There was nothing flash about Moody. He entered the ring only a few minutes after Sullivan and no martial music played. Sullivan was the number one contender for Moody's title, a crown he'd held himself in the past. He was a veteran with an impressive record but a couple of losses that had stalled his career. He was stocky, pale, heavily tattooed. Moody was tall and lean, teak-coloured and severe-looking in a grey hooded top and dark shorts. The announcer gave their names the usual pizzazz; they were both under the middleweight limit so the title was definitely on the line. The referee gave them their instructions and the bell sounded.

From almost the first few minutes it was clear that Moody had the edge. Not that Sullivan was unskilled; he knew how to defend and attack, but, compared to the younger man, he was slow. Not by much, but in boxing split seconds are crucial. His speed advantage by hand and foot enabled Moody to land his punches more cleanly and more often and to avoid most of Sullivan's responses. The crowd urged Sullivan on, but by the seventh round he was tiring and frustrated. He tried a bullocking rush; Moody sidestepped and caught him flush on the ear with a stiff left. Sullivan floundered and Moody, his moment having arrived, drove him to the ropes and landed heavily on his head and body. The referee stopped the fight.

'He's good,' Patrick said as we moved to leave. 'Picks his spots.'

'Have you got a piece of him, too?'

'Hey, come on, what d'you take me for?'

'Sorry,' I said. 'I have a love/hate relationship with the game.'

'I know what you mean. No, I steer clear of the managerial side. Strictly an administrator.'