The Last Straw: Kevin McBride is a metaphor for the Irish economy. Twenty years ago, the typical Clones boxer was five feet six and weighed about nine stone. In fact he weighed a lot less when, severely dehydrated, he eventually lost his world title in Las Vegas, writes Frank McNally.
But two decades of record growth in Ireland have changed all that. When McBride climbs into the ring with Mike Tyson tonight (SAT) in Washington, he'll be a whole foot taller than Barry McGuigan, and pack a whopping 263 lbs.
Obviously, so much growth has brought with it certain infrastructural problems. Some people who've watched McBride's fights say it has had a negative effect on their quality of life. If the boxing experts are to be believed, he moves at about the same speed as rush-hour traffic on the Westlink toll-bridge (during wet weather). Apparently some of his punches are in the air so long it's as if they're queuing for landing slots at a terminal that hasn't been built yet.
On top of this, the 32-year-old heavyweight is campaigning in an era when Ireland has become harder to impress. Compared with the hype that accompanied McGuigan's career, McBride is the Clones Anti-Cyclone. When they sought an alliterative nick-name for him (compulsory for a professional boxing licence), they settled modestly for a reference to the one quality on which all observers agree: his size. Hence the Clones Colossus.
The summer of 1985 was the climax in Ireland of the moving statues, a phenomenon that suspiciously coincided with hard times. Once the economy picked up, the statues stopped moving (although boxing experts believe that some of them would still be harder to hit than McBride). But the grimness of the era only added to the celebrations 20 years ago this week when McGuigan beat Eusabio Pedroza.
There was a weird sense of déjà vu in Clones last weekend. Critics of the town would say there always is. When they filmed The Butcher Boy there, and had to give the place a 1950s look, it was cruelly suggested that this would mean extensive modernisation. But the déjà vu I refer to was the strange, if pale, reprise of 1985. Now as then, the Monaghan football team went into the Ulster Championship as national league winners (albeit this time only of Division 2); and now as then, a Clones boxer was getting a shot at international glory (albeit in a non-title fight). What odd quirk was this by which the fates of our football teams and boxers were intertwined, we wondered? We were still wondering after Sunday's game, as the Monaghan players were lifted off the canvas and the cornermen tried to revive them with a towel. But if the football is an omen, the outlook for tonight is bleak. Monaghan will now take their chances through the GAA's back-door system. And if there's a back door in the MCI Arena, Kevin McBride might also be advised to try it, preferably before the fight.
Another thing we were wondering last weekend was this: Is Clones being handed over to the British government as part of the peace process? Has the DUP made this a precondition for the reopening of talks, by any chance? I only ask because, firstly, every time you visit it these days, your mobile phone welcomes you to the UK and reassures you that you can still access your messages just like at home. And secondly, the GAA - perhaps working on inside information - seem to be making a phased withdrawal from the town.
As happened last year, the Ulster Final again looks to be heading for Croke Park, and there's a gloomy feeling around Clones that they may not see the event again any time soon. I know the reasons for the switch. Clones has certain infrastructural issues. Parking is impossible. Getting in and out of it of its narrow streets is always difficult. And there's a general oppressiveness about the venue that southern sportswriters claim has a detrimental effect on their prose.
Most importantly, the fan bases of Tyrone and Armagh (and possibly the heads of their supporters) are now simply too big for anything except Croke Park. Indeed, despite Tyrone's failure to reach the final, last year's experiment was apparently vindicated when 67,000 turned out in Croker to watch Armagh and Donegal. Still, some things are just plain wrong, and having the Ulster Final in Dublin seems like one of them.
Surely there are more things that count than money and convenience. There was a niggling thought on the way home from Clones on Sunday that, OK, our boxers might be bigger than they used to be. But maybe our dreams are getting smaller.