I lost Michael as soon as we came through the door. He was moving in amongst the crush of bodies, looking for somewhere with a decent view. Pushing and shoving was licensed by the atmosphere of masculine excess, and everybody was enjoying the break from politeness, shouldering one another harder than was necessary, falling and charging with the surge of the crowd. I leant forwards over the broad black backs of the men in front, and stared into the ring. Two boxers were fighting.

I had never seen a boxing match before. It was clear from the level of physical damage that this one had been going on for some time, and was not bound by the usual rules of safety. The man facing me was small and compact, his meaty frame heaving with exhaustion, shaking like an engine housing. He had his gloved fists up in front of his nose, but they dipped from tiredness to disclose a swollen and bleeding face, with brown hair matted by sweat to the forehead. The other fighter was tall and black with short cropped hair. His skin was dark enough to mask the red of the blood, so his face looked slick and wet. His torso was a perfect anatomy of muscle, uncompromised by the slightest hint of fat or bone, and in this atmosphere of carving and sculpture he looked like a piece of art come to life. He was still moving on the balls of his feet, swapping his weight with a neat step from one to the other. He worried his opponent with a flurry of jabs. When one of the fighters was forced back against the edge of the living ring, they would be shielded from further blows and then repelled by a forest of arms. I drank quickly from my bottle of champagne, eager to catch up with the mood. Some of the men in the crowd were crying ‘Francis!’ and others were shouting ‘Jonny!’ I guessed that Francis was the tall fighter, Jonny the shorter and more compact. Francis was the subject of my host’s story, the other boy I had seen walking away from my rooms. As they danced around one another, their blood fell in small dark spots on the rich green carpet. At first I was indifferent to their fate, happy to enjoy the carnal spectacle. As the fight wore on, however, I became aware of a preference, evolving unprompted from the unconscious ooze and breathing thought: I wanted the black guy to win. The preference grew into empathy. My feelings, my hopes and fears became caught up in the shuffle of his feet. I felt the visceral pain of a blow landed on his fine body, and the bloody pleasure of a strike in return. I let my emotions grow up his fate like a creeper, winding around his thick limbs. I had never cared for sport before, but I began to watch with a fan’s commitment. I began to murmur to myself, inarticulate whimpers and cheers at first, which grew louder as I lost my self-consciousness, forming words and then whole sentences, until I was clamouring along with the rest. ‘Come on, Francis! You can do it!’ I pictured myself leaping on his attacker if he fell. I imagined myself into the drama. I felt as I willed him on that my faith could exert some practical effect on his chances. I thought at the time that I was inspired by the sport, but I was really inspired by the sportsman. Francis’s greatest charm was to make everyone, from the waiters who refilled his glass to the girls who wanted him, think: I could be the one to help him. From the moment that thought had struck, to give in to exasperation and leave his side was to betray oneself. As I watched him fight, I was lost.