_Donald McRae has met hundreds of fighters over 50 years watching and writing about boxing. Sometimes interviews have turned into friendships. In his new book McRae relives his time inside the camp of one of his favourite boxers, Isaac Chamberlain, as Chamberlain fought Chris Billam-Smith for European and Commonwealth cruiserweight titles._

_**Bournemouth International Centre, Bournemouth, Saturday 30 July 2022**_

Just after 7pm, at the rear entrance to the arena, I see three ambulances ready to take any stricken fighter to hospital. They are reminders of boxing’s gravity. Mick Hennessy is also nervous. “It’s a 50/50 fight,” the promoter says. “The first six rounds are vital. Isaac needs to use his superior skills, but he has to be very careful. Chris is dangerous.”

Chris Billam-Smith arrives at 7.15pm. His nickname is The Gentleman and he stops to say hello. He shakes our hands and smiles. Five minutes later, Isaac lifts his hand in sombre greeting. This is not a time for words.

Billam-Smith is in dressing room A. Behind its blue door, Shane and Barry McGuigan will bring fresh intensity to his last few hours of preparation. Six years ago to this very night, on 30 July 2016, I had been with Shane and Barry in their Brooklyn locker room as they helped Carl Frampton beat Léo Santa Cruz and become, after an epic battle, a two-weight world champion.

I am still good friends with Barry, but I belong in the opposite camp now. I tap gently on the green door to dressing room B and open it to see Isaac stretched out on a grey sofa. He smiles and says: “It’s good you’re here, bro.”

When Barry arrives to observe Isaac’s hands being wrapped, he does not offer his usual warmth or a long conversation about life, family and boxing. We say hello briefly.

Bobby Mills begins a familiar ritual. He massages Isaac’s right hand while Barry watches with an inscrutable expression. Bobby works carefully and I suspect he is very nervous. Apart from this being his first title fight as a trainer, he has to deal with the presence of Barry, a great figure in British and Irish boxing and a former world champion.

Isaac’s right hand is wrapped first and the silence deepens as Bobby methodically covers the knuckles and works his way down past the wrist. He uses a small pair of scissors to cut the gauzy material and then tape it down.

Barry asks him how many pieces of tape he plans to use on the back of Isaac’s hands. It already looks to him as if there are enough. “That’s the last one,” Bobby says softly.

The young trainer looks at Isaac to check that the wrap is not too tight. Isaac flexes his fingers and bunches a fist that he hopes will knock Billam-Smith into oblivion. He is happy.

Barry looks carefully and then nods his assent.

Bobby repeats the procedure with the left hand and, this time, Barry accepts it without comment. Isaac opens and shuts his fists again as Barry returns to the Billam-Smith dressing room where Jon Pegg has monitored the wrapping of the champion’s hands.

While Isaac stretches and exercises, I go for a short walk. It’s a gorgeous evening on the Bournemouth seafront. But, once I am back inside, the arena is uncomfortably hot and crammed. Young men and women are dressed up, drinking and jabbering excitedly. An occasional roar erupts when a decent punch lands in the ring. My seat at ringside is empty. It’s in the press row, but I won’t be working. This is too personal.

It is bedlam in Bournemouth as the trainers leave the ring. Chamberlain comes out fast, looking sharp behind his jab, landing early, but Billam-Smith ties him up in a clinch. They are both alert but it’s Chamberlain who clips the champion with another series of jabs and a decent left cross. He makes Billam-Smith miss with a swinging right before Chamberlain is bullied back against the ropes. The blueprint for Billam-Smith seems obvious. He wants to use his greater strength to negate Chamberlain’s skills. They end the round trading fiercely.

The Chamberlain jab is slick in the second but, a minute into the round, Billam-Smith has the challenger pinned against the ropes. He catches Chamberlain with spiteful combinations, only for the Brixton man to fire back in a blistering exchange. Billam-Smith rocks him before Chamberlain responds with a peach of a right and then a shuddering left.

Chamberlain nails Billam‑Smith, only to be punished by an immediate hook to the body and a right hand.

They keep firing punches at each other on the ropes as the bell finally rings.

They work on both fighters in the corner, trying to replenish them after such a gruelling round. Pride and dread, a curious combination, churn through me.

Billam-Smith comes out brawling for the third, but Chamberlain sinks a left hook to his gut.

He then tags Billam-Smith with a jolting right uppercut. The champion fights back and responds with a peach of a right and then a shuddering left.

In the corner, McGuigan tells Billam-Smith to forget about feeling tired. The champion responds and wins the next two rounds.

In the blue corner, Pegg steps into the ring to address Chamberlain face-to-face while Mills works from outside the ropes. It’s a smart switch because Pegg talks bluntly. He tells Chamberlain that, while he can no longer win on points, he can still win by knockout.

It’s the right call but, in his first 12-round fight, there is not much pop left in Chamberlain’s punches. Billam-Smith looks too strong, too rugged, as he targets Chamberlain’s almost shut eye. After they clinch, red streaks of blood from the wounded eye run down Billam‑Smith’s back.

At the start of the last round, Billam-Smith raises his arms in triumph while the crowd whoop and roar. Chamberlain, half‑blinded, walks across the ring to touch gloves.

During the next two and a half minutes, hooks and uppercuts sink into an exhausted Chamberlain. The crowd are having a party, chanting Billam-Smith’s name, but Chamberlain is not done yet. He begins to throw punches from both wings. With 12 seconds on the clock, he hurts Billam-Smith with a big left hand and follows it with a combination. Billam-Smith punches back before Chamberlain catches him again. The champion sags against the ropes as Chamberlain pounds him twice more in the last five seconds. Billam-Smith is reeling at the bell as the referee jumps between them. It has been a brave finish to an outstanding fight.

Each of the three judges has recorded the same 117–111 score. Chamberlain paws at his eye when the key word of “still” confirms that Billam-Smith has retained his titles. I stand up and head for the losing dressing room.

After 40 minutes, Conor Ward, one of Isaac’s corner men, says he will be on his way back soon. He urges us to applaud Isaac when he comes into the room. Another 20 minutes pass and the heat feels stifling. But I can’t leave until I see Isaac.

Conor is back. He looks worried. “Isaac needs to go to hospital,” he says. “I’ve got to pack his bag.”

I wait outside in the corridor, not sure what to do next. Then, down the passage, a door opens. Two paramedics wheel a stretcher carrying Isaac. His eyes are shut, with the left one a small dark hill of swollen flesh.

“Isaac,” I say gently. He turns his head painfully in my direction and opens his one good eye.

He looks dazed and lost. “It’s Don,” I say. “Don, I’m sorry,” he mumbles, lifting his right hand to take mine. “I tried. I really tried.”

A tear slips from his open eye.

“I’m proud of you, Isaac,” I say. “You did so well.” “Walk with me,” he says.

I walk alongside Isaac on his stretcher, his hand holding mine. He closes his working eye and we move down the corridor. Beyond the clatter of the wheels, there is just  silence.

Outside, the ambulance doors are open. The stretcher is pushed towards the gangway. Isaac allows my hand to leave his and then he is gone, up and into the ambulance.

At 5.09 the following afternoon, Isaac posted a photo on Twitter. It had been taken deep in the fight and it captured him staring intently across the ring. His brow was furrowed and his mouth half-open so that his gumshield could be seen, while the grotesque mound beneath his left eye was made to look even worse by the oozing blood. Another trail of blood, from a gash above the same eye, ran down his cheek and merged with the first red trickle like tributaries of a river.

Isaac : “Broke my orbital bone in round three and fought to the end. Are you really willing to die for this? I’m built for this. I’ll be back.”

I texted Isaac and told him about all the plaudits he had received in the usually bitter world of social media and how the bout was being described as a British Fight of the Year contender. I also told him how McGuigan had messaged me to praise his talent and bravery. “Thank you so much bro,” Isaac replied.

He faced eye surgery, but his next tweet late at night on Friday 5 August carried more hope.

“Lots of people are quietly fighting their own battles in life and my performance is inspiration that you can continue long past the point you think you might be done.”

_This is an edited extract from , published by Simon & Schuster on 13 March._

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