The post-fight comedown is sometimes tougher than the fight itself

WHEN catching up with Macaulay McGowan just days after his sterling effort against Abass Baraou in a European title fight, I found someone torn between enjoying the acclaim he was currently receiving and preparing himself for the darker days of silence he knew would follow. This, after all, was not the first time the Mancunian had been intoxicated by the post-fight rush, nor was McGowan naïve enough, at 29, to expect it to last.

Still, at least an awareness of this had prepared him for what was around the corner. He knew, based on experience, that after the high of the immediate aftermath comes a period of silence, contemplation and, if you have suffered a loss, waves of both disappointment and regret.

“I’m on a bit of a high actually,” he said to me last Tuesday, four days after losing valiantly against Baraou in Bolton. “I haven’t been able to sleep much. But eventually it wears off, doesn’t it? Everyone is buzzing and stuff now, and calling you a ‘warrior’ and that, but that all fades away in the end and you’re left with just a loss. It does take time for it to settle down. It’s around this point, or in the next couple of days, I will accept the fact I have lost and it will hurt. But I crack on, man. I don’t get too down about it. I have a bit of a lull and that’s it.”

Abass Baraou (left) isn’t overlooking Macaulay McGowan (right).

McGowan, at the time, had just finished competing in the dads’ race at his seven-year-old daughter’s school sports day; a race in which he finished fourth. He was therefore as carefree and happy as any father four days removed from a professional fight can expect to be. His face, of course, still carried the tell-tale signs of a gruelling battle, but, that aside, he had got out unscathed, relishing now the transition from fighter to civilian and all the perks that go along with it. Now he could eat whatever he wanted, go wherever he wanted, and spend as much time with his daughter, Florence, as he wanted.

With such freedom, however, comes downtime, the thought of which can be either liberating or crippling depending on one’s character. In the case of a boxer, someone so accustomed to being around other fighters in gyms, and so accustomed to both routine and being the centre of their own universe, the idea of retreating into a kind of insignificance can, for some, be rather terrifying.

It is perhaps why so many find it difficult to retire when the time is right. It is also why a fighter like McGowan, who was back to work measuring and cutting plasterboard on the Monday, refuses to stay away from the gym too long. That same Monday, in fact, he was back among bags and bodies, eager for nobody to forget; eager for this post-fight honeymoon period to last.

It’s no easier at the top, by the way. Indeed, when a boxer prepares for a world title fight, what they typically experience is the reverse of death, in as much as rather than the soul leaving the body, the body leaves the soul. This hollow carcass then traipses to the gym day in, day out, waving goodbye to sensitivity, sympathy, compassion and politeness, as well as family and friends, and essentially relearns its moral code.

Suddenly all languages seem foreign, save for the dialect spoken within the four walls of the gymnasium, and all issues seem minor, save for those discussed within those same four walls. Soon, the world of a boxer preparing for a world title fight becomes smaller and smaller, structured to meet their own design specification. They see what they need to see, they hear what they need to hear, and they do what they need to do. Anything else is deemed unnecessary; an inconvenience.

“It’s easy to be a boxer when all you have to think about is being a boxer,” I was told by George Groves ahead of his fight against Carl Froch in 2012. “You forget about everything else and you neglect all the other people in your life. You don’t think about any of your other responsibilities. I’m fortunate that I can be that ignorant and ignore everything but boxing.

“Through boxing you become very selfish, and I guess that’s all part of becoming a success. You almost need to be that way to get ahead. But I’ve got it quite easy really. I don’t have kids, I don’t have any major responsibilities, and I’m allowed to concentrate purely on boxing.”

This, for Groves, would in time change. Defeats would follow, titles would follow, and responsibility and a dividing of energy resources would follow. But back then, when preparing for the biggest fight of his life, Groves had never felt more free, important or, crucially, in control. 

With everything designed to suit his quirks and his needs, the routine of training camp allowed Groves to blur the lines between reality and fantasy, with the pain of training and dieting soothed, always, by the thrill of being left alone to act selfishly without fear of repercussion. This can, for a boxer, sometimes last up to 12 weeks, this hall pass. Sometimes even longer. Eventually, though, as Groves, McGowan and every boxer learns, the bubble will burst and the day after a fight life – real life – must resume. 

“It’s a weird feeling,” said Groves. “You never feel more alive or important than when you’re preparing for a fight, as that’s when everybody wants to talk to you and wants to know you. But the sad thing is, you don’t have a lot of time for the people that really matter. 

“Then, once the fight is over, you become completely normal again, just a regular bloke down the pub. But the difference is, when I go to the pub, I usually have to take my laptop to keep me company because my friends and family have gone back to work. Proper work.”