A CATHOLIC priest in the Bronx invited the district Rabbi to an amateur boxing night in the Parish Hall. Before each fight, the priest quietly said a prayer for the local boy.
After the second bout, the Rabbi posed an interesting theological question: "I see father that you pray for success before each fight. Do you believe it helps your boys?"
The priest reflected for a moment and answered: "Well it does if they can fi
ght."
When Paul McCloskey fights for the European light-welterweight title next Friday night, the clergy's prayers will not be wasted!
Paul has lived an unusual and lonely life. There has been no glamour, just years of grind peppered with the odd big night. He doesn't have an entourage. Instead, he has his wife Julie and two sons.
He doesn't talk about himself in the third person, respecting the unwritten rule in our society that there are only three people who are permitted to do so: The heavyweight champion, "Mr T" from 'The A team' and Hugo Duncan!
I met Hugo once at a wake and asked him how he was. "Hugo Duncan," he said, "is absolutely flying.
"I thought you were Hugo Duncan" was my response.
"I am" he said, giving me an odd look.
No, Paul McCloskey will never preface a remark by saying: "I'll tell you something about Paul McCloskey."
When he isn't working in the Spar, he is pushing his body to the limits, pounding the roads around the town at ungodly hours and beating the tar out of countless faceless sparring partners.
I went to see him in Breen's Gym before his British title defence in March against Dean Harrison from Wolves. To the best of my knowledge he has never raised his hand outside the gloves. On top of that, he is very small and light, so it is always a shock to see him unleash his violence in the ring. Standing at the ring apron watching him sparring a fortnight before that defence, myself and the fantastic Conor Mullan winced as he pummelled one opponent after another, his uppercuts and hooks baffling them, leaving them red faced and breathless.
Every now and again, corner-man Eamon Magee would shout at the hired help to "Go at him son, get f'. . .ing into him." Then Paul would crouch and sway and lean way back on the ropes as a flurry of fists came at him, flicking his head to the side just in time to let one blow pass, parrying another with a glove, ducking beneath the next. It was like watching men trying to punch flying wasps.
As soon as the assault abated, he would counter-attack, sending them reeling backwards with solid punches thrown from angles not yet invented. Twice during that session he dropped his man. Then Eamonn Magee would step in, gently take out the victim's gum shield, hold the face in both hands, look into the eyes, then say "take a break son."
When it was over, he stood and chatted with us for a while, posed for a photograph on the mobile phone, then slung on his clothes (there's no shower in Breen's) and headed for the mountain.
"He's going to murder Harrison" said Mullan as we strolled back to the Law Courts.
The following Friday night the two of us were ringside in a leisure centre in Widnes for the fight. Sky cover all his contests, and the place was full of bigwigs.
Arm Wrestling?
"Hello Jim," I waved (Jim Watt). "How's it going Barry?" (Barry McGuigan). Barry came over for a chat, and before he left he - and I know you may find this hard to believe but it is absolutely true - offered me an arm-wrestling contest.
"I wouldn't if were you," said his son, "He'll rip your arm out."
In that instant I had a memory of Barry as a youngster at an amateur gala boxing night in the Castle in Dungiven delivering an explosive first round knock-out. I will regret to my dying day the fact that I rejected his offer but, at least, I have the consolation of a working right arm.
There was a good Dungiven contingent in Widnes, perhaps 50 of us having made the journey. Meanwhile, Harrison had a massive crowd of squaddies and working men in his corner. Everything was fine to start with, but when the main event was announced, the mood changed.
It was the week of Masserene and the 400 large men from Wolves chanted in unison "You murdering Irish b...ards," drowning out every other sound. One of our group had a tricolour, which disappeared up his shirt like a beetle under a stone.
When Paul poleaxed 'Deano' halfway through the first round with a magnificent straight left as he semi circled around him, leaving him on the flat of his back, we held our emotions in check. Thankfully, Paul had the sense to raise the challenger's arm aloft and applaud him from the ring, which is probably what saved us from a fate worse than Barry McGuigan's arm-wrestle.
He won that British title against the excellent Colin Lynes, himself a previous European champion, having taken the fight at three days notice after the original challenger withdrew. By the end of the ninth, Lynes was totally befuddled and quit on his tool, telling his corner "I can't hit him. I can't see his punches coming."
Next Friday, he fights for the European title. Amazingly, the fight is in Magherafelt, until now a town famous only for its under-16 teams and Willie McCrea! The venue is the Meadowbank Sports Arena, which I am told is the largest indoor sports arena in Europe. There is nothing like the thrill of a title fight: the queasy stomach, the crackle of electricity as the first bell rings, the dread that the next punch may be the last. Come to the fight next Friday. Feel it for yourself.
