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Editor’s note: This story was originally published in March 2019 ahead of Conlan’s fight against Ruben Garcia.

BELFAST, Northern Ireland — Everybody wants to be Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.

Unless you’re a fighter. Then you always want to be Irish.

It’s good business, after all. Freddie Roach — who’s, in fact, of French-Canadian ancestry — will be the first to tell you, he sold a lot more tickets as “Irish” Freddie Roach.

This isn’t new, either. Perhaps you don’t recall Mushy Callahan, one of the first 140-pound champions, but you’ll admit it’s a better nom de guerre than Moishe Scheer, as he was born on the Lower East Side of New York City.

Boxing is a sport of immigrants. So maybe there’s some misguided romanticization for a time when they sprang forth from the steerage class, that holy trinity of white ethnics. Still, we don’t dwell on Jewish fighters. Or Italian ones. But the idea of the Irish fighter endures.

The Fighting Irish. Before they were a football team, they were a famous regiment — memorialized by Joyce Kilmer, himself a poet killed in battle.

Perhaps, then, it speaks to something ancestral.

So here comes Michael Conlan, 27, just 10-0, but already headlining his third consecutive St. Patrick’s Day card at the Garden (yes, albeit the small Garden) when he will fight Ruben Garcia (25-3-1). You’ve probably heard the story by now: having won bronze at the London Olympics, he was favored to win gold in Rio. Instead, following an epically bad decision, Conlan identifies the Olympic judges with his middle finger, and tweets at Vladimir Putin. Looking back, those acts were as profitable as they were profane. Seven months hence, Conor McGregor famously attends his debut, the first of his consecutive sellouts at the Hulu Theater.

Would it have all fallen into place if he were, say, from Azerbaijan?

No.

But you don’t have to love Conlan because he’s Irish. There are other reasons.


What catches the eye in and around 93 Cavendish Street — a neat, narrow row home where the Conlan boys came of age — are those splashes of fluorescence every few blocks: the murals. Most of them remain as they were during The Troubles — the last iteration of a centuries-old conflict between Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland. This being a Catholic neighborhood, those memorialized were Republicans: the hunger striker Bobby Sands, the Gibraltar Three, IRA soldiers shot by British special forces and the so-called blanket protesters, who refused to wear the prison garb of common criminals.

Protestant neighborhoods on the other side of the “peace wall” have their own murals, their own fallen heroes. To an outsider, it’s difficult to keep score, to know the martyred from the murdered, the victims from the villains. But taken together the murals tell a single story: a history of the dead.

While the Good Friday peace accords were signed in 1998, when Conlan was only 7, the family had already seen its share of trouble. Michael’s mother, Teresa, was hit by a rubber bullet. Her husband, John, who hails from Dublin, was regularly brought in for questioning. A British Army barracks on the corner of Cavendish and Violet streets didn’t leave the Conlans feeling very protected. What Michael recalls most vividly, however, was the petrol bomb.

“Seen someone going on fire,” he says. “I was probably about 9.”


Aside from murals, what Belfast had in abundance were boxing gyms. “In a five-mile radius,” Michael says, “there’s like between 18 and 20 clubs.”

Jamie, the eldest Conlan brother who is also a professional boxer, says “we’re a nation born into fighting, especially in the north of Ireland.

“A boxing club was a way to express what we felt inside,” Jamie said. “You don’t understand where you’re getting this aggression — this kind of raw, animalistic wanting to let your hands go. You don’t understand why you’re throwing punches.”

John Conlan, who had been an amateur fighter in Dublin and is now coach of the esteemed Irish national team, had his own take.

“I don’t think we’re an aggressive race,” he said. “I just think we understand that piece in the ring: that little piece, man-to-man, face-to-face.”

If Jamie had a crazy kind of courage, Michael — five years his junior — had something else: innate, unusual, a sense of the ever-changing distance in the ring, the calculus of combat. He had a head for it, too.

“He knew instantly how to evade punches,” Jamie recalls. “He understood it’s not about who’s the hardest or the strongest or the most aggressive … it’s about knowing how to twist, how to mentally open you up, and then I’ll hit you.

“I remember Michael sticking his tongue out at a kid. They were only 10. … There was a wee crowd, and Michael understood he had to get him wound up, [to] embarrass him. … Soon as the guy lost his cool, Michael knew he’d won. The guy tried to headbutt him, and by then Michael was just playing with him. You don’t see that every day.”

By early adolescence, Conlan was on his way to establishing himself as Ireland’s best-ever male amateur fighter. The wins and losses would eventually tally 248-14, by his own account, and include gold medals at the World Championships, the European Championships and the Commonwealth Games, not to mention the two Olympic appearances. It was a storied journey that took him from India to Ankara to Azerbaijan, but it was back in Belfast where he took most of his losses.

He wasn’t alone. Conlan came of age with a generation that exchanged one set of troubles for another, drugs and booze.

“When the conflict was on, there were very, very little drugs in the neighborhood,” John recalls. “People got executed very quickly if they were antisocial. But when the conflict stopped, it seemed to quickly spiral out of control. … Young lads in the club would talk about being on four-, five-day benders.”

From age 13, Michael was doing cocaine, ecstasy and popping prescription pills. He’d often work out drunk, on vodka and Red Bull. It was a double life, carefully concealed from his parents and Jamie, or else they might cause him grievous bodily harm.

He won’t, however, concede that any of this had anything to do with seeing a man set on fire. “I just wanted to do what everybody else was doing,” he says. “I thought I was missing out.”

Maybe it was drug testing at the Commonwealth Games that started him toward sobriety. Certainly, it had something to do with Jamie, who recalls a night when Michael was out suspiciously late. A friend had spotted him drinking and let Jamie know.

The big brother got in his car, caught Michael at the aforementioned location, and began to unload.

“I gave him a slap. Actually more than a slap,” Jamie says. “I had to do it in front of his friends. To let them know, you can’t f— around.”

Then he drove his kid brother back to Cavendish Street and “beat him up and down the house.”


It wasn’t merely drugs and alcohol, though. There were other perils for kids from the north in the new millennium.

In the spring of 2008, Irish and English teams were set to meet at the Balmoral Hotel in Belfast. Kieran Farrell, a rough and aggressive fighter out of Manchester, seemed perfectly suited for Michael’s style.

“I was confident Michael was going to outbox him,” John says. As it happened, Michael didn’t outbox Farrell. In fact, he didn’t box at all. “He seemed to take punches willingly.”

Between rounds, he told his son he would stop the fight unless Michael began returning fire. He did, for a while, in a listless sort of way. Then he resumed taking punches. Suddenly, it dawned on the horrified father: “Michael wanted to feel pain.”

Afterward, Michael contemplated one of his rare losses and claimed not to care. Still, he wept as he said it. Turned out a friend of his had committed suicide.

“This was how he expressed his sorrow for the passing,” John says. “By letting somebody hit him.”


The way Michael heard, it had to do with drug money: “He didn’t know how to get out of paying these debts. Then, the only way he thought he could was killing himself.”

Chances are, if it weren’t drugs, it would’ve been something else. There have been more deaths by suicide in Northern Ireland since 1998, than there were from all the killings, assassinations and bombings during The Troubles. For all the horrors of that era, says Teresa Conlan, “There was a sense of community, a sense of belonging. And I think now that that’s gone. … There’s this loneliness. Depression sets in. The aftermath of what actually happened. … OK, you’re just supposed to be normal now?”

Michael stopped counting the number of friends he lost by suicide: “About 10…15…maybe more.” Wakes. Cemeteries. Funerals. After a while, he stopped going. He’d already spent enough time in the kingdom of the dead.

At 17, he came home with a tattoo: rosary beads and a crucifix around his neck, clearly intended to be seen. It was a religious marking, but it wasn’t political. It was an affirmation of who he was. And where he was going.

His father, recalling how difficult it was for Catholics in Northern Ireland to get work under the best of circumstances, was inconsolable. “You’ve destroyed your body,” he said. “You’ll never get a job.”

“I don’t need a job,” Michael said. “I’m going to be a fighter.”


So, what saved Michael Conlan?

That beating from his brother Jamie certainly helped. And the one from Kieran Farrell, too.

“Losing helped,” Michael says. “Losing brought me back to reality.”

So did the love of his parents.

The idea that boxing saved him is only partially true. As any fighter knows, no one can really save you but yourself. Outside of that, the best you can do is set a decent example.

Toward that end, Michael recalls the summer of 2012. He couldn’t have known what would lie ahead: the Garden, the bad decision in Rio, an American promoter cutting him a check. He’d just returned from London, 20 years old and despondent. The bronze medal seemed a great victory for everyone except Michael himself. It wasn’t gold, he thought. And then he saw something from the car: a burst of color on the corner of Violet and Cavendish streets, where the British Army barracks used to be.

It’s not a perfect likeness. But that’s not the point. Here was a fighter, but not a soldier. In West Belfast, Michael Conlan’s was the first mural its kind. In a kingdom of the dead, he was alive, full of ambition and possibility.

There’s reason enough to root for Michael Conlan.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

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Cindric docked points, fined for spinning Dillon

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Cindric docked points, fined for spinning Dillon

CHARLOTTE, N.C. — Austin Cindric was docked 50 points and fined $50,000 by NASCAR on Wednesday for intentionally spinning Ty Dillon in last weekend’s Cup Series race at Circuit of the Americas.

Dillon moved Cindric up the track early in the race and Cindric quickly retaliated by hooking Dillon in the right rear, spinning Dillon’s car.

NASCAR has made clear they will not tolerate drivers hooking competitors in the right rear to spin them because of the potential hazards. Bubba Wallace and Chase Elliott have both previously been suspended for similar actions.

The penalty drops Cindric of Team Penske from 11th to 35th in the standings heading into this weekend’s race at Phoenix Raceway.

NASCAR fined Carson Hocevar $50,000 and penalized him 25 points for intentionally wrecking Harrison Burton last year. Hocevar hooked Burton in the right rear while under caution at Nashville Superspeedway.

One of the reasons Cindric was not suspended, per a NASCAR official, is because it happened on a road course with lower speeds and tight confines — and the result didn’t draw a caution flag.

Wallace and Elliott both hooked other drivers on ovals with higher speeds that led to cautions.

In additional penalties announced Wednesday, NASCAR said two members of Kyle Larson‘s pit crew had been suspended two races for a tire coming off his car during last weekend’s Cup race at COTA. Brandon Johnson, the jackman, and front tire changer Blaine Anderson were both suspended.

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Briscoe wins appeal over spoiler at Daytona 500

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Briscoe wins appeal over spoiler at Daytona 500

CHARLOTTE, N.C. — Chase Briscoe and Joe Gibbs Racing won their appeal Wednesday when the National Motorsports Appeals Panel said his Toyota did not have an illegally modified spoiler when he won the Daytona 500 pole.

The victory restores the 100 points and 10 playoff points NASCAR had penalized Briscoe for the spoiler violation. The team also gets its 100 points and 10 playoff points back, and crew chief James Small’s four-race suspension was rescinded, as was the $100,000 fine to the team.

Briscoe is now tied for 14th in the season standings with Carson Hocevar headed into Sunday’s race at Phoenix Raceway. They are one point ahead of Kyle Larson, who is 16th in the season standings.

“The panel believes that the elongation of some of the holes on the number 19 Cup car spoiler base is caused by the process of attaching that specific spoiler base to the rear deck and not modification of the single source part,” the panel wrote.

Joe Gibbs said he was appreciative of the process “NASCAR has in place that allowed us the opportunity to present our explanation of what led to the penalty issued to our No. 19 team.

“We are thankful for the consideration and ruling by the National Motorsports Appeals Panel,” the team owner added. “It is obviously great news for our 19 team and everyone at Joe Gibbs Racing. We look forward to focusing on the remainder of our season starting this weekend in Phoenix.”

Briscoe also thanked the panel and NASCAR on social media “for giving us the option to show our evidence.” He also thanked Joe Gibbs Racing for preparing his car for his debut season with the team.

The appeals panel consisted of former motorsports marketing executive Dixon Johnston, former Speed Channel president Hunter Nickell and former South Boston Speedway general manager Cathy Rice.

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NASCAR countersues in dispute over charters

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NASCAR countersues in dispute over charters

CHARLOTTE, N.C. — NASCAR’s revenue-sharing charter system is under threat of being disbanded according to a Wednesday counterclaim filed by the stock car series against Michael Jordan-owned 23XI Racing and Front Row Motorsports that singles out Jordan’s longtime business manager.

The contentiousness began after more than two years of negotiations on new charter agreements — NASCAR’s equivalent of a franchise model — and the 30-page filing contends that Jordan business manager Curtis Polk “willfully” violated antitrust laws by orchestrating anticompetitive collective conduct in connection with the most recent charter agreements.

23XI and Front Row were the only two organizations out of 15 that refused to sign the new agreements, which were presented to the teams last September in a take-it-or-leave-it offer a mere 48 hours before the start of NASCAR’s playoffs.

The charters were fought for by the teams ahead of the 2016 season and twice have been extended. The latest extension is for seven years to match the current media rights deal and guarantee 36 of the 40 spots in each week’s field to the teams that hold them, as well as other financial incentives. 23XI and Front Row refused to sign and sued, alleging NASCAR and the France family that owns the stock car series are a monopoly.

NASCAR already has lost one round in court in which the two teams have been recognized as chartered organizations for the 2025 season as the legal dispute winds through the courts.

What is NASCAR counterclaiming?

In the new counterclaim, Polk is repeatedly singled out as the ringleader against the current charter proposals. NASCAR attorney Christopher Yates went so far as to tell The Associated Press that Polk, who in addition to being Jordan’s business manager is a co-owner of 23XI along with three-time Daytona 500 winner Denny Hamlin, does not understand the NASCAR business model.

“Curtis Polk basically orchestrated and threatened a boycott of one of the qualifying races for a major event and others did not go along with him,” Yates said. “He got other teams to boycott a meeting that was required by the charter. When you have a threatened boycott of qualifying races that are covered by media that’s not a good thing for other race teams, not a good thing when you are trying to collectively grow the sport.”

The qualifying race in question was the 2024 pair of 150-mile duels that set the field for the Daytona 500.

“I don’t think Mr. Polk really understands the sport,” Yates told the AP. “I think he came into it and his view is it should be much more like the NBA or other league sports. But it’s not. No motorsport is like that. He’s done a lot of things that might work in the NBA or might be OK in the NBA but just are not appropriate in NASCAR.”

Who is violating the antitrust act?

NASCAR’s complaint alleges “the undisputed reality is that it is 23XI and FRM, led by 23XI’s owner and sports agent Curtis Polk, that willfully violated the antitrust laws by orchestrating anticompetitive collective conduct in connection with the terms of the 2025 Charter Agreements.”

“It is truly ironic that in trying to blow-up the Charter system, 23XI and FRM have sought to weaponize the antitrust laws to achieve their goals,” the counterclaim says, alleging Polk’s threats are “attempting to misuse the legal system as a last resort to secure new terms.”

Bob Jenkins, an entrepreneur, owns Front Row Motorsports and joined 23XI in the lawsuit when he declined to sign the 2025 charter agreement last September.

NASCAR’s counterclaim asks for an injunction eliminating guaranteed starting spots for charter teams. NASCAR wants the four combined charters held by 23XI and Front Row before the lawsuit to be returned to NASCAR, and it wants to dissolve the two charters each team purchased ahead of the 2025 season for their own individual expansion.

“There’s a misperception out there that somehow 23IX and Front Row might achieve something that other teams can take advantage of, and that’s just not right,” Yates told the AP. “This is not going to be a renegotiation. NASCAR has no intent of renegotiating the terms of the charter. Front Row and 23XI are threatening the charter system and its continuation, and NASCAR is fine without the charter system.

“The charter system was created at the request of the teams. That was before 23XI and Curtis Polk’s time, I don’t think they understand that history. But if they succeed with their lawsuit and the charter system goes away, that’s OK.”

What do 23XI and Front Row want?

Yates told the AP he’s asked Jeffrey Kessler, the attorney representing 23XI and Front Row, what is it the two teams want and cannot get a straight answer.

“The mere fact that the lawsuit calls the system into question, I really think 23XI and Front Row are being pretty selfish in terms of what they are trying to do, and I don’t think they are taking into account the 32 teams that have signed the charters and think it is a good deal for them,” Yates said. “Do some of them think they should have gotten more? I’m sure. Does NASCAR think it should have gotten more? Absolutely. But NASCAR does not see the charter system as necessary.”

Jordan has said he’s suing NASCAR on behalf of all the teams so that even the smallest ones can receive equal footing in terms of benefits as a participant in the top motorsports league in the United States.

Among the improvements in the 2025 charters is a more equitable revenue share, but missing is the demand that teams wanted the charters to become permanent. NASCAR at its discretion can claw back charters from underperforming teams or eliminate the system completely. Yates said NASCAR has no intention of renegotiating the charters signed in September by 13 organizations, nor did he see a scenario in which NASCAR settles the lawsuit.

“Polk and 23XI’s other owners openly professed that they wanted to change NASCAR’s economic model by demanding more money for the teams from NASCAR media revenues, instead of teams competing against each other,” Yates said. “However, 23XI and FRM did not merely reject the terms of the 2025 Charters. Rather, those teams embarked on a strategy to threaten, coerce, and extort NASCAR into meeting their demands for better contract and financial terms.”

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