Jonny McCambridge: Following in the footsteps of Barry McGuigan and my Da, 40 years on


It was a promotion, a special offer for readers who wanted to go to a boxing match in London. The package trip included transport on the ferry from Larne to Stranraer and then a long coach drive down the M6, tickets for the fight and a hotel and then the return journey the following day.
As was the way then, he called the phone number and waited until an operator was free. Then he sent a cheque in the post.
Advertisement
Hide AdAdvertisement
Hide AdThe fight, which took place 40 years ago this week, was Barry McGuigan's legendary world title clash with the great Panamanian Eusebio Pedroza at QPR's Loftus Road ground.
The world was a bigger place in 1985 and that trip to London seemed as exotic to a 10-year-old as a voyage to Jupiter. Of course, perspectives change over the decades. I've long since lost count of the number of times I've been in London.
I was there recently with friends. We go on an English football trip every spring. This year's itinerary included a Sunday game at Fulham, but the Saturday was free. In our WhatsApp group options on how to fill the spare day were thrown around in advance. Generally, I don’t get involved in the planning and am happy to go with the flow.
Then, one of my friends who is a QPR fan suggested we go to Loftus Road. Within seconds, I was responding.
“Yes, let’s do that. We have to go to Loftus Road!”
Advertisement
Hide AdAdvertisement
Hide AdAnd so, it came to be that on a sunny Saturday I was sitting in the stand watching QPR and Cardiff City play out a 0-0 draw. The crowd was subdued, seeing nothing substantial on the pitch to stir them from their stupor.
But that wasn’t really the point, and football definitely wasn’t why I wanted to go there. I was aware of the coming 40th anniversary of the famous McGuigan fight. There also seemed to be a strange sort of logic to the fact that I now write for the News Letter, which carried the promotion which began this tale.
I've tried multiple times to type out a paragraph explaining the reason why I felt it was important to go to Loftus Road, what the cosmic significance was, but I can't come up with anything cogent or sensible. Maybe it was just nostalgia, maybe sentimentality. Maybe there's nothing to say other than the events of 1985 burnt deep into my psyche and I wanted to follow in the footsteps of my Da.
We are all shaped by our landscapes. Growing up in a Northern Ireland ravaged by the Troubles in the 1980s, it felt like we were living at the far side of the civilised world. Growing up in rural north Antrim felt like being at the very edge of the far side of the world. Nothing happened here. Things happened in other places and there was no bridge for us to get to them.
Advertisement
Hide AdAdvertisement
Hide AdSporting success was the best form of escapism. The darkness was lifted by a sobbing Alex Higgins or a finger-wagging Dennis Taylor winning world snooker titles, Joey Dunlop collecting road racing accolades as prolifically as if they were Panini stickers, Northern Ireland reaching the World Cup in '82 and '86 or Norman Whiteside curling a shot past the despairing gloved hand of Neville Southall to win the FA Cup.
And then there was Barry McGuigan, the unassuming Catholic lad from just across the border who married a Protestant girl, fought under the UN flag of peace and was taken to heart by fans from across Northern Ireland. If there is anything else in sport, before or since, as emotionally charged as Pat McGuigan singing Danny Boy in the ring before his son's fights, I have yet to experience it.
McGuigan was a local boy who was succeeding on the world stage. His fights in Belfast’s King’s Hall were legendary. I well remember the famed BBC boxing commentator Harry Carpenter, who had been around the world following the triumphs of Muhammad Ali, saying on several occasions that he had never experienced anything remotely like the atmosphere in Belfast on a McGuigan fight night.
Yet, when it came to the biggest occasion of all, the night that Barry was to fight for the world title, the bout was exported to the plastic pitch at London’s Loftus Road stadium.
Advertisement
Hide AdAdvertisement
Hide AdI’m sure there were multiple logistical and financial reasons why that made sense, but to a 10-year-old, it underlined the ingrained belief that the really important stuff always took place elsewhere.
But the bridge, on this occasion, were the thousands from here who would not be denied and streamed down the M6 in coaches towards Shepherd’s Bush.
The truth was, of course, that I saw more on TV than those in the stadium. My Da tells of the fighters appearing as distant moving dots and of believing at first that Pedroza had got the better of the scrap, while I clearly saw that McGuigan had battered the grand old champion around the ring.
The Clones Cyclone did not need any help, producing his greatest performance over 15 rounds. But just in case, there were thousands of Irish voices there singing ‘Here We Go, Here We Go’, to carry him towards the title.
Advertisement
Hide AdAdvertisement
Hide AdI was nervous to the point of sickness watching him on telly on that distant Saturday evening. I’m not sure there is much since then that has seemed as important to me as the outcome of that fight.
I remember how long it took McGuigan to fight through the crowd during his ring entrance. I remember the relentless singing of his supporters, knowing my Da was among them.
I remember my hands trembling as I held the TV remote control. I remember how much it all meant. I remember thinking Barry had to win. He just had to.
And he did.