“The Last Dance” is the slogan British heavyweight Derek Chisora has chosen for the final act of his thrilling, title-filled career. This Saturday, the Zimbabwean-born, UK-based fighter will take on Sweden’s Otto Wallin before, barring any changes of heart, hanging up his gloves for good.
For a boxer, saying goodbye is always tough. The feelings it brings are similar to mourning; everything you felt inside the ring vanishes in an instant. That adrenaline rush, mixed with emotions and joy, is gone, and you have no idea how or where to find it again. It’s over. But when does everything truly end?
Anyone who practices this sport knows that a boxing career follows a staircase-like progression. Step by step, you climb to the top, but then, as age catches up and young, hungry contenders emerge, you start descending. It’s in those moments that you realize your true value—how long you can remain a champion, how long you can compete with the best before stepping aside for those who now have a little more to offer than you.
Personally, I understood that my time was up during my penultimate fight, where the European Union title was on the line. I realized I could no longer keep up with a younger opponent who, athletically, was operating at an entirely different speed. I couldn’t match his pace—he was much faster than me, and I couldn’t even anticipate his moves or read his intentions.
My reflexes were no longer what they used to be. My movements had slowed, and only sheer willpower kept me going. Then, when I hit the canvas during an exchange, I knew my journey was likely coming to an end. But as a fighter with a long career behind me, I couldn’t accept finishing that way—with a KO loss.
So I threw myself into training again, undergoing a far more intense preparation than usual for one last fight. I needed to know for sure if it was time to stop—or maybe, deep down, I was just afraid of losing that feeling of happiness I had every time I stepped into the ring.
And then, at the “tender” age of 41, my final fight gave me the certainty I needed: it was time to hang up my gloves. My actions weren’t sharp anymore. Every movement felt too mechanical. My opponent absorbed my punches as if they were nothing, while I, on the other hand, felt every little impact—even scratching my own face with my gloves. Only my experience allowed me to secure the win, but that night, I knew without a doubt that my body was no longer suited for boxing.
After the fight, to avoid falling into depression, I tried coaching. But it’s not the same. Being a boxer is an overwhelming mix of emotions—adrenaline, fear, joy, and chills—that are impossible to describe. It’s what I experienced over 31 years in the sport, and when it faded, it left a deep void that’s hard to fill.
Returning to “normal” life takes time to process. You need support from the people around you and a mindset even stronger than the one it took to be a fighter. Only acceptance can help you move forward. Yet, deep inside, you remain a boxer, and in your daily life, you still think that way. You act egocentrically, you feel like a know-it-all, and you constantly try to relive your sporting adventures through your stories.
You do this because, in the end, a boxer’s greatest fear isn’t losing a fight—it’s being forgotten. It’s finding yourself alone, unsure of what to do next. Because those who step into the ring, or once did, love this sport so deeply, so obsessively, that they can never truly accept saying, “I’m done. It’s over.”
And so, at any age, you still find ways to “fight”—in debates, at work, or simply by reminiscing about everything you once achieved in your career. That’s why I always say: once a career has been stitched onto your skin, you never really stop being a boxer.