THE END OF FIGHTS

MICHAEL CONLAN pushed at the oxygen mask with his glove. He wanted to speak, he wanted to say he was fine.

And he was, by the way.

Conlan was strapped to a gurney, the blood from the fight still smeared across his face and body. There had been a lot of blood and guts up in the ring.

Somebody squatted down to listen, placing their ear near his lips. I think it was his father, John. I hope it was. I’m not sure if there has ever been a more important conversation between a father