Who knows how Wayne McCullough spent last weekend at his Las Vegas home? Presumably he trained a little - a road run or two, some gym work, a bit of sparring - and afterwards spent some time with his wife and young daughter. Then in the evening, just as things started to get a little cooler after another blistering midsummer day, he might have settled down in front of the television.

Perhaps there was some boxing from some far-flung corner of the world that caught his eye, a world title fight that brought it all back. And as he flicked through the sports channels he might have come across the sun-drenched pictures from St Andrews and checked up on the progress of Darren Clarke, his contemporary and fellow countryman. Home thoughts from abroad.

It was difficult not to think about both of them over the last few days and compare their respective career trajectories. While Clarke was comfortably punching his weight with the best golfers in the world - with the obvious exception of Tiger Woods - news was filtering through from the relative isolation of the US of yet another turn in the career of McCullough. At first the boxer and the golfer might appear unlikely career bedfellows, connected only by the geographical accident of birth. But they have much more in common. Both have reached an age - McCullough has just turned 30 while Clarke will be 32 next month - where they might reasonably be expected to have accumulated enough experience to be near the peak of their chosen crafts. The solitary and individualised nature of their sporting paths also places a high premium on strength of personality and character and each has struggled in different ways to conquer their own particular demons. There has always been something of a contradiction in the way in which two men of a similar age and from relatively similar backgrounds have gone about their sporting business. While you might have thought the boxer would be the impetuous, irascible one and it would be the golfer who took the more patient and considered path, the opposite has in fact been true. As a result, the careers of both have been stymied to varying degrees.

Both men have had to cope with levels of expectation of a sporting community grown thin on a diet of underachievement. Clarke had his first taste of it three years ago when he led the British Open going into the Sunday afternoon and prompted a local media feeding frenzy in the process. It would be trite to say this alone contributed to his blow-up during that final round but there is every indication that it did not exactly help his cause. With Clarke there is always something bubbling just below the surface.

McCullough, meanwhile, had his introduction to the goldfish bowl in the fall-out from his silver medal win at the Barcelona Olympics in 1992. Even then his perception was that the relentless expectant examination of his every move would be more of a hindrance than an advantage and he decamped to the US and the relative anonymity of the life of a rookie in Las Vegas. And despite everything he has achieved since then, the lingering doubt is that he has never quite shaken off that diffidence and allowed himself to soar.

There was a world title but that was five years ago. In the period since he has fought for three world belts and lost each one in turn to Zaragoza, Hamed and Morales. Along the way there has been a parting of the ways with his erstwhile manager, promoter and friend, Mat Tinley, and the man who trained him to a world title, the inestimable Eddie Futch. McCullough's wife, Cheryl, then took over the managerial duties but the void in the quality of his preparation for big fights left by the departure of Futch has never been satisfactorily filled.

For at least two years now McCullough's career has been largely directionless and the inescapable impression was that of a boxer whose best days have come and gone. The courage he displayed in his fights, particularly against both Hamed and Morales, is indisputable but, as precious a commodity as it might be, world titles are not built on bravery alone. When the really hard searching questions have been asked McCullough has come up one or two notches short.

Now he has turned to one Dan Goossen, who has taken over promotion of his fights and is planning a flurry of action for his new charge after a period of inactivity that stretches back almost nine months to that last defeat by Erik Morales. With his assertion that "win or lose, Wayne comes fit and strong and ready for war", McCullough's new promoter certainly talks the right kind of fight but whether that will be enough to help him scale the heights of five or six years ago is something else entirely.

The rise and rise of Darren Clarke should provide him with some of the inspiration he needs. Just 12 months ago the parallels between two careers that promised a lot but threatened ultimately to deliver much less would have been irresistible. Clarke's talent for the spectacular was there for all to see with his extravagant rounds in the low 60s but too often he would then follow them with a miserable effort. At times he seemed like a sportsman at war with himself, frustrated by the knowledge of his own ability and by the seeming impossibility of translating that into genuine, sustainable success. But then something happened. Of course there was the tremendous self-affirmation of the World Matchplay win against Tiger Woods last autumn, but the change had been in train before that. Clarke has become a man more at peace with himself and that created a space in which he could give his talent full rein. The results, most pertinently last weekend at the British Open, but also right through this season, have been there for all to see.

What is there for Wayne McCullough to learn from Clarke's journey? Primarily, it should show him that the toughest battle he will ever have is with himself and the biggest struggle of all is for a degree of self-knowledge. All of this mattered little when he skipped off all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed to America and the endless crocks of gold it offered eight years ago. But now as he sits alone in his Las Vegas living-room maybe, just maybe, his mind gets to thinking that he might be better off at home among his own.