Ringside, among the thuds and roars, they sit — half in the moment, half in some higher plane of focus. The doctor’s chair is never quite in the ring, never quite out, and that’s about right. It’s a profession wedged between worlds: part healer, part referee, part unwitting philosopher of human limits.

Take Dr Rowan, a woman of boundless kindness and composure. You could set off a firework behind her and she’d probably just offer it a sympathetic smile, like all our ringside doctors she has presence, the kind of presence that cools a room by two degrees simply by entering it. Boxers walk up jittering with nerves, coaches jangle with last-minute advice, and there’s Dr Rowan, checking gum-shields and heartbeats with the calm of someone defusing a bomb over breakfast. Warm, endlessly patient, the sort of doctor who can smile while telling you to sit still so she can poke at your eye with a penlight. It amazes me how all of our doctors can be asking the same question for the fiftieth time with a patience that borders on supernatural. Warm, gracious, endlessly steady, most if not all could stitch a cut and settle a crisis without spilling a drop of tea.



Then, crashing into the car park like a sonic boom, comes Dr Usman piloting a BMW so loud it could startle the dead into filing a noise complaint. When the man steps ringside, though, the noise fades, and the precision clicks in. Handsome in the sort of way that draws commentary, oh did it. When Dr Usman dropped to one knee to tie his shoelace, the supervisor Clare let out a rather loud and unfiltered yes, momentarily entertaining the delicious fantasy that the good doctor was about to propose mid-show.

Joking aside he’s a study in precision: brisk, witty, and sharper than half the corners combined. His deadpan one-liners come free to officials.

These are but 2 examples of the countless amazing doctors who have supported our sport for so long and no doubt saved countless your athletes from serious injury. 



And through all this, we forget just how demanding their day jobs are. It’s hard not to wonder, watching them calmly juggling the day’s chaos, whether boxing shows couldn’t double as pop-up clinics to ease the pressure on the NHS. Between the pre-bout medicals, the gum-shield checks, the pulse-taking, and the last-minute “I-just-need-a-form-signed” brigade, they run what feels like a small, efficient GP surgeries before the first bell even rings.



What makes these doctors extraordinary isn’t the checklists or the stethoscopes. It’s the way they walk the tightrope. They know when blood is theatre and when it’s threat. They know when to nod a fighter forward — battered but grinning — and when to lift a hand, end the bout, and absorb the outrage that will follow.

 They understand something most of us would rather not: boxing’s greatest danger is not the man across the ring, but the man who can’t yet admit he shouldn’t go on.

So here’s to them — the sharp minds, the calm hands, the unflinching judges of risk and heart. Here’s to Dr Rowans, gentle and brilliant, and Dr Usman, and the countless others for their compassion and love for our sporting family thank you Usman for the dry wit with the thunderous BMW. Here’s to the doctors who keep this wild, defiant sport on the right side of its own appetite.

Boxing sees you. Boxing thanks you. And God knows there would be no boxing without you.