BEFORE throwing his first punch of the day, Michael Conlan needed to talk about it. He needed to talk about how two fists – tools of his trade, tools he would soon wrap and throw – led to the death of a 28-year-old Russian with whom he once shared a fight card, a profession and a dream. ‘I knew that guy,’ Conlan said, shaking his head. ‘We boxed on the same show. He was a great guy.’