Feint with the left, throw the right and you got a chance of tagging the guy

I FIRST SAW HIM AROUND EIGHT O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING standing on the corner of Loftus Road, close by the Queens Park Rangers football ground. He had dressed with some care for the occasion, black dinner suit, blue velvet bow tie and a rather dashing pair of light brown moccasins, the ensemble being completed by a large green rosette which bore the motto: "Barry McGuigan - The Clones Cyclone". By Patrick Collins

"No problems tonight," he announced, in tones which suggested that he was not a native of West London. "No problems at all. Wee feller won't be troubled."

I next saw him just before dawn in the lobby of the Holiday Inn at Marble Arch. Most of his friends had given up the struggle and slipped into sleep amid a desert of empty glasses, but he hadn't changed a scrap, apart from the acquisition of an extra rosette. "Wasn't a race," he told the sleepers. "Wasn't a bloody race. Wee man was out on his own."

The man who .had inspired such uncomplicated confiidence was blissfully unconscious, several floors above the heaving lobby. The bruises were discolouring his cheekkbone, his left elbow was throbbing where a ligament had torn and his ribs still carried memories of the ripping hooks which had rushed through his defences. Sure he had finished out on his own, but he'd done his share of suffering along the way.

ET FOR ALL THAT, THE FIGHTING IS PROBABLY THE EASIEST part. McGuigan has never found fighting difficult. Through all the amateur years and on through the measured steps of his professional apprenticeship he has simply obeyed his instincts and exploited the inborn benefit of immense strength and remarkable hand-eye coordination. Along with the natural talent, there is also a natural shrewdness. He throws more punches than any three other fighters working today, but each is thrown with malice aforethought, each a product of malevolent calculation rather than heroic ambition. Add to those assets the ability to vary his assault, reorganise his attack and think his way past problems which other fighters might approach with a looping swing and a gaping chin, and you have a man equipped to compete at the highest level. No doubt about it, for McGuigan fighting is the easiest part.

Living with the consequences of his achievements is far more difficult. Had he been born in Clapham rather than Clones, nobody would have given a thought to his religion or his politics. But circumstances have obliged him to walk the middle way, watch every action and avoid any stateement which might be taken down and used in evidence against him, while every hack with space to fill insists on calling him: "This symbol of hope in a strife-torn province."

McGuigan carries some heavy emotional luggage, yet he has coped superbly. Even so, sometimes you fear that the pressures will unhinge him. Watch him being ushered down the aisle of the King's Hall, as the spotlight picks out his frail form and the tannoy blasts the theme from Rocky and the screams from 7,000 throats clatter down from the raffters and the banners from Falls and Shankhill tell him how much pride and passion is being invested in his ability. Watch him bounce into the ring as the noise and the fervour reach intolerable levels and you wonder how a man can performmbeneath that weight of expectation. Yet perform he always has, to quite stunning effect. So why should some of us have suspected that Saturday night in a West London foottball ground might present the kind of problems which even this formidable man would struggle to solve?

For one thing it had all taken so long to arrange. Only a month before the fight, McGuigan's manager, Barney Easttwood, was heard to say: "I won't believe it's really going to happen until the bell goes and that bastard walks out of the other corner." The gentleman in question, Eusebio Pedroza, had long been regarded as one of history's finest featherrweight champions, with nineteen title defences to his name and a list of battered opponents which stretched across the globe. But, like McGuigan, he had also possessed the foreesight to equip himself with a manager whose commercial education was conducted in the cradle. .

The time will come when Eastwood will neglect to curse Senor Santiago Del Rio whenever mention is made of his name. That time is still some way off. As a breed, Belfast bookmakers are not the most submissive of men, and as the richest and most successful of them all, Eastwood has never seemed vulnerable to that accusation. And yet, in the course of long and acrimonious negotiation, he was forced into concession after concession. Del Rio knew that Eastwood's desire for the title fell only marginally short of obsession, and, armed with that knowledge, he nailed him for every penny. The talks almost collapsed when the Panamanian entrepreneur heaved a table into Barney's lap following a trifling disagreement on percentages.

"Nobody had ever done that to me before," says Barney, and well you believe him. But he had to have the fight, the .deal had to be made and eventually with Del Rio securing a purse of £900 ,000 for his fighter, the contracts were signed.

But still the hassles continued. The paymasters of Ameriican television had to be accommodated. A venue had to be agreed, a fragile and uneasy alliance with the London proomoters Mike Barrett and Mickey Duff had to be entered into and finally - and, as it happens, the easiest task of all - 26,000 tickets had to be sold.

ALL THE WHILE, McGUIGAN WAITED AND WORRIED, EACH NEW UNcertainty taking its toll. On the surface, his preparation seemed ideal, locked away in a hotel in Bangor with the ablest and most expensive sparring partners Barney could provide. He trained diligently, particularly when an engaaging featherweight from New Jersey named Gerald Hayes arrived to offer him some new perspectives on Pedroza~ "He has this habit of moving his head to the left when you throw the jab," said Hayes. "Always to the left. So you feint with the left and you throw the right and you got a chance of tagging the guy. Me, I didn't have that kind of coordination when I fought him. But you've got fast hands. We'll work at it."

Day after day they worked. "Bend the left knee, throw the right cross. Bend the left knee, throw the right cross," Hayes would demand and McGuigan would react. Then he would take himself off to mix it with a couple of Panama- ' nian sparring partners who came from the Pedroza school of heads, elbows and thumping feet. Week upon week of grinding preparation . . . and allover Ireland, all over. Britain, people were insisting that Barry wouldn't even be extended. No problem at all.

As they moved into the final fortnight, the pressures intensified and, for one desperate night, McGuigan lost heart. He called Barney in the early hours of one morning and together they tramped the hills, trying to make sense of it all. Next morning, he was back in the gym, working harder than ever. Entering the week of the fight, he was moving smoothly to a peak, then he threw a left hook at a Panaamanian partner and a searing pain tore through his elbow; a damaged ligament and the fight was in the balance.

Two physiotherapists worked on it in three daily sesssions; heat, massage and ultra-sonic treatment. Then the morning papers arrived and one of the London dailies was blasting out a back page story that McGuigan was broke, that he was borrowing against his purse, that victory was vital if he was to remain solvent.

The camp sneered at the story, but it was another unnwelcome distraction coming ,so close to the fight. Rumours began. Barry was missing training, he'd lost his appetite, he'd heard how impressive Pedroza was looking in his workkouts. Some of the critics were siding with the champion. The pressure, at last, had proved almost too much.

Barney, as ever, was the height of optimism. He'd backed his man some weeks earlier in Las Vegas, 10,000 dollars at six to four. "At those odds, it's like stealing money," he'd said. But as they arrived at the stadium, past the stragggling lines of supporters who had been decanted from ferry and jumbo jet to join forces with the London-Irish, they could sense that old weight of expectation. "Ireland's empty today," said Paddy Byrne, the little Dubliner who lends low jokes and high expertise to the McGuigan corner. "They've all come to London. Last one to leave turn the lights out."

AND SO IT SEEMED. THEY MADE A LOUD, LIVELY AND INFIInitely good-natured crowd. The London police schooled in the excessive violence of English football crowds, were beemused by the unaccustomed civility. "They can come every week, this lot," said one towering sergeant. "No trouble at all." Then he looked at the customers and thought for a moment. "Hope their geezer wins, though. I'd hate to see them turn nasty."

'Their geezer' was by now installed in his dressingroom.

There was an hour to go, and he had nothing to worry about except the violent hostility of one of the most dangerous fighters who ever lived. Even the damaged elbow had been pronounced ninety per cent effective, and Barry had deeclined Barney's offer of a cortisone jab: "Don't worry. It'll be fine."

George Frances, the former trainer of John Conteh, was taping his hands. Barney knew he was the best in the busiiness and he had hired him for the night. One hand was finished and work had just begun on the other when the dressingroom door burst open. Enter Santiago Del Rio, tosser of tables and driver of brutal bargains.

"Get the bandages off. Start again, while I'm watching you," he shouted. Barney exploded. Already that day he had raised the roof when Pedroza stepped on and off the scales before the McGuigan camp could check his weight. Now here was the man who had tormented him for so long, actually laying down conditions in Barry's dressingroom! Barney yelled, Del Rio screamed, Ray Clarke, secretary of the British Boxing Board of Control, insisted that regulaations had been observed. Del Rio would not listen. In his fury, he violently pushed Frances; a former fighter, handler of world champions and sturdy citizen. It was an unpardonnable error, as Frances quickly demonstrated. The situation was out of hand.

Trembling with tension and keyed up to face the greatest ordeal of his life, McGuigan suddenly burst into tears. The shoving and the shouting ceased immediately. Eastwood's men swallowed their pride and began to unwind the banndages. Del Rio smiled at the effect of his intervention, then left the room before the laborious process of taping could begin again.

Barney threw an arm around his fighter. "Listen," he said. "They've won every round so far. They've screwed us in the negotiations, they pulled the bastard off the scales before anyone could see he was overweight and now they've won another round in this bloody dressingroom. Right, now it's our turn. You're going out there and you're going to start winning some rounds for us."

BUT AT THE RINGSIDE, THE SEASONED BOXING REPORTERS were affecting diffidence as the atmosphere grew still more tense. One helpful technician was explaining to a group of writers how the arc lights in the canopy above the ring had been artfully supplemented by strips of neon lighting borrrowed from a London billiard hall. "What you're saying," said an erudite East Ender, "is that somewhere in this town there's half a dozen leading Paddies playing, snooker in the dark."

But the noise grew, the expectations became more striident and, as the spotlights searched and the fanfare blasted" Queens Park Rangers did its level best to live up to the stanndards set by the King's Hall. Barney and his men had done what they could to make Pedroza fee'! that he hadn't a friend in the entire city. They played "God Save The Queen", which was ritually abused by half the crowd. Then they played the Panamanian anthem, which was roundly jeered by the entire audience. And the, a stroke of gerrius, "Danny Boy", sung by Pat McGuigan, father of the challlenger.

Twenty-six thousand people had come to see a man from Clones inflict all manner of bodily harm upon a man from Panama City, yet here they were giving unanimous voice to the gentlest of.airs "But come ye back, when summmer's in the meadow. And when the valley's hushed and white with snow." It was incongruous, preposterous and quite amazingly moving. Barney had his shoulders thrown back, reaching for the crescendo with the remorseless ambiition of the chronic tenor. Barry looked as if he were going to cry again but as for Pedroza, he just stood and shrugged, totally unmoved. You felt that if he'd known the words, he'd have joined in. Just to spite them.

That air of indifference remained with him for fully three rounds. The tension had still to drain from McGuigan's limbs. Rushing forward, he was absorbing jabs at a disconncerting rate.

All our fears were bearing fruit as a consummate operaator set to his work, embroidering the onslaught with whippping bolo punches and right hands which came looping over the left lead and clattering the side of Barry's head.

But McGuigan kept returning to his corner with a smile on his face chatting to Barney scrambling off his stall in his eagerness to attack his man. He had set a murderous pace, and now he began to lift it. Pedroza started to look puzzled. They hadn't told him it would be like this.

His hopes would have risen had he known that McGuiigan's left arm had betrayed him in the fifth. "It's gone," he told the corner. "Can't throw a jab. I can hook him okay, but I can't reach for him." Barney cursed. "All right, then. Go out and beat him with one bloody arm."

But Pedroza had started to regain control, and for twoothirds of the seventh round it seemed that his problems had been solved. Then Barry feinted a left jab, Pedroza's head moved to the left, and weeks of rehearsal saw the fastest, fiercest right cross detonate upon the side of the champion's jaw. "Hey Barry, you really was listening to me," yelled Gerald Hayes. Pedroza got up at four, accepted the mandaatory eight count, shrugged theatrically and shuffled his way through to the bell.

FROM THAT MOMENT, THE CROWD REGAINED ITS BELIEF, McGuigan asserted his authority and Barney started to beam like the manager of a world champion. Pedroza had not been flattered by his reputation. Even when the conncussing rights started to rain in, when the young man seemed endowed with unquenchable energy, when his weary legs could scarcely carry him through his practised manoeuvres, he fought as champions ought to fight. But his reign was over.

At the final bell, the ring resembled the bar of a B&I ferry. McGuigan's camp lifted him high, Pedroza's men raised his arms in hollow expectation. American television executives snapped up the judges' cards before the referee could reach them: "We got three minutes of air time left. We gotta tell people". Hordes of hangers-on leapt through through the ropes, some to reach the Irishman, others to wave at television cameras. Around the ringside, reporters screamed into telephones while men wearing green rosettes trampled over their heads and shoulders. One ambitious Dubliner asked the Sunday Express if he could borrow the phone: "to tell me mother I've had a good night".

And then came the verdict. "By a unanimous decision ... " The rest was lost in a scream which still rings in the ears.

Barry gasped his reactions into a succession of microophones, at first jubilantly then breaking into tears as he told the BBC's Harry Carpenter how he was dedicating the victory to Young Ali, the Nigerian fighter who died after his defeat by McGuigan three years ago. It said a lot about the man. First that he should think of it at such a moment, then that he should dare raise such a sensitive subject, finally that he should bring it up in the sure knowledge that nobody would think him cheap or facile.

In sport, as in other walks of life, the fraud reveals himself under pressure, when defences are at their lowest. McGuigan has taken a remarkable hold on the affection of both the Irish and the British public precisely because his every utterance has the ring of authenticity. A decent man who retains a decent humility.

An hour after the fight, that decent man was finally allowed to escape to his dressingroom. Reality was crowdding in by now. "God, I'm pleased", he kept saying. "God. I'm so pleased!" Seconds after McGuigan had disappeared, Pedroza was led to a waiting car, eyes to the ground, swathed in an overcoat against the chill air. He had departed like a champion, but while his fortune was secure, his future was uncertain.

Barney reappeared a couple of hours later, hosting a celebration party back at the hotel. He moved through the guests, dispensing champagne by the bottle. Already he had been approached by a represen tative of the fearsome Puerto Rican, Wilfredo Gomez. "My favourite fighter of all time", said Barney. "I told the man we'd go to San Juan to fight him. For two million dollars. And he didn't move a bloody muscle!"

The options were now endless. McGuigan wants to defend in Belfast, Barney looks at the limited capacity of the King's Hall and grows dubious. America is clamouring with open cheques, why, the fighter has already been anointed with a presidential message from a born-again Irishman. The advertisers are preparing their offers: '''Endorse this, recommend that, say a good word for us". In time, he will get around to them all. The future is a blur of banknotes. Barney admits, with the slightest prompting, that this man will become a millionaire even if he never throws another punch, such is the volume of commercial prospects.

Meanwhile, the manager continues to circulate, introducing his guests: "This is Dennis Taylor, good lad this one. And you know Mary Peters? Everyone knows Mary Peters. And this feller's Lucien Freud. Helluva painter. Give us yer glass, Lucien, you're running bloody dry".

The words spill out in a stream. How much they've learned from this promotion. How disappointed he is by the British Boxing Board "time we had a real one of our own in Ireland. One with a bit of clout. We'll have to work on that". How pleased he is with the promotional efforts of his son Stephen. How the days have departed when London promoters could dictate lofty terms. How he regrets backing his man for 10,000 dollars. "Regret?" you ask. "Sure", he says. "If I'd been thinking clearly, I'd have put on 100 ,000 dollars".

By dawn, he is reflective. Still clutching a champagne bottle, a pin-striped jacket draped over his second's sweattshirt, he walks down to the front doors of the hotel. "Funny thing about young Barry", he says. "He won't be satisfied with himself tonight. He'll want to improve on things, sharpen little bits of his performance. He wants to be up with the great ones. He wants to be counted with Duran Gomez yeah even Pedroza. He's got the time and he's got the talent. Christ it's only just beginning".

High above London, Finbarr Patrick McGuigan slept on, preparing himself for the return to Clones and the welcome which awaited him. Outside, in the morning drizzle, a group of his followers wandered the empty streets, waiting for the first bus and still loudly discussing the fight, the lilt of Cork mingling with the rasp of Derry. "God, there's still people out there", said Barney and he called them in for a drink.

The man in the dinner suit and brown mocassins was stretched across a sofa. Barney nodded to him as he walked back across the lobby. "How are ye", he said. "Some night, wasn't it?" The man waved a weary arm. "Class of his own, Barney",he said. "Wasn't a race. Class of his bloody own", he says.