The tragedies that shaped Michael Conlan
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Mark KriegelESPN
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.
Sports
‘This fan base is going to fall in love with him’: How Luis Arráez is following in Tony Gwynn’s footsteps
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Alden Gonzalez, ESPN Staff Writer
Comparisons to Tony Gwynn began to follow Luis Arráez when he first established himself in the big leagues, growing more prevalent as the hits piled up and the batting titles followed. Arráez wasn’t as prolific, but his skills and the way he utilized them — consistently spraying baseballs to unoccupied spaces all over the field, barreling pitches regardless of how or where they were thrown — made links to one of history’s most gifted hitters seem inevitable.
Tony Gwynn Jr., the late Hall of Famer’s son, often heard them and largely understood them. But it wasn’t until the night of May 4, while watching Arráez compile four hits in his debut with the same San Diego Padres team his father starred for, that he actually felt them.
“I honestly had goosebumps watching him put together at-bats,” said Gwynn Jr., a retired major league outfielder who serves as an analyst for the Padres’ radio broadcasts. “It took me back to watching film with my dad as he was basically doing the same thing.”
Gwynn was universally celebrated throughout the 1980s and ’90s, but Arráez stands as a polarizing figure in the slug-obsessed, launch-angle-consumed era in which he plays. Some, like the Miami Marlins team that traded him away earlier this month, see a one-dimensional player who doesn’t provide enough speed, power or defensive acumen to build around. Others, like the Padres, who used four prospects to acquire him at a time when trades rarely happen, see the type of offensive mastery that more than makes up for it.
What’s inarguable is that Arráez is the ultimate outlier.
Case in point: The publicly available bat-speed metrics recently unveiled by Statcast feature a graph that places hitters based on their relationship between average bat speed (X-axis) and squared-up rate (Y-axis). All alone on the top left corner, far removed from the other 217 qualified hitters, is Arráez. He has the slowest swing in the sport but also its most efficient, theoretically, because he meets pitches with the sweet spot of his bat more often than anybody else.
Arráez has only 24 home runs in 2,165 career at-bats. But his .324 batting average since his 2019 debut leads the majors, 10 points higher than that of Freddie Freeman, the runner-up. He walks at a below-average clip, but his major league-leading 7.5% strikeout rate is about a third of the MLB average during that stretch, cartoonish in the most strikeout-prone era in baseball history.
He is elite even when he chases: The major league average on pitches outside the rulebook strike zone since the start of the 2023 season is .162. Arráez’s: .297.
“Now with the analytics they focus on home runs, they focus on guys hitting the ball hard but hitting .200,” Arráez said in Spanish. “But in my mind, and with all the work that I do, I stay focused on just doing my job — not try to do too much or try to do what they’re telling me to do. Analysts say my exit velocity is [among] the lowest in the big leagues. Amen. Let them keep saying that. As long as I have my health, I keep doing things to help my team, I’m going to be fine.”
Arráez became the first player to win a batting title in the American and National leagues in consecutive seasons last year. But trade rumors surrounded him from the onset of 2024, his second-to-last season before free agency. As a 27-year-old two-time All-Star with a .324 career batting average, a sterling reputation and a stated desire to remain in South Florida, he was a player the directionless Marlins franchise could build around. But a new front office considered him expendable. A 9-24 start to the season created an opening. And on May 3, five minutes before the first pitch was thrown in Oakland, Marlins manager Skip Schumaker called Arráez into his office.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” Arráez said, “I wasn’t ready to be traded.”
Schumaker told Arráez he’d have to remove him from the lineup because a deal with the Padres was close. He gave him the option of returning to the clubhouse or going into the dugout for one final moment with his teammates. Arráez stayed until the fifth inning, retreated to his hotel room, waited on a call from Padres officials and hopped on a flight at noon the following day to meet his new team.
Arráez didn’t have enough clothes for the additional six days of the Padres’ road trip. He wore his Marlins-colored cleats through stops in Phoenix and Chicago and compiled eight hits in 20 at-bats during that stretch. After the team got back to San Diego, he used the May 9 off day to search for an apartment and spend time with his mom, wife and three daughters, who flew in for a weekend visit, then delivered a walk-off single against the rival Los Angeles Dodgers in his home debut the following night. He’s still living out of a hotel room crammed with unopened boxes, but he already feels wanted. Embraced, even.
“They’ve welcomed me here with open arms,” Arráez said. “I feel as if I’ve been here since spring training.”
Arráez was a 4-year-old in Venezuela when Gwynn played the final season of his 20-year career in 2001. When Gwynn died in 2014, Arráez was still a teenager on the Minnesota Twins‘ Dominican Summer League team. Hearing comparisons to Gwynn made him curious enough to find old clips of a player who was mostly foreign to him. He began to study his approach to hitting, marveling specifically at Gwynn’s ability to let pitches travel deep into the strike zone before driving them to the opposite field.
Conversations with one of Gwynn’s most important mentors, Twins icon and gifted batsman Rod Carew, brought Arráez more insight. Now similar conversations are taking place with Gwynn’s only son. When the Padres return from their seven-game road trip through Atlanta and Cincinnati, Arráez plans to visit the Gwynn statue that sits just outside of Petco Park. He isn’t necessarily leaning into the comparisons, but he isn’t running from them, either.
“It’s such a great experience when fans embrace you with open arms and tell you that I’m a mini Tony Gwynn, and that I have a lot of traits that remind them of him,” Arráez said. “It’s nice to hear people say things like that.”
Perhaps the quality Gwynn and Arráez share most is self-awareness. “Know thyself” is a line Gwynn Jr. heard his father say repeatedly growing up, one that translated directly to how he approached his profession: He knew his strengths, worked relentlessly to maximize them and never tried to emulate others. Arráez’s new teammates already see the same in him.
“It’s not like he goes up there and just does it,” Padres third baseman Manny Machado said. “He puts a lot of work in the cage, before games, even before BP and stuff like that. He knows his strength, and he works on it.”
Baseball’s evolution has made it harder than ever for someone like Arráez to exist. Pitchers have never thrown harder, data has never been more prevalent, batting averages have hardly ever been lower. But Padres manager Mike Shildt is adamant that Arráez shouldn’t be an anomaly.
He recalled an old San Diego Union-Tribune article that re-ran May 9, on what would have been Gwynn’s 64th birthday. It detailed the amount of time Gwynn spent working on hitting, and it validated something Shildt had long believed: That more players could hit .300, even today, if they worked on the craft of doing so as diligently and as pointedly as Gwynn did. As Arráez does.
“When you have an ability to hit a ball to all the different areas, you’re going to hit,” Shildt said. “And big picture, our industry hasn’t taught that anymore. It’s not valued anymore. It’s not monetized anymore. You can’t quantify this, but it’s a shame how many amateur and lower-level professional players have been excluded from continuing to play because they don’t meet a measurable. They don’t meet an exit velocity or bat speed or launch angle, or all of those things that this game is now basically recruiting and monetizing blindly. They’re just getting hits. And somehow that became out of vogue in our industry in general.”
But those are now someone else’s problems. The Padres will gladly take Arráez, all he his and all he isn’t, and slot him ahead of Machado, Fernando Tatis Jr. and Xander Bogaerts in hopes of riding his singular bat to the playoffs.
Arráez is still six batting titles away from catching Gwynn. He isn’t anywhere near as good a defender or as lethal a baserunner as Gwynn was early in his career, and he needs another decade-plus of similar production — heightened production, actually, given the .345 batting average Gwynn boasted between his ages 27 and 37 seasons — to even approach him as a hitter. But Arráez’s style is the closest we’ve got.
And if there’s one place that can appreciate it, it’s his new one.
“This fan base is going to fall in love with him,” Gwynn Jr. said. “It’s how a lot of them grew up watching baseball.”
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Jesse Rogers, ESPN Staff Writer
CHICAGO — Chicago Cubs rookie starter Shota Imanaga lowered his ERA on the season to 0.84 on Saturday after throwing seven shutout innings in his club’s 1-0 victory over the Pittsburgh Pirates.
It’s the lowest mark through a pitcher’s first nine career games since ERA became an official stat in 1913, besting Fernando Valenzuela, who compiled a 0.91 ERA after nine starts in 1981.
“If I’m being honest, I’m not really too interested in my own stats or any historic value,” Imanaga said after the game through the team interpreter. “But just knowing that there are so many good pitchers that came before me is a good learning experience.”
Imanaga, 30, gave up four hits while striking out seven including his final batter with two on and two out in the seventh inning. He used a combination of nearly all fastballs and splitters to stymie the Pirates, making him the very early front-runner for NL Cy Young. Pirates manager Derek Shelton was asked why he’s so tough to square up.
“That’s a great question,” he answered. “This guy is going to give hitting coaches nightmares. The fastball is not 94-95 mph but it’s effective. The split is real. It’s strike to ball.”
Imanaga averaged just 90.9 mph on his fastball, which he threw 46 times. The rest of his pitches were splitters — save four curveballs. All of it was extremely effective, moving from the top of the zone with the fastball and coming down with his split.
“You feel the hitter a little in-between,” Cubs manager Craig Counsell said. “It makes both pitches better.”
The Cubs won the game on a walk-off RBI single by Christopher Morel that plated Cody Bellinger, though the play at the plate was reviewed before the celebration at Wrigley Field could begin. It’s the team’s first 1-0, walk-off win since September 2015.
“We’ve won two 1-0 games that he’s started,” Counsell said. “It’s hard to win 1-0, and the fact that he’s been the starter nine games into his career in two of them is incredible.”
In addition to being the lowest to start a career through nine outings, Imanaga’s 0.84 ERA is also the third lowest through the first nine games of a season for any pitcher, trailing only Jacob deGrom (0.62) in 2021 and Zack Greinke (0.82) in 2009. The win came a day after Pirates rookie Paul Skenes struck out the first seven batters he faced en route to a six-inning, no-hit performance. Imanaga did him one inning better, making the Pirates the ninth different team unable to solve the lefty.
“We’re fortunate to watch it,” Counsell stated. “His aptitude, pitch-making ability, his stuff, his competitiveness. They’ve all been a joy to watch.”
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