The communal head guard was always too tight. The gum shield always dug in a little on one side. The ring was small and the shallow vaulted ceiling narrowed the space above still further. I sat on the ring apron, sweat flooding from every pore. In the ring a 17-year-old with a mop of blond hair and pale blue eyes was dancing, feet sliding effortlessly across the canvas as my fellow 30-something plodded toward him. Two minute rounds that lasted a week inside the ropes, a handful of breaths on the outside, ticked past.

The youngster was talented. A natural. Quick, elusive and brave, he punched harder than a Lightweight should too. I was the bigger man, I mumbled in the torment of knowing I had to get back in when the two minutes ended and the minute’s rest the kid didn’t need was up. His quarry’s nose sprang a bloody leak and brought an early close to my wait. Most of the time I’d spent on that apron I’d contemplated how I could get out of this position with pride in tact. Or whether I really cared about my pride. A childhood spent avoiding fights had brought me to this place twenty years on. I’d smirked at the swell of dread, tasted its familiarity. A nervous response to the absurdity of being where I was. As the other victim climbed down, bright red ribbons running into his mouth the colour correspondingly drained from my face.