With two unanimous wins under my belt, including my first TKO, I felt confident for the final. But the poor recovery after late night fights was catching up.
In The Dark Knight Rises, there is a pivotal scene when Bruce Wayne climbs out of the pit he’s trapped in. I’ve discussed it before in my post “Can you trust ChatGPT?”. He is told by an older inmate
You do not fear death. You think this makes you strong? It makes you weak.
He asks Bruce
How can you move faster than possible? Fight longer than possible? Without the most powerful impulse of the spirit – the fear of death.
and finally advices Bruce to fully commit to the climb by taking a risk and then
fear will find you again.
The idea always stuck with me. Athletes at the top speak about it often. Those who know how to work with fear can elevate their performance. Those who don’t, crumble under pressure.
So in each fight, I tried to identify what fear was active — and work with it.
- In the quarter-final, I feared my preparation wouldn’t show on the night.
- In the semi, I feared the unknown — I hadn’t seen my opponent before.
- In the final, I feared complacency, that early success might lose my edge. He was the guy I sparred my twice at Mulhuddart
I used Saturday’s recovery session to correct mistakes I’d been making — overextending and neglecting head movement. My body felt strained, especially in my elbow and wrist. That pain lingered into Monday’s training, where I arrived late and didn’t fully warm up. I needed to prioritise sleep and mobility. By Tuesday, I had a croaky voice and a tingle in my throat. I rested, hoping it would pass but it didn’t.
My throat was severely inflamed the following morning. I stayed in bed, avoided screens, and took whatever meds I had. I woke up with a flu on Thursday with congestion, chills, aches, and fatigue. I threw everything at it — ibuprofen, sprays, syrup, sinus clearing, teas, and lozenges – but progress was slow.
Resting during such a crucial period was unsettling. If I couldn’t train, I needed some control. I settled on three priorities: get better first, then fuel for Monday’s final, and finally, make weight for the following Friday’s quarter-final in Porto.
But the boredom crept in. Comfort eating became a temptation, but I looked for other outlets. Instead, I practiced sketching random things and listened to Slow Radio – a low-stimulation soundscape podcast that helped pass the time.
After a brief burst of energy Thursday evening, I considered training. I’m glad I didn’t because I was wose again on Friday morning.
A video call with the GP described it as post-viral fatigue. She advised skipping Monday’s fight and saving myself for Porto. That made sense. I’d already gained experience and confidence from the tournament.
But part of me was dead set on fighting. Skipping Monday felt like a half measure. I didn’t want to coast into Porto. I wanted to push through.
My older brother offered his perspective when I called him on Saturday. “Don’t rule out Monday yet.” He said the worst had likely passed and fighting Monday could help clear out the cobwebs before Porto. He’d been through something similar. If I was still sick Monday, cancelling was always an option. I ended the call feeling hopeful and optimistic.
I woke up sharper on Sunday. Still congested with a cough but mentally fresher. I began carb loading. I was preparing for success. I ran through another visualisation focusing on correcting those mistakes.
The nerves hit hard on Monday. I felt jittery and my heart raced with a loud, intense energy. I tried box breathing to relax but all it did was perturb what was inside. I just had to accept and sit with it.
Once I arrived at the stadium, I found space and warmed up with James, a clubmate fighting in the 80kg semi-final before me.
The headphones created a protective bubble. I felt light and snappy, like a whip.
My nose was still congested, but I blew it once and forgot about it. In pad work, my wrist flared up again. I reminded myself to focus on the task at hand, and the pain faded.
While waiting in the tunnel, I saw James — he’d won and was through to the final. Walking out to the ring, I was pleasantly surprised to see my family in the crowd: uncles, aunties, cousins, all cheering. I smiled on the inside as I walked up the steps, rolled under the ropes, and shuffled across the ring.
The referee called us to the centre. We faced off – my opponent was bigger. As we touched gloves, there was a nod acknowledging our previous two spars. Before the bell, I tapped the corner, reminding myself.
Playful. Snappy. Relentless.
The opening moments of round 1 were balanced, getting each other’s measure. I stayed on the front foot while he circled and looked to snipe with fast jab. I used my lead hand to probe, then break his rhythm with a backhand to the body or head.
Early on, he repeatedly stepped on my lead foot to break my momentum as I inched forward. But the referee caught on quickly and gave him a warning.
As the round progress, I pushed him back more consistently. His lateral movement slowed giving me clearer openings. I caught him with several shots toward the end of the round and closed strong.
In the corner, the message was simple: continue as I’m going. Keep the head movement, punch with him, and go underneath to the body.
Despite success in the first, I started round 2 hesitant. I was neither in nor out of range. He wasn’t under pressure but I was open to being attacked. He capitalised on that space, stepping in with sharp shots and pivoting out before I could counter. There were moments where I pressed him on the ropes and landed cleanly, but I wasn’t sustaining the pressure.
Midway through the round, he threw a double jab and a rear hook to the body. I blocked each shot and countered with a backhand. But in another moment, I hesitated while throwing a shot and he caught me clean with a double 1-2.
I knew I had let him back into the fight. This was a swing round. The third had to be clear and decisive.
I started round 3 with urgency – pressing him early, cutting off space. I landed a clean combination: jab head, backhand body, hook over the top, pushing him to the ropes.
As the round progressed, we traded on the inside. His shots were quick but easier to read. I slipped and rolled under his 1-2s, countering with backhands before moving inside, layering in second-phase attacks. After landing, I’d smother the exchange, then shift around to his outside allowing me to land before he had reset. I kept up that rhythm through to the end of the round.
As the bell rang, I felt confident I’d done enough, particularly in the first and third rounds. When my hand was raised by unanimous decision, I became the Dublin Novice Champion at 67kg.
As I exited the ring, I was surrounded by my clubmates and family. Of course, there were some mandatory photos taken, we couldn’t help ourselves! But it felt great to share the moment with everyone.
Back at the house, I faced the usual sleeplessness — by now, I’d accepted it.
I felt relief that I’d performed more than anything. The win was satisfying, but I reminded myself this was a stepping stone. The goal was Porto.
Three days later, I’d be flying out. Thirteen weeks of work complete. Three unanimous wins. The momentum was there.
Join me next week when I put it all on the line.