I was three days out. Thirteen weeks of training. Three unanimous wins, one by TKO. I wanted to believe I was ready.
But the signs were there, post-fight insomnia lingered into Tuesday, April 8th. My nose was still blocked, unwelcome signs the flu was still present. I had 2kg to cut over the next 3 days which was manageable, nothing I was concerned about.
The remaining Dublin Novice Finals took place on Wednesday evening. A few of us from the club supported James and Nikolina, who won the men’s 80kg and women’s 64kg categories, respectively.
In bed that evening, pent-up emotion bubbled under the surface. I’d received many congratulations since the Novices final, but my body’s response was unsettling. It felt like I’d reached the end but the real test was only beginning. My mind wanted a break I couldn’t afford.
Midday Thursday, I started fasting and packing my bags for the evening flight. I was heading over with Melvin, he was fighting in the 63.5kg weight class. The flight was late and we didn’t get settled until after midnight. I was 1kg over before bed.
I woke up at 6:30 with 0.4kg left to go. With the help of light skipping in the sweat suit, I weighed in at 67 on the dot. Things were going smoothly. I was in control.
My fight was scheduled for the evening session around seven. This gave me time to refuel – a massive help. I loosened out with light shadow boxing at half one. I felt fluid and relaxed.
I followed with a visualisation, but something was was off. Normally, I’d feel the shift — heart rate rising, body lighting up, that sense of it’s fight night. But I felt flat. It was abrupt — like my body had just said no.
Perhaps I just needed time. I continued my routine with a short nap. But when I woke, it felt like I’d come out of a deep, heavy sleep — my muscles slack. After showering, I ate my final snack, but my stomach was uneasy. Things didn’t feel right, and a quiet fear crept in.
But this is what I’d prepared for. Things don’t go to plan. I had to focus on the controllables. Melvin was boxing in the afternoon session, and I was doing his corner. Three of the five bouts before his ended early, which pushed his forward and I had to rush over sooner than expected. He gave a great performance and won by unanimous decision. The rush had sparked something inside me.
The afternoon session ended earlier than expected. At 5pm, I was told my fight had been pushed forward half an hour giving me 90 minutes to get back to the apartment, grab my gear, return to the venue, and warm up. It was enough time but only if everything went smoothly.
I arrived at the apartment after getting a taxi. But as I reached for my keys, my pockets were empty. My face flushed and my stomach dropped. I called back the taxi. I retraced my steps to the venue with no luck. Then a silly thought hit: did I even check my bag? I opened it up and found them inside. Confusion, relief, and embarrassment evoked a flurry of questions.
Why had I put them there? How hadn’t I remembered? How had I let a simple moment spiral?
But there was no time for questions. By the time I returned to the venue, it was past six. I arrived flustered, angry, and frustrated. I practiced controlling my breath but it was futile. I was struggling to calm myself.
In my warm-up, doubt was creeping in. I returned to my mantras. I reminded myself who I was, what I’d done, and what I was capable of. But it wasn’t encouragement. It was like whipping myself into action. I performed combinations with force, not flow. I wasn’t calm. I was desperate. This is what I’d been working toward — and if my body wasn’t responding, I’d have to drag it out of myself.
As I walked out ringside, there was one more round in the bout before mine. I was waiting in the wings, tense and anxious. I stayed on my toes to loosen out.
To my left, I noticed the guy in red kit — my opponent. He stood casually like a spectator. One foot on the platform, weight leaning on his knee. His posture was soft. He seemed present, free of thought. I found myself comparing his body language to mine. I was forcing myself to relax. He simply was.
It was time to step up to the ring. I performed my ritual and went through the usual checks. When I tapped the corner, I repeated my mantra like I was clinging to a script.
playful snappy relentless…
In the opening moments of round 1, I moved to the centre and he took the back foot with a grounded, composed Philly shell. He eased into the corner. Rather than cutting off the ring, I sensed I was walking into a trap. He was waiting for my move.
I threw feints before launching a flurry of wild punches. I overextended and fell in. He dodged everything — leaning back, crouching, and smothering. He exploded on the inside with several fast, powerful punches, starting to the body and then going to the head.
That was the pattern throughout the round. He watched and waited, maintaining a tight defence, then countered sharply once I committed. He went to the body to drop my guard then swung heavy shots to the head.
When I sidestepped his attack, I saw he was off balance. There was an opportunity to exploit those openings but my reactions were slow which gave him time to reset.
Midway through the round, I tried to keep him away with an active jab — either catching him on the way in or tying him up once he got close. But I had no bounce in my feet like I was stuck to the ground.
Despite being smaller, he was physically stronger on the inside and pushed me around with ease. At one point, I fell to the canvas as I lost balance, my body was full of tension.
In the final 30 seconds, there was a short break to fix his jersey. I remember blowing out my nose as it was still blocked up.
I committed to the back foot in round 2, using it to draw him in — then pivot and counter. For the first 90 seconds, I caught him clean many times. I was moving on pure instinct, and to my surprise, I was having success. I’d rarely fought this way before, but it looked like I could take the round.
At the two-minute mark, I saw him momentarily off balance and I jumped in too eagerly — walking straight into a clean, powerful right hook to the chin. It shook me. I tried to smother the exchange to buy time and regain composure. But I was rocked.
In the last 30 seconds, he lunged forward landing a double backhand-hook. The referee gave me my first count.
I raised my hands to show I was ready and continued. He had likely won the second round. Therefore, he fought smart. He stepped off, didn’t overcommit, and let me come to him. It was on me to chase the fight now. I’d have to win by stoppage.
In the corner, I wasn’t present. My mind had pulled away from the fight. The only instruction I held onto was: let him come forward and throw the backhand-hook.
In round 3, I tried to bait him in again. I feinted, trying to draw a reaction — but he didn’t bite. My movement was slow and heavy. I was running out of options.
I couldn’t fight him on the front foot — his defence was tight and his counters were dangerous. Inside, he was stronger and smarter, attacking the body and head in combination. On the back foot, he closed distance quickly and my reactions weren’t sharp enough.
I’d exhausted every approach and a terrible feeling came over me — powerlessness. I was in fight-or-flight. I had an urge to get out of there. I was doing everything I could to avoid getting hit while still trying to land anything.
One minute into the round, he landed a single clean shot. It didn’t seem big, but the ref gave me a second count. I returned to the fight, still trying to make something happen.
Thirty seconds later, he caught me again. The ref stepped in for a third count. After counting to eight, she looked at me and struck the air to call the fight. I stood there in disbelief.
I walked to the corner, took off my headgear and gloves, and returned to centre ring. His hand was raised. Just like that, my shot at the Porto Box Cup was over.
When I exited the ring, the moment came as a shock. I felt numb like the air had been sucked out of the room. I went out and cooled down, not really knowing what to say or do. There was an internal dam holding all feeling back. But that wouldn’t last for long.
Next week, I’ll walk through the sobering come down after the loss and share the experience of facing failure.