He was up at six o'clock that morning, did half a day's work, met his manager in the afternoon, climbed into the car and came from Liverpool to London, stopping for a bite of something lousy on the motorway. Didn't get to the hotel until half past seven, went in the ring at half past ten. Now it's past eleven. He's a loser in London and home is in Liverpool.
The pursemoney - £100 - won't stretch to the cost of a room in that hotel for the night. Besides, he's due back at work in the factory in the morning. So, get changed, stuff the gear in the holdall, throw it in the boot, curl up on the back seat of the manager's old banger and try and grab some sleep on the long grind up the motorway.
He is back in the house as dawn breaks. Wake up the wife with the embarrassing admission once again: "Yeah, I lost..but that ref doesn't know what day it is." Breakfast, clock-on for work and go through the same excuses.
Perhaps somewhere on that grim night journey north a cold voice inside him whispered "This is how it's always going to be. don't kid yourself. You're never going to be a champion. There's never going to be stardom, money, headlines. You're a loser."
Later that week, the manager's on the phone to him "I've got this offer for another fight down south in ten days time. Only a hundred quid, but I think you can take this guy. They tell me he's just a raw beginner. You can handle him. Fancy it ??"
Yes, he fancies it. This one will be different. He has to believe in miracles."
