Lee ready for the fight of his life

Carruth example keeps middleweight hope Andy in focus for medal bid VILLAGE life is bustle and edge and perpetual change. It's a concourse at the top of the world. When he opens the doors to the common room balcony, Andy Lee can watch things like a prison guard. He can work out people. He sees the beautiful with their centre-fold bodies and fresh-flossed smiles. He notices the haunted. The sun scalds them all into a quick-step and they sweep by, with their laundry bags, white for whites, blue for colours. He feels at home now. Less inhibited. He's got a focus. Before his first fight, Andy felt a little swallowed up by the vastness of the place. Now, he knows the geography. Feels a part of it. The rhythms become soothing. Wake, smile, thank the Lord. Billy Walsh comes over early and, with the air not yet soup, they walk the campus briskly. Then, the gym and 45 minutes of technical work. Breakfast. Time it right and he reaches the food hall the same time as the pretty Namibian athlete. Smile between mouthfuls. Eat slowly. Then back to the apartment. Maybe watch a DVD. (Wednesday's was Mystic River. Recommended). Lunch, rest, sleep. Train at six. Dinner. Maybe another movie. Lights out. He's had a room of his own, but he's getting to know the neighbours. The rowing four are upstairs. Good guys. Deadly serious. Last Thursday, Andy and Billy broke with routine and took a bus out to Schineas to watch them reach the Olympic final. A good decision. On Monday, Adrian O'Dwyer arrived with his quirky lenses, gothic jewellery and big, wide-open smile. Not a molecule of negativity in that long frame. Good to be around. Billy's voice keeps prodding. A gentle mantra about lessons learnt. Stay out of the sun. Keep well hydrated. Don't star-gaze. In '88, Billy went to the Seoul Olympics. Five years older than Andy is today, he travelled like a child going into Santa's kingdom. Had Michael Carruth for company. "We didn't have any advice, we didn't have any education on hydration," says Billy. "There was a big shopping area and we went down every day in the blaring heat. We went sun-bathing. We didn't think we were doing any harm." Now is another universe. If Andy sneezes, they give him a print-out on the cause. He wants for nothing. Every day, he swings down into the basement for massage and there's someone new to talk to. The massage room is educational. He's discovered, to his astonishment, that show-jumpers don't have marbles in their mouths or stuffiness in their noses. He's chatted to Eddie Macken. EDDIE MACKEN, imagine. Billy remembers when Macken and Boomerang were bigger than Lauren and Bacall. At least, when it felt that way in Ireland. Once, Andy Lee would have felt from another planet walking down into that basement. He grew up in Bow in London's East End. Followed his brothers to Repton gym. Fought, smoked, drank. Dabbled with a life that was leading nowhere. Then, when he was 14, Tom and Ann Lee took their family back to Ireland. They settled in Castleconnell and Andy resented every mile of the journey. But he found his way to the local boxing club, St Francis, and in time - things just started to piece together. Remember that smile as he walked to the ring last Saturday? It requires an explanation. You see, when they pulled the curtain open, he was suddenly back in Limerick. Tricolors, leprechaun hats and faces that belonged to Castleconnell. He saw his brother Roger, his club coach Finbarr O'Brien. He saw the club secretary Seán Walsh. Sean had travelled over for the day and would be flying back home in the early hours. Day-return, costing ?460. "I thought I'd be nervous, but I wasn't," says Andy. "Then I saw all these people and I just couldn't stop myself smiling. It was actually a great feeling, walking out there. I had trained so long for it, worked so hard. And it was finally here. "Couldn't stop myself when I saw the lads. I mean I heard them first. Then I looked over. It was cool." His mother, two aunts and an older sister will be in the Peresteri Hall tonight. But not his Da. Tom Lee is terrified of flying and will follow Andy's journey on the television, no matter how far it takes him. Andy Lee is a smiler. Sometimes in mid-fight, when he comes back to his corner, Billy is giving him water and that grin erupts, as if to say "How are things at your end?". And Billy finds himself wondering, "Should this kid just coach himself?" Andy is 20, bright and attentive. Seán Canavan came here as boxing manager, but finds himself virtually redundant. He says that in 53 years of watching fighters, he's never seen anything like the chemistry between Billy and Andy. "I've never seen two people so much in tune," he chuckles. Funny to think they only met 18 months ago, through the High Performance Programme. Because, the glue is uncommonly strong. And Billy's story is one that Andy uses to push harder. Billy Walsh went to the Seoul Games as Ireland's boxing captain. Watched the first six Irish fighters win their opening bouts. Billy was seventh in. Fighting a Korean he had already knocked out at the pre-Olympics. Looked a shoo-in. But he cut badly in the second round and the referee hailed a doctor. Billy pleaded. "Please don't stop it. Please!" They let him fight on, but he was desperate now. Just chased the Korean around the ring and kept getting picked off. Got stupid and got stopped. Climbed back out the ropes emotionally scarred forever. Well, almost. "I really only got over it last year," says Billy. "It took me 15 years. I mean, it took me a lifetime to get to the Olympics and, when I got there, I made a bags of it. I cried for a week after. Felt I had left everybody down at home. People in Wexford who had done so much for me, fund-raising and the like. Family. It was emotional. My mother kept sending a message. 'Please ring home. Please ring home'. I was too devastated." But not all the memories were corrosive. The Olympic village was a row of tower-blocks and Billy wandered the place, watching the superstars. He queued in the dining hall beside Ed Moses. Sat in a bus behind Steffi Graf. Got his picture taken with Gabriella Sabatini. Oh, he was innocent. He remembers the Opening Ceremony and walking around the track with Carruth, the two of them hugging and saying "We made it." He cried when they lit the Olympic torch. You hear the story and realise that Andy knows more now than Billy did then. He's seen Ian Thorpe in the village. And the Barcelona footballer Saviola. On Wednesday, he dined at a table next to the French tennis player, Amelie Mauresmo. But Carruth is the reference point for where he's headed now. In Seoul, Michael and Billy were giddy and star-struck and haplessly naive. Four years later, a very different Carruth went to Barcelona. Andy was too young to notice then, but he's seen the tapes. Not just of the fights, but the celebrations too. And he's met the champion. A few months ago, they were in a gym with Brendan Hackett, going through the closed, imagining. Brendan was telling them to imagine it all. The fights, the crowds, the medals. Then he said "Open your eyes and see the gold." And there sitting right among them was Carruth with his Olympic medal. They've talked a lot since and they've worked. The two have much in common. Carruth broke his hand the year before he won his gold. Lee busted his, when winning a European silver in Croatia last February. And Michael Carruth offers every little wisdom he's ever learnt. "I can draw a lot of comparisons between us," says Andy. "It gives me confidence talking to him. I can relate to the mistakes he made, the doubts he had. And how he overcame them. "And I think to myself 'If he can do it, so can I'. Michael just carries himself like a normal guy. He's been a huge help." Believing is what matters. Billy remembers the morning Carruth fought Hernandez for Olympic gold. He did his milk round early, then drove from Wexford to Dublin. The Carruths had invited him to watch it in the company of the family. As well as half of Walkinstown. RTE would have cameras in the living-room. He brought his brother along for company and, en route, confessed his worries. "This could be a nightmare," said Billy. "Mick could be stopped. There could be doom and gloom in this house." In hindsight, he didn't ever believe in gold until the final round. Then he saw the Cuban coach getting flustered. Suddenly, it dawned. Mick Carruth was going to win the Olympics. "Never in a hundred million years did I think he was going to win gold," says Billy. "And I got very emotional. Because we had all struggled in the game. At the time, there was no funding. We were all trying to keep a job, to rear a family, to survive as a full-time athlete and work in between. Keep a house together. "There were six or seven of us who had travelled regularly together with Irish teams to Olympics, World and Europeans. And, now, one of us had made the breakthrough. I was absolutely thrilled for the sport that one of us got there." For Lee now, the scale of the Games has yet to fully penetrate. Billy likes it that way. Because the scale of the Games can suffocate you. On Thursday, Andy switched his mobile off and it won't be on again until he leaves the ring this evening. When he rings home, his mother tells him how so many people now keep mentioning her son. On radio and television. In newspapers. And, instinctively, he turns the conversation away from Athens. Away from boxing. Because he doesn't need to know. "You don't realise what effect it's having at home," Andy says. "You don't really want to realise it. You just want to keep the head down and keep working. That's one of the messages Michael Carruth got across. If I win a medal, it can effect the rest of my life. But, I've got to box first. Think of nothing else. "When all this is over, I can go home and have a good time. But now I'm where I want to be." Billy amplifies the message. "Look at me," he says. "I can eat what I want now, go for a pint. But I'd prefer to be doing what Andy's doing. You've the rest of your life to go on the piss." They have a private incentive scheme. For every fight he wins here, Andy will be allowed a McDonald's. That's the prize. Burger and fries. The two of them took the bus back to the village last Saturday and laughed their way through dinner served in styrofoam cartons. They hope to do it again tonight. Meantime, the rhythms stay soothing. Even fight-day. Weigh-in, breakfast, fuel up. Carbs and hydration. Maybe watch a DVD. Visualisation. Sleep. Definitely sleep. They'll get to the stadium two hours before he's due in the ring and just loosen out in the changing-room. With half-hour to go, they'll be taken into the small, white warm-up room. Just empty space and a chair. They'll do some pad-work, Billy trying to imitate the Cameroon fighter. Andy countering. They'll keep talking. Billy especially. As much for his own nerves as for Andy's. "Andy doesn't need motivating at that stage," Walsh explains. "If anything, it's about trying to calm him down. Because you burn up a hell of a lot of nervous energy. And you want that energy in the ring. "There's a zone that Andy goes into. Where he has his routines. And that's the time to go into that zone. I keep talking right until the fight starts. Just to keep up the self-belief. Because that's the time you can get the doubts creeping in. The little voices in your brain. 'This fella's so good. This fella's so big'. "So I just keep re-inforcing what the tactics are going to be. But he's good. You don't have to wind him up. Mentally, he's very strong." They won't know the scoring as the fight evolves. Only judges and media get to see the digits. That suits Billy and Andy fine. Billy reckons people panic needlessly if a scoreline starts to lean against them. Coaching goes out the window. Natural counter-punchers go charging. And he trusts the judges here. Senses that they're fair. Anyway, Andy doesn't need a guide. "Deep down, you know yourself," he says. "It's as if you have a scoring machine in your head. Like, if he hits me with a punch in the face, it's registered. You tally it against your own. When I move around and catch him one, two, three, I know that's a point at least." He's felt the sharpness come in training this week. He's been snappier on the pads. The first fight took the wrapping off. Now he's ready to use the tools. Andy's been talking to the rowers since Thursday and he likes the ferocity of their will. Doesn't need to know much about these people to understand them. Billy sees the connection. "The rowers are like Andy," he says. "Not here to get ninth or tenth or fourth even. They're here to win. For them, the only contentment will come from having a medal. For Andy too." And wearing it to the dining hall, where the Namibians like to linger.