ABSTRACT
It was 1993; it was an important year for the man and the boy in the room. The odd couple. They were standing in his parlour in front of a pair of scales. A grey-haired man in his fties stripped to his underpants and a small, slight Arab boy. On one side of the room was a large bookcase. There were a lot of books on Irish history. Black covers with the green of the shamrock. Serious reading. It could be the parlour of a minor academic or a priest. On the other wall was a large framed photograph of Herol Graham, the Graham of years ago, the Graham of eternal optimism and promise, the most famous boxer from Sheeld who would take on all comers with one hand behind his back, the man who nearly became the champion of the world. Nearly. The grey-haired man got on the scales rst. ‘Twelve stone dead. Now it’s your turn, and don’t forget I’ve been warning ye.’ His Irish brogue was as thick as buttermilk. The small Arab boy stepped forward in a mock swagger. ‘It’ll be all right, Brendan, don’t worry.’ His was a cocky Sheeld accent. ‘I’m young, t. I am the business.’
