“I am a little scared,” Joe Gallagher says quietly as, in a deserted room upstairs at his famous old gym in Moss Side, Manchester, he addresses the stage four bowel and liver cancer that has taken hold of him. Two hours earlier, while giving me a guided tour of the Champs Camp gym where history and sweat seep from the peeling walls, Gallagher had been in roaring flow.
As six of his fighters shadowboxed each other, feinting and weaving in the crowded ring, the 56-year-old had yelled out instructions. Gallagher looked every inch the proud winner of the Trainer of the Year award – which he received last month at the British Boxing awards. But no matter how hard he works, or how cleverly he tries to find a strategy to overcome the odds, he has entered dark terrain. He loves the company of his fighters and his family, and appreciates the medical experts who urge him to pay more attention to cancer than boxing, but there are moments when he is alone with the disease.
“I’ve only shed one tear and that was in January when I got told at the Christie,” Gallagher says of the NHS cancer centre in Manchester. “I’d come round from the general anaesthetic and the doctor says: ‘We’re dealing with bowel cancer and we need another scan.’”
For Gallagher, “that was the time – those moments I had on my own. Until then I didn’t think it was real. You’re expecting Ant and Dec or Jeremy Beadle to say it’s all a joke but I suddenly thought: ‘Flipping hell, this is real.’ The consultant said this would have started around 10 years ago with small polyps. They could have been removed if I’d had some tests.”
Gallagher was soon back in the corner, preparing for a fight in Saudi Arabia, when the next results emerged. On a Zoom call to his consultant he said: “I’ll be back in Manchester Sunday night and I can see you Monday. But I’d rather you tell me now. I’m not a Rich Tea biscuit. I’m not going to melt and fall apart.’ So he told me the extent of the cancer in the liver and since then they’ve found cysts on the thyroid. They’ll look into that soon. But we’re just getting on with it.”
He pauses. “It really is mad. Last year everyone’s perception was: ‘Wow, look at Gallagher, opening that Mike Tyson gym he set up in Saudi. He’s there with Tyson, Ronaldo, Eminem. He had a year where we’ve seen Natasha Jonas winning a world title, Lawrence Okolie winning a world title. He’s got all these kids coming through.’ But, unbeknown to us all, he’s fucking riddled with cancer.”
Gallagher returns to the video call which confirmed the devastating news. “The consultant told me about keyhole surgery but said if that won’t work they’ll split me open from here to here.” He gestures to a point high up on his chest and works his way down to his stomach.
“I said to him: ‘Oh, that’ll look good on the beach. I can tell the kids a shark attacked me years ago.’ But they’ve not decided yet whether it’ll be joint surgery, which is bowel and liver, or just bowel, or what might happen. I’m having cycles of chemo. I have a drip for three hours with the strongest chemo, and then I’m on chemo tablets every day for two weeks, then I have a week off. Then I do my fourth cycle again for three weeks.”
He smiles when I say that, hearing him bellowing encouragement to his fighters this morning, an outsider would have no idea his vitality was being drained by the chemotherapy. “I’m blessed to be around so many good people, young people, and they’ve shown a lot of loyalty in staying with me. I can see why Ferguson, Wenger and all the great managers went on for years because when you’re around young people you want to see them blossom. That gives you renewed energy.”
Had he felt ill before he took a chance series of medical tests to check on his general health? Gallagher shakes his head. “I had no real symptoms which is why I urge people to get tested and for the government to bring down the screening age for men.”
Gallagher is resolute in his commitment to the brutal sport which has defined him for so long, but he can no longer escape cancer. “The hardest thing was telling my mum. She had two strokes last year and I did half-joke and say: ‘The race is on. Who will go first?’”
He laughs and then shrugs. “I’m a big believer that your cards are dealt before you’re born. You’ve got to make the most of it and I had a tough conversation with my [adult] children. Sophie and Curtis are worried. But I said to them: ‘If I was to go next week, next year, two years, whenever, I can’t complain about the life I’ve had. Think about the amount of highs and lows. I know people who live to 90 and not do half of what I’ve done. I’ve also seen you grow up into fine young adults. If there’s anything to tell you, I will talk to you. But I just want you to continue your lives as normal.’ It’s all we can do.”
Gallagher has given up so much to develop as a trainer. He admits that turning pro and leaving his job at Manchester airport, where he was a union shop steward, cost him his marriage. “I’d come home and say: ‘John Murray sparred brilliantly today.’ My wife would say: ‘That’s good. But how much did you get paid this week?’ I’d say: ‘Nothing yet.’ All right. The next week Matthew Macklin trained really well. She’d say: ‘Good. How much did you earn this week?’ Nothing again. So she said: ‘You’re just following an expensive hobby.’ But I knew it would take years of work.”
Gallagher’s boxing obsession meant that he missed his father-in-law’s funeral. In hindsight, doesn’t that seem crazy? “No. John Murray was getting ready for a massive fight and the only available sparring that day was at the same time. I remember going to the gym and Kerry Kayes [the nutritionist] said: ‘What about the funeral?’ I went: ‘John needs me more than she needs me. She’s got her family and everyone else around her. But he can’t spar today without me.’
“I can understand why that didn’t go down well at home. But Ferguson, Mourinho and Klopp have got that ruthless streak, and you need it. But [he and his wife] kept talking and the kids really turned out well.”
Gallagher will have “more X-rays in mid-April and then at the end of the month we’ll find out whether the cancer has shrunk or whether we’re going for a dual operation in May or June. I’m thinking: ‘Great, because I can recover in the summer and be ready for September.’”
There is so much admirable positivity here but Gallagher does not avoid the fact that Phil Martin, his mentor and former trainer, died from cancer when he was just 44 in May 1994. We sit outside Martin’s old office and Gallagher has ensured that the entire gym remains largely unchanged.
At 17 he became one of Martin’s few white fighters, when Moss Side was a deprived and mainly African-Caribbean neighbourhood. Martin had started Champs Camp in the aftermath of the 1981 riots and the trainer influenced Gallagher in profound ways. Walking around the gym, showing me old photographs and posters, he makes it clear how precious it is to follow the philosophies he learned from Martin – who helped him become a trainer in the same way that Gallagher has inspired his former fighters Anthony Crolla and Scott Quigg to start coaching young boxers.
Gallagher told me years ago how he used to visit Martin’s graveside before big fights. “I still do that today,” he confirms. “But I also think subconsciously, although I try not to let it surface, I’ve been here before. Phil got diagnosed in November [1993] and he was gone [six] months later. It was in his liver and bloods so I know how aggressive it can be.” His face crumples and his eyes swim with tears when I ask if he has been thinking of Martin more than ever. “Yeah.”
Gallagher can’t talk as he struggles to stop crying. “Excuse me,” he eventually says softly.
Thirty seconds later he sounds strong again. “Before all the big fights I go see Phil [at the cemetery]. I also have a fight-night ritual where, before I leave the hotel room, I say my prayers to a few people, and that always includes Phil. I pray for all the fighters, not just my own, asking for them to come out safe and sound. I also ask Phil if he can guide me during the fight, to make sure I say the right thing at the right time. It’s peaceful after I’ve done that.”
It’s also important that, despite his searing commitment to boxing, Gallagher puts his own health first. “I’m trying to do that now. Early on I probably buried my head in the sand a little. I had training camps and big fights and just went from one to the other. It was really intense from November to March but I’ve got some breathing space coming up.
“Last week was the worst week so far. I’ve been really tired. Massive stomach cramps. But it still feels very surreal talking about it. The gym is flying and sometimes I wish I didn’t know I had cancer and could carry on as normal all the time. But I’m doing all the treatment and, if it means I’m here a bit longer, then it’s worth it. Most of all, everyone needs the message that you’re not too young to have a stool sample at 30 or 40. I don’t want anyone to be surprised in the way that I was by cancer.”
We go back downstairs and Gallagher talks to his fighters – who all exude positivity and good cheer around their trainer. In such a gritty setting, and amid the bleak reality of cancer, their work together brings so much light and hope. His young boxers also offer an uplifting antidote to societal despair over toxic masculinity as they are full of kindness and purpose, good cheer and thoughtful questions. They owe so much, rather than just winning fights and titles, to their trainer.
Gallagher looks around the gym he loves. He is in a difficult corner but he has so much to live for and so much more to give. There is vast experience and optimism too as Gallagher tries to live in the here and the now, no matter how bruising it feels.
“People say I’m stubborn but I’m not ignorant,” he suggests. “I’m aware of what’s gone on in the past with Phil. I’ve also spoken to lots of people from different walks of life who have reached out and told me about their experiences [surviving cancer]. It’s been really inspiring. I’ve just got to enjoy it for as long as I can. I feel that more than ever.”
