There are moments when life surprises you — not with triumph, but with the heavy ache of remembrance.

The night my son fought, he fought not just for himself, not just for victory, but — as I would realise — for something larger, older, sadder. The bout was won, the crowd cheered, and the belt was brought forward. Not the usual belt, mind you; the coordinators, in the chaos of the evening, placed into his hands a belt bearing an engraving on one side: “Ed Bilbey Memorial Belt” — and on the other: “Youth Welterweight Champion.”

A strange stillness filled me.

I had never known Ed Bilbey, yet I knew him. Not by face or by laugh, but by spirit for he was a young boxer, 17 when he stepped into the ring for the last time. A boy who trained, who sweated, who fought, who believed, just as my son does, just as every young fighter does, with a heart filled with fire and fists filled with dreams.

And in that instant, I a father, a spectator, a man standing just beyond the ropes was reminded of the fierce fragility of this sport we love.

Ed was not my son, but he could have been. My boy, only a few months younger, stood holding the belt once fought for, once chased by Ed his last bout was for this very weight and age category . And in the glint of the brass, I saw not just a prize, but a memory, a name, a flame.

What is youth, if not the brilliant refusal to believe that limits exist? What is boxing, if not the art of pushing against them? In his 17 years, Ed Bilbey had achieved what many do not in sixty: the passion to chase something, the courage to stand exposed, the love for a craft that can both lift and break the human heart.

I cannot begin to imagine the grief borne by his mother, his loved ones, his coaches but I can stand, quietly, and honour the space his name fills. We in the boxing world, we live surrounded by names and belts and banners, but some names rise above decoration and become something else entirely: a call to remember.

Tonight, my son’s belt rests on the table. But beside its weight sits another, invisible weight: the knowledge that his journey, his youth, his victory, are shared with those who came before. The name Ed Bilbey reminds us that every fighter who steps through the ropes does so with bravery, that every bout carries risk, and that no passion is free from cost.

We will not forget you, Ed. Not in the gyms. Not in the rings. Not in the stories told between fathers and sons, between coaches and boxers, between those who know what it is to live for something greater than yourself.

In the end, Ed’s light burns on — not extinguished, but multiplied, scattered into the hands and hearts of those who still dare to dream.