We were only a minute into the third round of sparring but already I was weak with exhaustion, flat-footed and breathing through my mouth, sagging against the ropes, my elbows pressed protectively against my lower ribcage, my hands raised to protect my head, the black leather of the fourteen-ounce Lonsdale gloves slick with sweat against my face.

The punches kept coming.

They were being thrown by a small man with long silver hair poking out of his old Everlast headguard. He grinned broadly at my exhaustion, revealing both a mean streak and a blue mouthguard. Hunched behind his tight, high guard, risking nothing, he moved in for the finish.

With my face buried deep into my gloves, I felt his body shots rip into my side with blinding speed. The small man was both skinny and muscle-packed, and hit very hard. Left ribs, right ribs. Left ribs, right ribs. I dug my elbows in deeper, but I could still feel their whiplash sting.

We were face to face now. At six feet, I towered above my opponent – Fred was his name – but probably the first thing I had ever learned in a boxing ring is that speed beats power. The bigger you are, the more there is to hit.

A left hook came through my ragged defence and made me gasp as it struck the lowest rib. I dug my elbows in deeper, really not wanting another one, and the moment I lowered my gloves a few inches Fred smacked me in my poorly guarded head.

Upstairs downstairs, I thought, cursing my basic mistake – leaving one area undefended while another is being attacked. I rolled against the ropes, willing my legs to work, trying to get back up on the balls of my feet.

But a left hook cracked against the right side of my headguard, and then a right hook cracked harder against the left side, making my ears ring despite the thick protective leather of my headguard.

I must have instinctively lifted my gloves a fraction to protect my head because Fred whipped in a wicked left hook, digging me low in the right ribs.

He was flagging too. Hitting someone non-stop takes it out of you. His combinations were slowing down, but a body shot is the hardest punch to recover from and I felt my dead legs sagging. Everything was telling me to go down. But I didn’t go down. I stayed on my feet, kept up by nothing but the ropes behind me and the will inside.

Fred grinned at me, revealing that old blue mouthguard. I watched him lift the elbow of his left arm, preparing for a left hook. But such is the beautiful balance of boxing that if your opponent can hit you then you are in a position to hit them back.

I saw my chance and took it.