By Elliot Worsell
THERE was a time in Jordan Gill’s life – not long ago, in fact – when everything went silent. It was not a peaceful silence, either, this silence, but instead a silence Gill attributed to failure and to isolation and to disappearing. It followed him wherever he went, alas. It was, for a time, the only thing that did. Gone, you see, were the distractions which ordinarily broke the silence: ringing phones, buzzers in gyms, the voices of friends. Gone, too, was Jordan Gill – almost.
Then, however, there was at last some noise. The noise of concern. The noise of someone coming to help. The noise, finally, of Belfast boxing fans applauding his efforts in beating their man, Michael Conlan, inside seven rounds.
Suddenly, the silence had gone; that is, the scary silence, the deadly silence. In its place now was not only a cacophony of noise, the kind connected with celebration and success, but also a new kind of…
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