of red copper was used to signify the blood stains and darker alloys of bronze to create the bruised swellings.

Boxing was included in the ancient Olympic Games, 688 BC, and the combatants were professionals, not amateurs. The boxer we see in the museum in Palazzo Massimo alle Terme presents an accurate interpretation of how it was, and brings within touching distance Virgil's epic account in the Aeneid of the bout at the funeral games of Anchises. From over two thousand years before the world could read ringside scribes Gerry Callan or Budd Schulberg, the report is of the Prizefighter series in the raw.

An ox with gilded horns awaited the winner. Just one contender stepped forward. 'An immense man' named Dares, he had a fearsome reputation. He had crushed Butes ('that gigantic hulk') and was the only man to have taken on Paris, the strongest boxer in Troy. Dares was super confident. He dazzled the crowd with a bit of shadow-boxing. 'Hand over the prize,' he demanded. 'There's no one to face me.' He may possibly have said, 'I am the greatest.' But Virgil didn't record it. In the crowd a previous champion, Entellus, looked on. His friend goaded him, 'You've lost it, mate. Where's it gone?' Entellus complained of growing old and slowing down. But he took the bait. 'My pride remains strong,' he said, throwing down the gauntlets. These were solid, heavy gloves, rows of ox-hide stitched to hold lead and iron. We're told they were still 'crusted with blood and spattered brains'. No wonder Dares looked a bit worried. But Entellus agreed to both boxers being given new gloves of equal weight. Their hands taped, the boxers squared up in the centre of an outdoor ring.

There was a hint of the Clay-Liston bouts about this ancient duel. Dares, quick on his feet, danced around the older fighter, jabbing, probing, trying to find an opening. Both men landed impact punches but neither relented. And on they went. Entellus, conserving energy, used his upper-body movement to avoid his busy opponent's combinations. His plan was to finish the bout with one big punch. Lumbering and breathing heavily, he unleashed a monster right hook, which Dares ducked. The momentum carried Entellus forward and he toppled over. He hit the ground. The crowd went wild. Winded, Entellus struggled to his feet. Pride dented, he took the fight to Dares, letting rip with a series of combinations and crunching power shots. The younger fighter retreated but there was no escape. Entellus kept up his onslaught. Dares was out on his feet as the older man's fists hammered a rapid-fire tattoo on his head and body.

Eventually, the official stepped in and saved him from further damage, because Entellus was in no mood to stop. The old man was declared the winner. His vanquished opponent, semi-conscious and reeling, was helped from the scene spitting blood and bits of broken teeth. Entellus then turned his attention to his prize, a live bull. Pulling back his fist, he delivered a death blow between the animal's horns, crunching its skull and bursting its brains. Then he threw down his gloves and officially retired. In ancient Greece, as now, boxing was a serious business.

I

The core principle of a boxing bout remains the same as when the Greeks first formalized the sport. It's about hitting and trying not to get hit. Or, as journalist Hugh McIlvanney once put it, 'Boxing is a sport in which two men try and batter each other senseless. No matter how you dress it up, the basic objective in boxing is to render the opponent unconscious.'

Boxers are by definition brave. Whatever mix of emotions they may be feeling, they display enormous courage every time they step forward to fight. Even when surrounded by thousands of enthusiastic spectators, the ring is the loneliest place in the world. As Joe Louis said, 'Once that bell rings you're on your own. It's just you and the other guy.'

I was introduced to the sport years before television became commonplace in Ireland. As a small boy, I accompanied my father to the local amateur boxing gym, where he was on the coaching team. He also took me along to various tournaments. It was exciting. Around this time I also spent months in a sanatorium with chronic bronchiectasis, the dilation and destruction of the airways. Visiting uncles would regale me with accounts of the latest big fight they'd heard on the radio or seen on newsreels in the cinema. It wasn't until years later that I discovered my illness had, for a time, been life-threatening. Looking back, it's obvious that, in attempting to raise my spirits, my uncles resorted to the kind of psychology trainers like Eddie Futch used to motivate fighters. Gathered around my bed, ducking, weaving and throwing punches, they'd engage me with vivid, epic stories of real flesh-and-blood superheroes who fought against the odds. And won. Their kidology worked. I eagerly awaited the following week's instalment. Rocky Marciano sounded the most exotic. He'd defeated everyone's favourite, Joe Louis. I knew that Louis was a colossus who'd held the world on his broad shoulders. But no one could beat Marciano. Knocking people out was his speciality.

I knew I was ill. There were innumerable painful injections daily and various scary tests. The days lying in bed on a veranda in the open air, watching the clouds and listening to birds in nearby trees, were the best. When some patients disappeared suddenly, we assumed they'd been allowed go home. Nurses smiled wanly and seemed sad. I was too young to know that this was primarily a TB hospital. I hadn't heard of tuberculosis and didn't realize I was surrounded by children at death's door.

Neighbours sent relics of the saints: Don Bosco, Blessed Martin, Dominic Savio. I sensed these guys were on my side but, always triumphant, St Marciano was the one I thought about most. Because of him, I had something to aim for. I desperately wanted to get home to my friends and revisit the gym - the crackling excitement of the young boxers in training, skipping ropes beating mesmeric rhythms on the wooden floor, the staccato snap of the speed bags, the thud of gloved fists sinking into the heavy bags and the acrid air heavy with the pungent aroma of wintergreen and liniment.

Though bedridden, I was already there, training with the big boys. In my innocence I convinced myself that I might even become a champion one day. If not of the world, then maybe of my school. Or even my street. But most of all I just wanted to be allowed out of my iron bed. Much deeper down was a profound wish that somehow or other I'd get to star in the ring at the National Boxing Stadium in Dublin. Childish dreams. As Lucinda Williams sings, 'If wishes were horses, I'd have a ranch.'

And so, on those dark terrifying nights, as I lay sweating, struggling for breath, retching and spewing mucus into an enamelled basin and hearing my fragile chest wheezing like a battered old accordion, I wasn't alone. I was part of the great boxing universe. A tiny pinprick of light circling the heavens, orbiting an endless celestial ring in the company of glowing and fiery stellar giants. In my imagination, I was a southpaw, jabbing, hooking, keeping my guard up, boxing shadows. Yes. I was going to come out fighting. That's what we boxers, big and small, did. One more round. One more chance. Please.

II

With six boxers representing Ireland in the Melbourne Olympics in 1956, we followed the team's progress with interest. Four of them won medals. While Fred Tiedt, John Caldwell and Freddie Gilroy became legends, Tony Byrne was the most celebrated in our house. Known as 'Socks', he had carried the Irish flag at the opening ceremony. On our way to the seaside we would detour to drive past his house in Drogheda. Such is the fate of local heroes.

The following year, disaster struck. My mother died young. Grief-stricken and confused, I became somewhat wayward and, though still in short pants, fell in with a bunch of older delinquents. With the wildness of rock 'n' roll and the reckless abandon of the Teddy Boy ethos now taking precedence, concerned relations staged an intervention and I was packed off to boarding school, a uniquely alien environment. In St Finian's College, the diocesan school for Meath, contact with the outside world was forbidden. Newspapers, radio and TV were banned but, like a POW planning an escape, I listened through static on a...