Hey Jude – Newtown on his shoulders…

The sun shone kindly on the streets of Newtownstewart on Tuesday evening as local people lined the paths in eager anticipation of the return of their homecoming king.

Had a lost tourist wandered into the celebrations, even the most superficial examination of their surroundings would have made it abundantly clear what was going on.

Pictures, posters and a huge gable-wall-sized banner depicted a young, lean boxer doing what he does best. There was no doubt, this crowd were awaiting the return of a fighting hero.

Speculation as to what time the ‘Tyrone Tornado’ was supposed to blow into town was rife, with guesses varying from, “I’d say he’ll be here in the next ten minutes” to “not for another couple of hours yet, sir.”

But, while the expected arrival time of the newly-crowned Commonwealth champ differed widely, estimations of his character were uniformly positive.

Each person we spoke to seemed to either know Jude and like Jude, or know Jude and love Jude.

“He’s the most driven, most modest, most lovely young fella you’re ever going to meet,” said one woman, subtly stealing a glance towards the top of the town every few seconds to check if the Tornado and his team were entering the scene.

Then, mid-sentence, the ancient music of a pipe band called and the crowd answered. All attention was stolen from time-passing conversations as every head swiveled toward the head of the town.

At the front of the parade stepped the slight, proud figure of the featherweight champion, flanked on all sides by his young clubmates.

The cheers ascended from the footpaths as Jude and his team slowly made their way through this ally of adulation.

Looking on, it almost seemed obvious that the young boxers who walked alongside Jude were absorbing the energy of the moment to fuel their dreams for the future. Literally, they were following in his footsteps. If they could come close to staying in step with him figuratively, Newtownstewart will soon be the single-most successful boxing town in Ireland.

Much of crowd followed Jude and his wee army as they headed towards the stage, which had been set up behind the Castle Hotel.

The pipe band followed about 30 feet behind, and a huge articulated lorry adorned with a ‘Well done Jude’ banner held anchor to the musicians.

Out the back of the hotel, Jude was politely swarmed: Officious handshakes were graciously received; rough, proud hugs were accepted in smiling surrender; and then Jude’s newborn nephew was taken in his arms for the first time.

Of the eyes which witnessed this magic moment, at least half were helplessly filled with water. The more emotionally restrained just about managed to choke them back, the less, however, burst into big, heavy tears.

“I just can’t stop crying!” cried one woman in a sobbing shriek.

The whole thing felt different from any other homecoming I’ve ever been at. When a national team arrives back in the capital city, people celebrate an abstract idea of nationhood – kind of false or tenuous oneness.

And even when a local GAA club win a championship, in order for many to fully join in on the celebrations, temporary truces have to be agreed and old scores have to be set aside.

But this was different. The prevailing feeling was one of total, uncomplicated, genuine happiness for the achievement of somebody that everybody likes.

In the world of boxing, self-regard is rife, but nobody seems to detect it in Jude: It felt like people really believed that Jude won his gold, not only for himself, but, in some sense, for everyone else too.