THE first time I got talking to Carl Frampton he told me: “I want to get in and win world titles and get out with my wits intact.”
And he has, and he will. That was in fight week in Belfast back in 2013. Three years on, it’s fight week and we’ll meet again - this time, in New York. The fella in front of me at departures for the flight to JFK at Dublin airport on Wednesday morning wore a hoodie with the legend The Jackal emblazoned across the back.
Frampton’s fans are on the latest leg of the Belfast fighter’s incredible journey and I’m lucky to be going with them. On Saturday night, ‘the Jackal’ cranks it up another notch against defending WBC featherweight champion Leo Santa Cruz in Brooklyn. Oh, what a hell of a fight for the lad from Tigers Bay in north Belfast, who has beaten all-comers since he turned pro.
That interview in 2013 came when, with the timing of one of his left hooks, I became Irish News pro-boxing correspondent. Frampton was training up at Monkstown ABC a couple of days before he took on Jeremy Parodi at the Odyssey Arena. He’d already stopped Kiko Martinez by then but, looking back, the Parodi fight was the night the blue touch paper was lit and his career really took off.
I waited happily as he shadow-boxed and skipped and did the pads with Shane McGuigan: “You alright there, mate? I don’t want to keep you all day,” he said after an hour or so and he did an interview there and then with a towel wrapped round him, even though he had much better things to be doing.
He was a nice guy then and he is the same today, an ordinary fella capable of extraordinary things. Watching him that day inspired me to give the noble art a go myself and I got the gloves on at Gilford ABC thanks to former pro Bernard McComiskey, the first Irishman to sign with Matchroom back in the 1990s and now a coach at the county Down club.
We did bags and pads and sparred and, between rounds as I tried to get my breath back, Bernard told stories of his days in London when he’d hung out with Herbie Hyde and sparred Chris Eubank and many other big names.
When the buzzer started the next round, he’d commentate on the action: “Watters is way ahead on points here, McComiskey needs a knockout to win this…
“Hit me, hit me, I’m here…” he implored.
But I wasn’t really up for it because (a) I couldn’t and (b) I was afraid he’d hit me back. Gradually, my confidence improved and, after I bounced a flukey left hook (that I’ll treasure to my dying day) off the side of his head, I got the feeling I was ready for the big leagues.
Carl Frampton shadowboxes in the ring at the iconic Church Street Gym in New York ahead of Saturday night's world featherweight title fight against Leo Santa Cruz in Brooklyn:
Next step: A more competitive spar with a seasoned campaigner. Result: Runner-up. Now I know what it’s like to take a crack in the jaw and stand in a corner with a coach wiping the blood off your nose: “Sorry,” said my opponent, unwittingly rubbing salt into my wounds, “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”
“Keep your hands up,” said the coach with a smile.
Second place, but you put it all down to experience and, a few weeks later, Bernard met me with news that my big break had come in the club’s summer white collar show: “I’ve got you a fight,” he says and, if the opponent had been a pensioner who’d just had hip replacement surgery and dodgy eyesight, I might have taken him up on his offer.
Turns out he wasn’t. But thank God, I was leaving for a European Championship soccer qualifier the day of the bill, so I was able to get out of it with my honour intact: “Och, where’s your commitment,” says Bernard with a laugh.
Since then, I’ve trained at Belfast’s Mac and traded leather with a Paddy Gallagher protege in the gym at Frames. All good, great training and I’d recommend getting into the ring to anyone. But not with Carl Frampton, obviously.
After Parodi lasted five rounds before he finished him off, the tough, experienced Mexican Hugo Cazares came to Belfast in a world title eliminator - but he was out of there quicker than Parodi and the talk of a rumble with Santa Cruz started in the post-fight press conference.
Santa Cruz wriggled out of reach up to featherweight, however, and Frampton changed his focus to a world title rematch with Kiko, who had gone off to win the IBF super-bantamweight belt. Frampton ripped it out of his grasp when they met on an unforgettable night at the Titanic Slipway. An icy wind blew in off the Irish Sea as 16,000 fans roared him on to a one-sided win. He greeted the press afterwards wearing a crimson royal robe for a laugh. His face was black and blue, he’d had stitches over his left eye and his hand was broken. But then, you should have seen the other guy.
Trash-talking Californian Chris Avalos came next: “He’s got my belt bro,” he grumbled at the pre-fight press conference.
“I’m gonna take it off him.”
Saying ain’t doing of course and Frampton put manners on him, barely breaking sweat in the process. After that, he set his mind to taking the show on the road. At first, it didn’t go so well and there was the first major blip of his career - against Alejandro Gonzalez jnr in El Paso, Texas last year.
He was down twice in the first round as Gonzalez - then ranked 13 in his country - proved you just don’t take Mexicans for granted. But Frampton showed guts and skill and recovered to win every round from there to the finish and take a clear points win.
He feels his problems that night have turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Long-term rival Scott Quigg thought he saw weaknesses and a super-bantam unification battle was arranged for Manchester in February: “You’re not a better boxer than me,” warned Frampton when they met head-to-head and, roared on by thousands of travelling fans at the MEN Arena, he proved it beyond doubt.
Since then, he has moved up to featherweight for Saturday night’s showdown in the Big Apple. The atmosphere, the setting and the prize at stake will inspire him to even greater things. I met him not long ago, pushing a shopping trolley out of Tesco in Banbridge with his family.
Happy as Larry he was: “Good to see world champions still do the shopping,” I said on my way in to do the shopping.
“Christine [his wife] makes me,” he said with a smile.
All married men can relate to that. But while Mrs Frampton might rule the roost at home, the ring is the Jackal’s domain. He’ll call the shots when the bell goes on Saturday night and me, the guy with the hoodie and thousands of others will be there to cheer him on.
