IT IS just before midday when two large security guards rock up at the Las Vegas eatery where Devin Haney is due to sit down for lunch.
They hang around by the door of the private room mainly, looking not so much out of place but short of ideas without their 5ft 8in asset in the vicinity. Not long after, Bill Haney, the father-trainer, arrives and takes a seat for food, but it is another few minutes before the son enters the room and shakes hands with everyone before settling down for an afternoon of talking about fighting.
A plate of cubed melon appears at his small table but he does not seem too interested in eating it, even though he has a few extra pounds
