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Dylan Keane 14th July 1973. It's a day that really should stick out in my mind, but it doesn't. That was the day that a 7lb 4oz Dylan Keane arrived into this cold, heartless world. Into a small linoleum floored kitchen in a small apartment on the east side of Boston, MA. I mean it wasn't that bad, large enough to live in, small enough to claim to be under-privileged. We weren't though, my father just couldn't be bothered going out and finding another apartment or house, and he was far too busy. As for my mother, well she was hardly home either, a clan of aunties and uncles mostly brought me up, this was the norm in Boston with its tight families. I had, and still do, have around 20 cousins. Hey, even I don't know them all, every time I go round to someone's house I meet someone I never met before. Enough about all of my clan though, back to the old days.
My father, Sean Michael John Keane, was of Irish decent as if you hadn't guessed. His father moved over in the early 30's, it was hard for them growing up, but he fought tooth and nail to survive. That carried through to my father, he became a semi-professional boxer. He wasn't the best in the world, but he certainly wasn't the worst. The win column had more than the loss and that's the aim of the game after all isn't it? Hell, he even held the regional belt for a couple of months, not at all bad. Lightweight was what he fought at, he always tried to take a step up, but never quite made it, he always said that if he had made that step up he'd have turned pro, that's where the money started at. Lightweight the money wasn't that good especially at semi-pro level, so he had a job at the local store, packing shelves, serving customers, you know the drill. It was an old fashioned store so you had to do a little bit of everything, the owner, Mr Hardcastle, even let my father off on full pay twice a week when he had a big fight coming up. He was good like that. I really looked up to my father, he was a hard man, but fair. Kept his feet on the ground and was proud of where he was and what he did to get there.
My mother... ah, my mother. I never did get how my father could possibly marry a woman like my mother. She was stunning, everyone said so. In her youth she had blonde hair, the sort of blonde that the sun seems to be shining on all year round, her eyes were as blue as the deepest sea and as bright as the farthest star. As you can probably tell, I love my mother with all my heart. It was the advice that got me through the hard times and made me remember the good times. She used to be a cheerleader for the Boston Celtics, like I said, I never understood how she even met my father let alone marry him. She always said that the basketball players were all over the cheerleaders like flies on shit, but she never had any time for them, they were too big headed, up in the clouds thinking everyone should bow down to them. I guess it was the Irish in her that rebelled against that too, come to think of it that was probably how they met. That's what happened back then. Mary Elizabeth O'Donnell, a real Irish name and a real Irish woman to boot.
Me? I'm Dylan Michael John Keane, another real Irish name, but funnily enough I never picked up an ounce of an accent even with all the true and pure Irish round me. I went to St Peters Catholic School from the day I was old enough to hold a pencil, we were taught be the nuns from the local convent and overseen by the local Father. To say it was strict was an understatement, you couldn't say boo to a ghost without getting dragged into a room and beaten senseless, but you put up with it then... you were Irish, you were tough! It did, it toughened you up, not that I'm saying you should do this to everyone, heaven forbid, but to us it was normal. If I'm honest I hated it, almost everyday I wished it were my last. They would teach you more about the Bible than history, they would make you pray 5 times a day, but only let you out twice. It tried to break you, it would never break me... never!
Family life wasn't bad, well when I say wasn't bad it wasn't great. However, every Irish family was the same, they were opinionated and didn't stand down for anything or anyone. That's why my mother and father had blazing rows, I could hear them when I walked down the corridor home from school. Hear them even above the other mothers' and fathers', it was the Irish way. It was just that my mother and father were louder that's all, nothing much else. After all you put a boxer and a cheerleader together with opinions you're going to get a hell of an argument. Other than that things were just peachy.
When I left school I wanted to be a boxer like my father, better than my father... I wanted to go pro. I was bigger, I was faster, but I guess I didn't have the discipline. I trained... hard, really hard, but when it came to the actual fights, well that was another story. I just went hell for leather, I had no guard, and I forgot all the pre-match talks and just went for it. I won some against easily frightened opponents, but other than that I was no good. Hey, I have to be honest here. I wasn't the laughing stock of the family, but I got the piss well and truly taken out of me. Hey, I'm Irish what you expect? Every time I bumped into one of my thick mick cousins they would bring up my 'interesting' win-loss record. I had to get out for a while. I had a little cash saved from my fights, after all they did pay me a little. What would I do? I travelled that's what, I headed to Europe. All over. Six months of solid travelling it was real fun.
From Britain to France, Germany to Portugal, I even went to see my roots in Ireland. I was in Germany when I headed to the bank, looking at the statement I got after withdrawing around $200 worth of marks I was shocked to see I was almost skint! I shouldn't have been, it was going to happen sooner or later. It was sooner. I had to get cash and quick. Sitting on a bench in the local park in Berlin I had an idea, head to the local gym and I might find a way to make money. I would get a match in the ring again, hell I probably would get my ass kicked, but at least there'd be money involved. So I did. Slight problem, they aren't overly enthusiastic about giving matches to nobody's from the US on just his word, I was a little deflated. Sitting on one of the weight benches looking onto the suddenly interesting wooden floor some huge guy came over to me, and I mean huge. Around 6'8 and 330 lbs, the guy told me small time boxing in Germany made practically no money anyway, the way to go was wrestling. I laughed, laughed, stopped and then laughed a little more. Then he told me about a contract for a month being $1000, I jumped up and ran down the street with him.
When I got there they weren't exactly tripping over themselves to sign me, but an Irish American made it a little different. I was to lose matches to make the 'talent' look good, that and the German crowd would love them beating up an American. As the months went on I learnt more and more, I started to actually win matches, then titles. Then I got offers from other companies, I couldn't believe it, I didn't want to leave this company, but they told me that I could fight for as much companies as I wanted, no-one held me I could do what I pleased. Oh...my....god! This was heaven.
Eventually, I came back to the US. I picked up where I left off in Germany, fighting in small promotions all over the East Coast. When my father first found out he couldn't believe his son would degrade himself in that 'sport'. When I showed him the regular cheques from all the different companies he soon changed his mind, hell he even managed me for a match or two. So I eventually get a call from a company who wants to hold my contract, at 29 I feel like I should get motivated. They offered my major money, major attractions, and major players to fight. Now look I take no prisoners in the ring, I say what I feel and do what ever the hell I want.... hell, I'm Irish. Look out, SCW, Dylan Keane is here!
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