On an April evening in Dubai last spring, Carl Frampton found himself sitting on a stool in the corner of a ring in Caesars Palace. “F*** me,” he thought to himself. “This is gonna be a really difficult night.”
The manmade mini-peninsula on which the Northern Irishman was fighting is not steeped in the same boxing history as its Nevada namesake, but it would observe a significant moment in the career of one of this generation’s most talented combatants. It would observe the end of that career, in fact.
