IN THE NARROW backstage corridors of Belfast’s SSE Arena late on Friday night, media members and boxing figures gather to blow raspberries and exchange raised eyebrows.
The overwhelming consensus is that Michael Conlan did enough to win a 10-round stinker with unbeaten Irish-American visitor Kevin Walsh, whose contentious split-decision victory had left a vacuum of noise in the main arena and sucked the life out of Conlan’s last pursuit of a world title.
No stranger to these very halls, Belfast boxing great Carl Frampton, his name mounted on the Wall of Fame of Odyssey performers just metres away, says he scored it 96-94 to Conlan, or six rounds to four.
Conlan’s promoter, Kalle Sauerland, meanwhile, dishes out an Oscar-worthy performance to a BBC camera, claiming he’s “embarrassed for the sport” and insisting that Conlan won every round from the third onwards. The eccentric Anglo-German threatens to explore legal action if the supervising sanctioning body on the night, the WBC, don’t take his impending formal appeal seriously.
Sauerland’s apparent fury feels incongruous with the reality of what was a close fight, but he’s just doing his job: he is yet to convene with Conlan to gauge the post-fight temperature, and so he’s on the attack to preemptively support any kind of campaign for justice that his boxer might later launch should he choose to speak with the media.
Kevin Walsh celebrates his narrow upset victory over Conlan. Laszlo Geczo / INPHO
Laszlo Geczo / INPHO / INPHO
Indeed, Conlan hasn’t been spotted for 50-odd minutes, since he left the ring. Having congratulated the victorious Walsh, he had declined a post-fight interview with broadcaster DAZN and gotten out of Dodge, offering a couple of waves to the supporters who stayed back to console him as he bounded backstage.
He’s not in his dressing room, outside which journalists and video reporters converse about his future. Conlan is instead tucked away in a smaller medical room around the corner, receiving stitches to a gash which has bisected his forehead since a clash of heads early in the fight.
Injury will often compound insult when the adrenaline wears off. And yet, in this instance, it has afforded Conlan nearly an hour of relative peace; a chance to articulate to himself what he had felt instinctively as his 10 rounds with Walsh ticked away almost without incident.
His boxing career is over.
***
Michael Conlan spends the afternoon in his room at the Europa Hotel in Belfast City Centre. Having made weight a day earlier, he carb-loads with rice- and pasta-rich dishes, willing away the hours until he departs for his 24th professional fight.
Stowed away from his family and rid of all external stimuli, Conlan must create distractions of his own. Having watched the original at home last week, The Godfather Part II — its runtime is three hours and 20 minutes — is just what the doctor ordered. (That the film ends with a similarly named protagonist ruminating over his own ultimate isolation might be considered sub-optimal for a boxer trying to avoid overthinking, but senior members of Conlan’s crew drop in throughout the day to provide both company and levity).
The Falls Road featherweight then takes a power nap, which signals dinner time for the three generations of Yorkshiremen that anchor his team: there is firstly Conlan’s lead trainer, Grant Smith; there is Grant’s world-champion son, Dalton Smith, who is a close confidante and training partner of Conlan’s; and last but not least, there is Brian Smith, the grandad whose human touch and dry wit are a key part of the package at the Steel City Gym in Sheffield, from which Conlan relaunched his career a year ago.
The Smiths turn the corner for “th’chippeh”, or John Long’s chip shop, on nearby Athol Street. It comes highly recommended: it’s run by two of Conlan’s aunts on his mother’s side.
The Sheffield lads’ efforts to fuel up for the night ahead initially prove futile. So teeming with patrons is John Long’s that they’re turning people away at the door.
Initially reluctant to play this particular card, head trainer Grant Smith, who is wearing a Conlan-branded tracksuit like his father and son, politely informs a member of staff that he’s Michael’s coach. This revelation sends shockwaves through the establishment. Nobody in the queue protests as the Smiths are subsequently given the red-carpet treatment. They are informed from behind the counter that their money is no good in John Long’s. Tribal elder Brian, however, hands over a metric cube of cash and insists that it be shared evenly among those working this busy Friday shift.
Michael Conlan (file photo). David Cavan
David Cavan
Conlan emerges from an elevator in the hotel lobby shortly after seven o’clock, the younger members of his entourage — mostly gymmates and an in-house media crew — rising to greet him. Senior management follows seconds later in the form of Grant and Brian Smith. Conlan, though, like any boxer a couple of hours out from showtime, is now the centre of the galaxy, the star around which every planet must orbit. From this moment onwards, if he tells somebody to jump, they’ll source a helicopter if it means ensuring they reach a height to his satisfaction.
Conlan never once abuses this power but conducts his orchestra with a steady hand. A playful catch-up with all involved, as well as several well wishes from passing hotel guests, leads to a split-second lull at around quarter-past seven, at which point the boxer announces to his team: “That’s us, guys. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
Without hesitation, the bulk of his dozen-strong team filters through the exit into two hired cars outside. Conlan and Grant Smith, a self-employed kitchen-fitter turned world-champion boxing trainer, hang back for a second longer to give each other a massive hug, each of their backs echoing like bass drums as they man things up with a few slaps.
The Smiths have become like family to Conlan and vice versa, and so these gestures of affection between them are routine. That Conlan and Grant will travel together in the same car in a matter of seconds is immaterial: the hours-long build-up to a prizefight is tense and delicate, fraught with psychological nuance. A hug, then, is the perfect antidote.
Trainer Grant Smith (bottom). Alamy Stock Photo
Alamy Stock Photo
As their driver pulls clear of the Europa, Conlan leans across the backseat to his trainer. “Did you bring the speakers!?”
“Did I bring the speakers? C’mon…” Smith replies, feigning offence at the very notion that he would have forgotten to pack something so important to his boxer.
He proceeds to recall a cartoon from his childhood in the ’80s, Sport Billy, in which the titular character has a magic gearbag from which he can pull any item as he needs it. “I have a little bag that I call me Sport Billy Bag”, Grant laughs, “and your speakers are in there”.
Talk of speakers steers Conlan towards a tale from the early chapters of his professional career, when it was his day to choose the playlist in Manny Robles’ gym in California. Conlan’s stint as DJ had gone down a treat among his fellow boxers before Come Out Ye Black & Tans began to reverberate around the premises. He thought little of it until it dawned on him that he was surrounded by black and Mexican peers, the English speakers among whom were suddenly taking an interest in Dominic Behan’s lyrics.
“I’m there going, ‘Lads, I’m not a racist!’” laughs Conlan, his trainer in conniptions two seats over. “‘It’s about British rule in Ireland; it’s not about you, honestly!’”
A couple of DAZN cameramen shadow the car as it turns into the artist’s entrance at the SSE Arena, their handhelds trailing Conlan as he steps out from the back of the eight-seater and struts into the venue.
While every smaller room along the corridor temporarily bears the name of an undercard boxer, there is a permanent sign on Conlan’s dressing room which reads ‘Main Artist’. Fit for global musical acts, the hometown headliner’s space is more of a lounge, divided into a vast living space with ample seating and a smaller bathroom and changing area. Conlan plonks his gearbag down next to an L-shaped sofa and, as though to break the ice while everybody switches gears into professional mode around him, he bursts into song.
“I’ll keeeeeep hoooldin’ onnnn!”
He immediately curtails his Mick Hucknall impression, muttering to himself something to the effect that if he could sing, he wouldn’t have had to box in the first place. It’s a touch harsh — he’s got pipes.
But the 34-year-old’s mission tonight is indeed to Hold Back the Years. Only victory over Kevin Walsh will keep alive his dream after two previous misses in world-title fights, the most recent of which was a crushing stoppage loss to IBF champion Alberto Lopez at this very venue three years ago. Indeed, Conlan’s subsequent return to the ring — back here again — proved equally ill-fated, a shock seventh-round loss to Jordan Gill appearing as though it would end his career in December 2023.
Conlan's 2023 defeat to Jordan Gill looked set to be his final fight before he launched a comeback with Grant Smith. Laszlo Geczo / INPHO
Laszlo Geczo / INPHO / INPHO
Conlan, who has more recently earned comeback victories in Brighton and at the 3Arena as part of this final roll of the dice, maintains that he should never have taken to the ring against either Lopez or Gill: his mind was, back then, besieged by family complications that will remain his own business. But whichever way you choose to contextualise those losses, this specific room in this specific venue brings with it some bad memories, a reality of which everybody around him is acutely aware.
Conlan is quietly chatting with those who have settled into the sofa when the shrill blast of a phone alarm from the opposite side of the room briefly startles everyone. Brian Smith, assuming the role of Grandpa Munster, stops it after a single ring and shouts “ROUND ONE!”, earning the first big laugh since Team Conlan arrived at the arena.
“Round one of tablets!” responds his grandson, Dalton Smith [19-0, 14KOs], who earned his first world title with a sensational fifth-round upset of 140-pound champion Subriel Matias in Brooklyn in January.
Grant Smith, meanwhile, stands on Brian’s side of the room, rooting through his Sport Billy Bag in search of the speakers.
“Dalton”, he shouts across to his son, “look what I’ve found in my bag from your fight in New York — but I can’t put it up in here!”
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In the vein of a magician pulling out scarves, Conlan’s trainer proceeds to slowly coax a huge Union Jack from the bottom of his gearbag.
The whole room is in hysterics even before Grant unfurls the flag in full and gives chase to Conlan, never quite catching him — probably wisely — but making several feigned lunges to wrap it around his Belfast boxer’s shoulders.
“Get that Butcher’s Apron away from me,” cries Conlan, skidding around the room in his socks and skitting laughing in his own right.
Conlan prepares for battle in the ring against Walsh. Laszlo Geczo / INPHO
Laszlo Geczo / INPHO / INPHO
He returns serve when the speakers eventually surface, his first song a rendition of Remember Darkie Hughes by local talent Stíofán Ó Luachráin.
Nobody on Conlan’s British-majority team bats an eyelid, but they do tap their feet. Conlan begins to circumnavigate the timber-floored space that takes up most of the room, shadow-boxing into a mirror. Wheels are up.
“Did we bring sweets?” Conlan throws it to the floor, before Grant reaches into his bag of tricks once more.
The coach produces three different packets of Haribo. Conlan’s reaction is knowingly that of a child, eyes wide and fists pumping. He first opens the Giant Strawbs. Between now and his ring-walk in two hours’ time, he will drip-feed himself six or seven singular sweets to increase his blood-sugar levels. There are energy shots, too, and a soluble electrolyte mix which is added to his bottle of water.
A British Boxing Board of Control supervisor remains in the changing room at all times. More temporary visitors throughout the evening include WBC officials, camera crews from both DAZN and promoters MF Pro, and undercard boxers who drop in to shake the hand of Conlan — a hero to many of them — and thank him for the opportunity to perform on his show.
At 8pm, opponent Kevin Walsh’s trainer, Mike Cappiello, strolls in to observe Grant Smith wrapping Conlan’s hands, as is industry standard; Dalton Smith agrees to head in the other direction to watch Cappiello do the same for his boxer afterwards. Like a rugby scrum, hand-wrapping is high art if you know what you’re watching. In this instance it takes exactly 32 minutes, throughout which there is no conversation between the opposing parties beyond their terse initial greeting.
Halfway through the process, Conlan is visited by his former gym-mate, Belfast’s former two-time bantamweight world champion Ryan Burnett. The introverted Burnett, who, in 2019, aged only 27, retired due to persistent injuries, now runs a gym in which he’s a personal trainer. That he’s these days built like a brick shithouse is enough to make Conlan laugh immediately upon his arrival. Burnett, who knows the scéal all too well, sticks around for 10 minutes or so to keep his old pal entertained.
Referee Mark Lyson then enters to deliver his pre-fight instructions. The seated Conlan, his left arm still outstretched onto the back of a separate chair while Grant Smith applies his final strokes, nods along politely, knowing full well that Lyson would equally prefer to skip such formalities.
When Lyson takes his leave, there is one hour left until ring-walk. The energy shift in the room is palpable. Less chit-chat. Fewer laughs. More noise.
Having gloved up, Conlan can no longer use his phone. He appoints Ballycastle featherweight Gerard Hughes [6-1-1] — whom he manages — as the new dressing-room DJ.
“Skip this one, Ger. Skip… Skip… Okay, leave it!”
Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones is the first tune to survive the emperor’s thumb.
Conlan, sufficiently warmed up, begins to hit the pads with trainer Grant Smith.
Ooh, a storm is threatening…
Bam, bam!
My very life today…
Bam, bam, bam!
If I don’t get some shelter…
Bam, bam!
Ooh yeah, I’m gonna fade away…
Bambambambam!
“You’re letting the punch go there, not your body!” says trainer Smith.
Bam! Bam!
“That’s better!”
Final preparations for @mickconlan11 ahead of his main event clash vs Kevin Walsh 😤
Conlan’s gym-mates and wider team are dialled in now, too, puncturing the silence between mitt and shock-absorbing foam with positive affirmations.
“Too big, too sharp, too strong,” announces Junaid Bostan [10-1-1, 8KOs]. World champion Dalton Smith reminds Conlan to “box” Walsh; there is no need to force things or chase the kind of highlight-reel knockout he pulled from the bag against Jack Bateson at the 3Arena last September.
Grant Smith echoes his son’s sentiment soon afterwards, reminding Conlan, “We’ve got to do enough, not too much.”
The intensity with which Conlan is now issuing orders to DJ Hughes, meanwhile, has risen steadily.
“Get that off! Change that!”
Finally, the wind-chime-like opening timbre to Fleetwood Mac’s Everywhere yields a “YES!”, not merely from Conlan but virtually everybody in the room.
A final pad session at around quarter-past nine sparks a round of applause.
“You’re gonna enjoy this,” trainer Grant Smith tells Conlan. “You’re way better than him — way better than him.”
A couple of team members, meanwhile, are keeping an eye on the chief support bout between Galway welterweight Kieran Molloy [13-0, 7KOs] and Dutchman Xavier Kohlen [15-3-1, 7KOs], the duration of which will determine when Conlan will make his entrance.
“It’s into the fifth…”
“It’s into the seventh…”
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Molloy impresses on his way to a 14th career victory but the fight goes the 10-round distance. After 27 years in boxing, though, a 15-minute delay before Conlan’s walk-out is water off a duck’s back.
By half-past nine, everybody in the room is on their feet, subconsciously forming a circle around their star, who shadow-boxes at speed. The Main Artist receives a 10-minute warning from broadcaster DAZN, then a two-minute warning, and then, two minutes later, a three-minute warning. The ensuing chorus of laughter, to which Conlan himself contributes, snaps the tension once more.
As DAZN’s cameras gather outside the dressing-room door, someone presses pause on the speakers. The final song to meet Conlan’s approval had been the Highstool Prophets’ This is the Life.
With seemingly seconds remaining until his ring-walk, Conlan heads for the coat rack where Dalton Smith helps him to put on his robe — maroon and green with a white trim — which has remained in the wardrobe rotation since first worn in victory over Portlaoise’s former world champion TJ Doheny almost five years ago; because nobody needs 24 robes.
The doors to Conlan’s dressing room are pushed open from the outside once more. It’s showtime.
As he turns towards the hall from which he’ll make his entrance to the ring, Conlan applies leather to the knuckles of several team members. There are no rousing war cries, just a couple of restrained ‘let’s go, Michaels’.
Conlan exits the dressing room and– “Sorry, Michael, can we just hold you there for a minute?”
The broadcaster is still not quite ready for his arrival onto centre-stage, opponent Kevin Walsh perhaps taking longer with his own entrance than had been accounted for.
Conlan awaits the go-ahead.
A minute passes. Two minutes pass. The silence becomes weird. Three minutes pass.
“We should have kept the fucking tunes on!” says somebody from the back of the Conlan convoy.
And then it’s go-time.
***
Shortly before midnight, media members migrate from the corridor outside Conlan’s dressing room to a more open space in which they can set up tripods and conduct interviews, including with the ebullient Walsh [20-0, 11KOs], who is class personified as he reflects on a potentially life-changing victory.
This part is discussed quietly, but there is a second consensus around Conlan’s split-decision defeat: even if he had been awarded the victory that he probably deserved, there is simply no longer a world title in him. There is certainly no shame in that considering his wealth of other achievements in the ring, but all evidence would suggest that somebody in his team needs to put the hand on his shoulder and tell him that to pursue a justified rematch with Walsh would serve only to prolong the inevitable.
It’s becoming increasingly likely, too, as the wee hours approach, that Conlan will not partake in any post-fight media session. There certainly would be no shame in that, either, in such galling circumstances — and that’s even before you consider the hours he has given to everyone from journalism students to national broadcasters since his first Olympics in 2012. Whatever he should decide to do or say next, he should be welcome to sleep on it.
Conlan suffered a bad gash to his forehead which required significant stitching after the fight. Laszlo Geczo / INPHO
Laszlo Geczo / INPHO / INPHO
Just as bags are being repacked for the road, however, MF Pro’s head of communications, Phil Kirkbride, approaches with an invitation to Conlan’s dressing room.
Kirkbride opens the doors to reveal not a morgue-like atmosphere but a room full of smiles. Conlan, stitched-up and bruised, appears to be otherwise fine. Members of his team have pulled up chairs to comfort him but, more pertinently, sitting to his right-hand side on the sofa are his 10-year-old daughter, Luisne, his seven-year-old son, Michael Jr, and his longtime partner, Shauna, all of whom are in decent spirits. Of course, they know something that the incoming reporters don’t: tonight was the last time they’ll ever see their dad, or their other half, risk his health in the ring.
“That’s me finished,” Conlan tells the gathered media after a few informal pleasantries.
He fields questions for 10 minutes, stressing that the controversial nature of his defeat was besides the point: his performance had informed him that, at this juncture of his career, a world title would remain beyond his reach. It was time, at last, to share in the joy of the life that he has helped to create for his family.
Daughter Luisne’s eyes light up as Conlan acknowledges that she “turns 11 next week”. The soon-to-be birthday girl tries her best but she’s unable to stave off the smile.
“I’ve missed a lot of my family’s lives… I’ve missed probably 60-75% of their lives in boxing training camps,” Conlan says. “So, it’s time to go back, time to go home.”
Conlan celebrating with his World Championship gold medal in 2015. Francis Myers / INPHO
Francis Myers / INPHO / INPHO
Michael Conlan post-fight with his partner, Shauna, his daughter, Luisne, and his son, Michael Jr. MF Pro Boxing
MF Pro Boxing
Conlan’s professional career was born of one rotten judging decision and it will end, then, on another controversial verdict. But he has chosen not to go out the way he came in, his middle fingers on this occasion remaining holstered as he tends to a blister on his left foot.
Though already a bona fide legend of Irish boxing, there will exist a line of thought outside the sport that Conlan’s nine years in the professional ranks ultimately failed to live up to the billing, at least relative to his potential. Often forgotten is that the very potential in question stemmed from an amateur career in which Conlan became Ireland’s first and only male World Championship gold medallist, won European gold and silver, claimed Olympic bronze, was scandalously denied a second Olympic medal (as has since been proven by an official investigation), and also won a Commonwealth gold.
A rower or a runner or a discus thrower boasting such a decorative collection would be considered not only an icon in their chosen field but an Irish sporting great.
Conlan’s journey through the paid ranks was hardly a disaster, either: for one thing, it paid for the the big house in which he can display all of those medals.
A decade removed from Rio, Conlan maintains that the robbery he suffered against Russia’s Vladimir Nikitin in his second Olympic quarter-final was “one of the best things ever to happen” to him.
His double-barreled salute towards the judges created international headlines. His social media following grew tenfold overnight. He signed a lucrative deal with Hall of Fame promoter Bob Arum. He debuted — and then headlined on several further occasions — in front of sold-out crowds at the Theater in Madison Square Garden. He headlined two outdoor Féile shows at Falls Park, minutes from where he grew up, and headlined on six further occasions at the SSE Arena in his home city. He thrillingly avenged his ‘defeat’ to Nikitin in the big room at MSG, he fought in Las Vegas and at Suncorp Stadium in Brisbane, and he twice challenged for versions of the world title — the first of which was universally selected as the 2022 Fight of the Year.
If Conlan’s professional career amounts to mere memories, he earned a hell of a lot of money making memories. He has afforded his two children the luxury of a headstart that 99% of boxers could only dream of bestowing upon their own.
That he couldn’t top it all off with a world title is a pity, certainly. But he’s likely to get over it.
“Listen, boxing has given me an unbelievable life,” says Conlan. “I can never begrudge it and be bitter with the situation.
“It gives you so much and it takes so much at the same time. That’s why I always say you can never love the sport: because it’ll never love you back.
“I want to walk away now with my health intact, my family good. I’ve done really well in boxing. I’ve reached some serious heights, I’ve done some serious arenas in some serious places around the world. I’ve done things a lot of fighters will never get to do and I’ve achieved an awful lot.
“And now I get to spend time with my family.
“How long they’ll be happy with that for, I don’t know!” Conlan laughs. “But I’ll be happy.”
The look on his daughter’s face would suggest that his family will be, too.
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Michael Conlan's last dance
IN THE NARROW backstage corridors of Belfast’s SSE Arena late on Friday night, media members and boxing figures gather to blow raspberries and exchange raised eyebrows.
The overwhelming consensus is that Michael Conlan did enough to win a 10-round stinker with unbeaten Irish-American visitor Kevin Walsh, whose contentious split-decision victory had left a vacuum of noise in the main arena and sucked the life out of Conlan’s last pursuit of a world title.
No stranger to these very halls, Belfast boxing great Carl Frampton, his name mounted on the Wall of Fame of Odyssey performers just metres away, says he scored it 96-94 to Conlan, or six rounds to four.
Conlan’s promoter, Kalle Sauerland, meanwhile, dishes out an Oscar-worthy performance to a BBC camera, claiming he’s “embarrassed for the sport” and insisting that Conlan won every round from the third onwards. The eccentric Anglo-German threatens to explore legal action if the supervising sanctioning body on the night, the WBC, don’t take his impending formal appeal seriously.
Sauerland’s apparent fury feels incongruous with the reality of what was a close fight, but he’s just doing his job: he is yet to convene with Conlan to gauge the post-fight temperature, and so he’s on the attack to preemptively support any kind of campaign for justice that his boxer might later launch should he choose to speak with the media.
Indeed, Conlan hasn’t been spotted for 50-odd minutes, since he left the ring. Having congratulated the victorious Walsh, he had declined a post-fight interview with broadcaster DAZN and gotten out of Dodge, offering a couple of waves to the supporters who stayed back to console him as he bounded backstage.
He’s not in his dressing room, outside which journalists and video reporters converse about his future. Conlan is instead tucked away in a smaller medical room around the corner, receiving stitches to a gash which has bisected his forehead since a clash of heads early in the fight.
Injury will often compound insult when the adrenaline wears off. And yet, in this instance, it has afforded Conlan nearly an hour of relative peace; a chance to articulate to himself what he had felt instinctively as his 10 rounds with Walsh ticked away almost without incident.
His boxing career is over.
***
Michael Conlan spends the afternoon in his room at the Europa Hotel in Belfast City Centre. Having made weight a day earlier, he carb-loads with rice- and pasta-rich dishes, willing away the hours until he departs for his 24th professional fight.
Stowed away from his family and rid of all external stimuli, Conlan must create distractions of his own. Having watched the original at home last week, The Godfather Part II — its runtime is three hours and 20 minutes — is just what the doctor ordered. (That the film ends with a similarly named protagonist ruminating over his own ultimate isolation might be considered sub-optimal for a boxer trying to avoid overthinking, but senior members of Conlan’s crew drop in throughout the day to provide both company and levity).
The Falls Road featherweight then takes a power nap, which signals dinner time for the three generations of Yorkshiremen that anchor his team: there is firstly Conlan’s lead trainer, Grant Smith; there is Grant’s world-champion son, Dalton Smith, who is a close confidante and training partner of Conlan’s; and last but not least, there is Brian Smith, the grandad whose human touch and dry wit are a key part of the package at the Steel City Gym in Sheffield, from which Conlan relaunched his career a year ago.
The Smiths turn the corner for “th’chippeh”, or John Long’s chip shop, on nearby Athol Street. It comes highly recommended: it’s run by two of Conlan’s aunts on his mother’s side.
The Sheffield lads’ efforts to fuel up for the night ahead initially prove futile. So teeming with patrons is John Long’s that they’re turning people away at the door.
Initially reluctant to play this particular card, head trainer Grant Smith, who is wearing a Conlan-branded tracksuit like his father and son, politely informs a member of staff that he’s Michael’s coach. This revelation sends shockwaves through the establishment. Nobody in the queue protests as the Smiths are subsequently given the red-carpet treatment. They are informed from behind the counter that their money is no good in John Long’s. Tribal elder Brian, however, hands over a metric cube of cash and insists that it be shared evenly among those working this busy Friday shift.
Conlan emerges from an elevator in the hotel lobby shortly after seven o’clock, the younger members of his entourage — mostly gymmates and an in-house media crew — rising to greet him. Senior management follows seconds later in the form of Grant and Brian Smith. Conlan, though, like any boxer a couple of hours out from showtime, is now the centre of the galaxy, the star around which every planet must orbit. From this moment onwards, if he tells somebody to jump, they’ll source a helicopter if it means ensuring they reach a height to his satisfaction.
Conlan never once abuses this power but conducts his orchestra with a steady hand. A playful catch-up with all involved, as well as several well wishes from passing hotel guests, leads to a split-second lull at around quarter-past seven, at which point the boxer announces to his team: “That’s us, guys. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
Without hesitation, the bulk of his dozen-strong team filters through the exit into two hired cars outside. Conlan and Grant Smith, a self-employed kitchen-fitter turned world-champion boxing trainer, hang back for a second longer to give each other a massive hug, each of their backs echoing like bass drums as they man things up with a few slaps.
The Smiths have become like family to Conlan and vice versa, and so these gestures of affection between them are routine. That Conlan and Grant will travel together in the same car in a matter of seconds is immaterial: the hours-long build-up to a prizefight is tense and delicate, fraught with psychological nuance. A hug, then, is the perfect antidote.
As their driver pulls clear of the Europa, Conlan leans across the backseat to his trainer. “Did you bring the speakers!?”
“Did I bring the speakers? C’mon…” Smith replies, feigning offence at the very notion that he would have forgotten to pack something so important to his boxer.
He proceeds to recall a cartoon from his childhood in the ’80s, Sport Billy, in which the titular character has a magic gearbag from which he can pull any item as he needs it. “I have a little bag that I call me Sport Billy Bag”, Grant laughs, “and your speakers are in there”.
Talk of speakers steers Conlan towards a tale from the early chapters of his professional career, when it was his day to choose the playlist in Manny Robles’ gym in California. Conlan’s stint as DJ had gone down a treat among his fellow boxers before Come Out Ye Black & Tans began to reverberate around the premises. He thought little of it until it dawned on him that he was surrounded by black and Mexican peers, the English speakers among whom were suddenly taking an interest in Dominic Behan’s lyrics.
“I’m there going, ‘Lads, I’m not a racist!’” laughs Conlan, his trainer in conniptions two seats over. “‘It’s about British rule in Ireland; it’s not about you, honestly!’”
A couple of DAZN cameramen shadow the car as it turns into the artist’s entrance at the SSE Arena, their handhelds trailing Conlan as he steps out from the back of the eight-seater and struts into the venue.
While every smaller room along the corridor temporarily bears the name of an undercard boxer, there is a permanent sign on Conlan’s dressing room which reads ‘Main Artist’. Fit for global musical acts, the hometown headliner’s space is more of a lounge, divided into a vast living space with ample seating and a smaller bathroom and changing area. Conlan plonks his gearbag down next to an L-shaped sofa and, as though to break the ice while everybody switches gears into professional mode around him, he bursts into song.
“I’ll keeeeeep hoooldin’ onnnn!”
He immediately curtails his Mick Hucknall impression, muttering to himself something to the effect that if he could sing, he wouldn’t have had to box in the first place. It’s a touch harsh — he’s got pipes.
But the 34-year-old’s mission tonight is indeed to Hold Back the Years. Only victory over Kevin Walsh will keep alive his dream after two previous misses in world-title fights, the most recent of which was a crushing stoppage loss to IBF champion Alberto Lopez at this very venue three years ago. Indeed, Conlan’s subsequent return to the ring — back here again — proved equally ill-fated, a shock seventh-round loss to Jordan Gill appearing as though it would end his career in December 2023.
Conlan, who has more recently earned comeback victories in Brighton and at the 3Arena as part of this final roll of the dice, maintains that he should never have taken to the ring against either Lopez or Gill: his mind was, back then, besieged by family complications that will remain his own business. But whichever way you choose to contextualise those losses, this specific room in this specific venue brings with it some bad memories, a reality of which everybody around him is acutely aware.
Conlan is quietly chatting with those who have settled into the sofa when the shrill blast of a phone alarm from the opposite side of the room briefly startles everyone. Brian Smith, assuming the role of Grandpa Munster, stops it after a single ring and shouts “ROUND ONE!”, earning the first big laugh since Team Conlan arrived at the arena.
“Round one of tablets!” responds his grandson, Dalton Smith [19-0, 14KOs], who earned his first world title with a sensational fifth-round upset of 140-pound champion Subriel Matias in Brooklyn in January.
Grant Smith, meanwhile, stands on Brian’s side of the room, rooting through his Sport Billy Bag in search of the speakers.
“Dalton”, he shouts across to his son, “look what I’ve found in my bag from your fight in New York — but I can’t put it up in here!”
In the vein of a magician pulling out scarves, Conlan’s trainer proceeds to slowly coax a huge Union Jack from the bottom of his gearbag.
The whole room is in hysterics even before Grant unfurls the flag in full and gives chase to Conlan, never quite catching him — probably wisely — but making several feigned lunges to wrap it around his Belfast boxer’s shoulders.
“Get that Butcher’s Apron away from me,” cries Conlan, skidding around the room in his socks and skitting laughing in his own right.
He returns serve when the speakers eventually surface, his first song a rendition of Remember Darkie Hughes by local talent Stíofán Ó Luachráin.
Nobody on Conlan’s British-majority team bats an eyelid, but they do tap their feet. Conlan begins to circumnavigate the timber-floored space that takes up most of the room, shadow-boxing into a mirror. Wheels are up.
“Did we bring sweets?” Conlan throws it to the floor, before Grant reaches into his bag of tricks once more.
The coach produces three different packets of Haribo. Conlan’s reaction is knowingly that of a child, eyes wide and fists pumping. He first opens the Giant Strawbs. Between now and his ring-walk in two hours’ time, he will drip-feed himself six or seven singular sweets to increase his blood-sugar levels. There are energy shots, too, and a soluble electrolyte mix which is added to his bottle of water.
A British Boxing Board of Control supervisor remains in the changing room at all times. More temporary visitors throughout the evening include WBC officials, camera crews from both DAZN and promoters MF Pro, and undercard boxers who drop in to shake the hand of Conlan — a hero to many of them — and thank him for the opportunity to perform on his show.
At 8pm, opponent Kevin Walsh’s trainer, Mike Cappiello, strolls in to observe Grant Smith wrapping Conlan’s hands, as is industry standard; Dalton Smith agrees to head in the other direction to watch Cappiello do the same for his boxer afterwards. Like a rugby scrum, hand-wrapping is high art if you know what you’re watching. In this instance it takes exactly 32 minutes, throughout which there is no conversation between the opposing parties beyond their terse initial greeting.
Halfway through the process, Conlan is visited by his former gym-mate, Belfast’s former two-time bantamweight world champion Ryan Burnett. The introverted Burnett, who, in 2019, aged only 27, retired due to persistent injuries, now runs a gym in which he’s a personal trainer. That he’s these days built like a brick shithouse is enough to make Conlan laugh immediately upon his arrival. Burnett, who knows the scéal all too well, sticks around for 10 minutes or so to keep his old pal entertained.
Referee Mark Lyson then enters to deliver his pre-fight instructions. The seated Conlan, his left arm still outstretched onto the back of a separate chair while Grant Smith applies his final strokes, nods along politely, knowing full well that Lyson would equally prefer to skip such formalities.
When Lyson takes his leave, there is one hour left until ring-walk. The energy shift in the room is palpable. Less chit-chat. Fewer laughs. More noise.
Having gloved up, Conlan can no longer use his phone. He appoints Ballycastle featherweight Gerard Hughes [6-1-1] — whom he manages — as the new dressing-room DJ.
“Skip this one, Ger. Skip… Skip… Okay, leave it!”
Gimme Shelter by the Rolling Stones is the first tune to survive the emperor’s thumb.
Conlan, sufficiently warmed up, begins to hit the pads with trainer Grant Smith.
Ooh, a storm is threatening…
Bam, bam!
My very life today…
Bam, bam, bam!
If I don’t get some shelter…
Bam, bam!
Ooh yeah, I’m gonna fade away…
Bambambambam!
“You’re letting the punch go there, not your body!” says trainer Smith.
Bam! Bam!
“That’s better!”
Conlan’s gym-mates and wider team are dialled in now, too, puncturing the silence between mitt and shock-absorbing foam with positive affirmations.
“Too big, too sharp, too strong,” announces Junaid Bostan [10-1-1, 8KOs]. World champion Dalton Smith reminds Conlan to “box” Walsh; there is no need to force things or chase the kind of highlight-reel knockout he pulled from the bag against Jack Bateson at the 3Arena last September.
Grant Smith echoes his son’s sentiment soon afterwards, reminding Conlan, “We’ve got to do enough, not too much.”
The intensity with which Conlan is now issuing orders to DJ Hughes, meanwhile, has risen steadily.
“Get that off! Change that!”
Finally, the wind-chime-like opening timbre to Fleetwood Mac’s Everywhere yields a “YES!”, not merely from Conlan but virtually everybody in the room.
A final pad session at around quarter-past nine sparks a round of applause.
“You’re gonna enjoy this,” trainer Grant Smith tells Conlan. “You’re way better than him — way better than him.”
A couple of team members, meanwhile, are keeping an eye on the chief support bout between Galway welterweight Kieran Molloy [13-0, 7KOs] and Dutchman Xavier Kohlen [15-3-1, 7KOs], the duration of which will determine when Conlan will make his entrance.
“It’s into the fifth…”
“It’s into the seventh…”
Molloy impresses on his way to a 14th career victory but the fight goes the 10-round distance. After 27 years in boxing, though, a 15-minute delay before Conlan’s walk-out is water off a duck’s back.
By half-past nine, everybody in the room is on their feet, subconsciously forming a circle around their star, who shadow-boxes at speed. The Main Artist receives a 10-minute warning from broadcaster DAZN, then a two-minute warning, and then, two minutes later, a three-minute warning. The ensuing chorus of laughter, to which Conlan himself contributes, snaps the tension once more.
As DAZN’s cameras gather outside the dressing-room door, someone presses pause on the speakers. The final song to meet Conlan’s approval had been the Highstool Prophets’ This is the Life.
With seemingly seconds remaining until his ring-walk, Conlan heads for the coat rack where Dalton Smith helps him to put on his robe — maroon and green with a white trim — which has remained in the wardrobe rotation since first worn in victory over Portlaoise’s former world champion TJ Doheny almost five years ago; because nobody needs 24 robes.
The doors to Conlan’s dressing room are pushed open from the outside once more. It’s showtime.
As he turns towards the hall from which he’ll make his entrance to the ring, Conlan applies leather to the knuckles of several team members. There are no rousing war cries, just a couple of restrained ‘let’s go, Michaels’.
Conlan exits the dressing room and– “Sorry, Michael, can we just hold you there for a minute?”
The broadcaster is still not quite ready for his arrival onto centre-stage, opponent Kevin Walsh perhaps taking longer with his own entrance than had been accounted for.
A minute passes. Two minutes pass. The silence becomes weird. Three minutes pass.
“We should have kept the fucking tunes on!” says somebody from the back of the Conlan convoy.
And then it’s go-time.
***
Shortly before midnight, media members migrate from the corridor outside Conlan’s dressing room to a more open space in which they can set up tripods and conduct interviews, including with the ebullient Walsh [20-0, 11KOs], who is class personified as he reflects on a potentially life-changing victory.
This part is discussed quietly, but there is a second consensus around Conlan’s split-decision defeat: even if he had been awarded the victory that he probably deserved, there is simply no longer a world title in him. There is certainly no shame in that considering his wealth of other achievements in the ring, but all evidence would suggest that somebody in his team needs to put the hand on his shoulder and tell him that to pursue a justified rematch with Walsh would serve only to prolong the inevitable.
It’s becoming increasingly likely, too, as the wee hours approach, that Conlan will not partake in any post-fight media session. There certainly would be no shame in that, either, in such galling circumstances — and that’s even before you consider the hours he has given to everyone from journalism students to national broadcasters since his first Olympics in 2012. Whatever he should decide to do or say next, he should be welcome to sleep on it.
Just as bags are being repacked for the road, however, MF Pro’s head of communications, Phil Kirkbride, approaches with an invitation to Conlan’s dressing room.
Kirkbride opens the doors to reveal not a morgue-like atmosphere but a room full of smiles. Conlan, stitched-up and bruised, appears to be otherwise fine. Members of his team have pulled up chairs to comfort him but, more pertinently, sitting to his right-hand side on the sofa are his 10-year-old daughter, Luisne, his seven-year-old son, Michael Jr, and his longtime partner, Shauna, all of whom are in decent spirits. Of course, they know something that the incoming reporters don’t: tonight was the last time they’ll ever see their dad, or their other half, risk his health in the ring.
“That’s me finished,” Conlan tells the gathered media after a few informal pleasantries.
He fields questions for 10 minutes, stressing that the controversial nature of his defeat was besides the point: his performance had informed him that, at this juncture of his career, a world title would remain beyond his reach. It was time, at last, to share in the joy of the life that he has helped to create for his family.
Daughter Luisne’s eyes light up as Conlan acknowledges that she “turns 11 next week”. The soon-to-be birthday girl tries her best but she’s unable to stave off the smile.
“I’ve missed a lot of my family’s lives… I’ve missed probably 60-75% of their lives in boxing training camps,” Conlan says. “So, it’s time to go back, time to go home.”
Conlan’s professional career was born of one rotten judging decision and it will end, then, on another controversial verdict. But he has chosen not to go out the way he came in, his middle fingers on this occasion remaining holstered as he tends to a blister on his left foot.
Though already a bona fide legend of Irish boxing, there will exist a line of thought outside the sport that Conlan’s nine years in the professional ranks ultimately failed to live up to the billing, at least relative to his potential. Often forgotten is that the very potential in question stemmed from an amateur career in which Conlan became Ireland’s first and only male World Championship gold medallist, won European gold and silver, claimed Olympic bronze, was scandalously denied a second Olympic medal (as has since been proven by an official investigation), and also won a Commonwealth gold.
A rower or a runner or a discus thrower boasting such a decorative collection would be considered not only an icon in their chosen field but an Irish sporting great.
Conlan’s journey through the paid ranks was hardly a disaster, either: for one thing, it paid for the the big house in which he can display all of those medals.
A decade removed from Rio, Conlan maintains that the robbery he suffered against Russia’s Vladimir Nikitin in his second Olympic quarter-final was “one of the best things ever to happen” to him.
His double-barreled salute towards the judges created international headlines. His social media following grew tenfold overnight. He signed a lucrative deal with Hall of Fame promoter Bob Arum. He debuted — and then headlined on several further occasions — in front of sold-out crowds at the Theater in Madison Square Garden. He headlined two outdoor Féile shows at Falls Park, minutes from where he grew up, and headlined on six further occasions at the SSE Arena in his home city. He thrillingly avenged his ‘defeat’ to Nikitin in the big room at MSG, he fought in Las Vegas and at Suncorp Stadium in Brisbane, and he twice challenged for versions of the world title — the first of which was universally selected as the 2022 Fight of the Year.
If Conlan’s professional career amounts to mere memories, he earned a hell of a lot of money making memories. He has afforded his two children the luxury of a headstart that 99% of boxers could only dream of bestowing upon their own.
That he couldn’t top it all off with a world title is a pity, certainly. But he’s likely to get over it.
“Listen, boxing has given me an unbelievable life,” says Conlan. “I can never begrudge it and be bitter with the situation.
“It gives you so much and it takes so much at the same time. That’s why I always say you can never love the sport: because it’ll never love you back.
“I want to walk away now with my health intact, my family good. I’ve done really well in boxing. I’ve reached some serious heights, I’ve done some serious arenas in some serious places around the world. I’ve done things a lot of fighters will never get to do and I’ve achieved an awful lot.
“And now I get to spend time with my family.
“How long they’ll be happy with that for, I don’t know!” Conlan laughs. “But I’ll be happy.”
The look on his daughter’s face would suggest that his family will be, too.
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Boxing Michael Conlan time to go home