The Return of the Irish Son

Matthew stepped off the plane, stretching out his shoulders after the long flight. His feet touching Irish soil for the first time in what felt like an eternity. In these early hours, the airport belonged to ghosts and lonely travelers—Matthew found peace in such company. No flashing cameras, no press waiting with microphones in his face—just the purr of engines and the shuffle of travelers moving through the terminal. 

Grabbing his duffel from the baggage claim, he threw the strap over his shoulder and made a beeline for the exit. The cold Irish air hit him like a fresh wave, crisp and familiar. It smelled of damp pavement and the sea breeze drifting in from the coast. Good to be back.

He was home.

The journey had been long, the battles hard-fought, but now, in the quiet of his return, he could finally exhale. Stepping outside, the cold Irish air bit at his skin, sharp but familiar. The smell of damp pavement, of the sea lingering somewhere in the distance—it felt like a reset, a break from the whirlwind of fights, lights, and endless training. For the first time in months, Matthew wasn’t “the fighter.” He was just him. 

He walked the familiar streets, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread and the hint of chimney smoke, letting the love and pride of his countrymen wash over him. For so long, he had fought for himself, for the glory and the gold. But now, basking in the warmth feeling of his hometown's embrace, he realized that he had been fighting for something greater all along. He had been fighting for Ireland, for the green and gold that flowed through his veins. He may have bled red, but for Matthew it was green.

Time had transformed the morning's emptiness, filling the spaces with afternoon's restless energy, Matthew knew that he would never stop fighting for the place and the people that made him who he was. And right now, he wanted nothing more than a pint in his favorite pub and a few hours to himself. As he pushed open the heavy wooden door, he stepped through the pub door. 

He instantly regretted it. 

It wasn’t that the place had changed—if anything, it was the same as it had always been. The smell of stale beer and whiskey, a storm of voices crashing through the space, competing with the scratchy old jukebox, the wooden bar polished more by time than by care. Faded rugby jerseys hanging from the ceiling, But the second his boot hit the floor he heard it.

“And just like that, Cade Mercer reverses! He’s got the choke in deep—Matthew’s fading!”

He turned toward the television above the bar, and sure enough, there he was. The final minutes of his last fight played out in grainy slow-motion, his own face twisted in pain, his body locked in a brutal hold. 

Matthew blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected this

He heard his name as he saw the screen.

“Matthew, you mad bastard! Thought you’d gone and stayed in America for good!”

His name flashed in headlines underneath, the commentators’ voices dancing the between clinking glasses. He sighed, dragging a hand through what hair remained on his head. He just wanted a drink.

“Oi, he’s back!” another voice shouted. A few cheers followed, scattered but growing, and suddenly, Matthew felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him.

A clap on the back. A handshake. A few strangers raising their glasses in his direction. He forced a smile, nodding at each one, offering short, polite greetings. “Good to see ya, mate.” “Yeah, cheers.” “Appreciate it.”

His feet itched to turn back toward the door, but he knew that would only make it worse. They weren’t trying to bother him—not really. They were proud. And as much as he wanted to disappear into a dark corner with his pint, he wasn’t going to be rude to the people who still saw him as one of their own.

Finn, the old bartender, slid a pint across the counter with a knowing smirk. “No charge, lad. Welcome home.”

Matthew nodded, taking the glass and wrapping his fingers around the cool condensation. He took a sip, letting the stout settle on his tongue.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

This was home. Whether he wanted the attention or not.