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comes along every day, why not go for it?'
'That's easy for you to say.'
I didn't mean it to come out quite so sharp.
Her eyes fixed on mine. She looked hurt, but steely too. 'That's uncalled for. This is entirely Bobby's decision. It's
what he wants to do. I've nothing to do with it.'
'He must have talked it over with you.'
'Of course.'
'And?'
'He said he wanted to go for it, but wouldn't if I didn't want him to. So I told him to go for it. You think I was
wrong?'
I shrugged. 'Who's to say? I'll tell you after the fight.'
'You can't really lose then.'
'No.'
'You said earlier about your footballing days - I mean, if you just played locally, thought you were quite good, but
were then suddenly offered the chance to play in the World Cup final, wouldn't you take it? Just to be able to say, I did
that?'
'No. I wouldn't.'
'Scared?'
I nodded. 'Scared of the whole world laughing at me.' Mary shook her head. 'That won't happen.'
'I hope not.'
The kitchen door opened. Bobby McMaster filled the void. His hair was tousled, his cheeks pink. He clutched his
guitar in his hand. 'Mornin',' he said.
I nodded.
'Do you want to hear a song before we go?'
Mary stood and lifted our plates. 'Please, Bobby, no.' She looked at me and shook her head. 'He only knows three
chords, and two of them are his trousers.'
Bobby smiled warmly at her, then set the guitar down. He puffed out his cheeks and aimed his thumb at the back
door. 'Let's go then,' he said.
6
A fine rain was falling when we finally left the house, but it was a good rain, not cold, no wind toback it up. Mary
kissed her husband at the door and smiled at me.
We made for Belvoir Forest Park. It was about a mile up the road, a pleasant enough little enclave in which
McMaster could stretch his muscles without being poisoned by exhaust fumes. He said he normally made three or four
circuits of it, which didn't seem much. He liked the trees and the quiet and spotting the occasional squirrel. The nearest
I'd been to nature in the last decade was the can of Pine Fresh I kept in the bog.
We hit the rush hour square on. No horns were pumped at him. No one shouted encouragement. No kids ran after
him for autographs. It wasn't because he was well happed up or because of the drizzly rain and depressing grey skies.
It was because no one had any idea who he was.
The press conference the day before had been muted. Most of the journalists were in shock. McClean had already
explained to me his ... ahem ... master plan. He knew the press would crucify him, and of course McMaster, if he really
tried to hype the fight on this side of the Atlantic. He would leave the real hype to the Americans. They are, after all,
the masters of hype. Reaction to the fight in Britain or Ireland didn't matter to him or to Tyson's people; boxing
revolves around America. The only place the hype mattered was America. That's where the tickets were sold for the
arena, where the tickets were sold for pay-per-view television, where the advertising deals went down. The task on
this side of the Atlantic was damage limitation, on the other side, damage exploitation. So a handful of reporters were
invited to the press conference, a press release, short, the briefest of announcements, was handed out, and photos were
taken. McClean said a few words, McMaster a few less, in and out. No time to answer the important questions like
how, or why, or what if.
Still, I'd expected at least one camera crew in tow for this first training run after the announcement, but McClean
was keeping a tight rein on all the publicity and wouldn't let anyone near. I suppose I should have felt honoured, but all
I felt was damp.
McMaster kept to the side of the road, the hood on his grey tracksuit pulled tight around his face. I didn't have his
faith in the traffic, so I kept to the edge of the kerb, jinking between the telegraph poles and schoolkids. He set a fair
pace, head bowed, shoulders hunched, hood pointing up, looking for all the world like a druid on manoeuvres.
The good thing about telegraph poles is that they tend to stay in the one place. You can't say the same about
schoolkids. The way you expect them to go, they invariably go the other; try taking that into consideration, and they'll
go the way you expected them to go in the first place, so you lose both ways. After driving a car for so long, I'd
forgotten how effeminate a bike's bell sounded. I was embarrassed ringing it. By the time I'd failed to dodge the kids,
stopping, starting, shouting, apologizing, McMaster was a hundred yards up on me and disappearing through the park
gates.
I freewheeled through the entrance and peered down the path. No sign of him. I braked, caught my breath. There
were a few people about, miserable-looking in the rain; their dogs were the enthusiasts.
'Hey, slow coach!'
Bobby was sitting on a green wooden bench off to my right. I pushed the bike over to him using my toes. His face
was red, his tracksuit dark with the rain.
'Stacks of fun, eh?' he said.
'Taking a breather already, champ?'
'That was a bit of a climb. Won't be no hills in the ring with Tyson.'
'That's hardly the point.'
He smiled and stood up. 'Just letting you catch up, sunshine, didn't want to lose you on these wee paths. You ready?
'
'Always.' He set off. A slower pace. I eased along beside him. 'Do you mind talking while you run?'
He didn't reply, which I took for a yes. You have to really.
'Does your trainer never come with you on these runs? Isn't that what he's meant to do? Y'know, inspire you?'
'Jackie? Nah, he's not up to it.' He turned abruptly to the left, took a downward path, rougher terrain. I braked and
turned after him, thumping through potholes as I tried to regain ground. As I caught him he shouted back, 'Jackie can't
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