Derek Chisora, Father Time and me

The first time I was ringside for a Derek Chisora contest was on May 15, 2010, when he drubbed the remnants of Danny Williams in four minutes and 41 seconds to win the British heavyweight title on a sunny evening at Upton Park, the home of West Ham United, in east London. 

With the victory, 26-year-old “Del Boy” took his record to 13-0.

Twenty-four other boxers appeared on that Frank Warren-promoted show. Kevin Mitchell challenged lightweight belt-holder Michael Katsidis in the main event, top prospects like James DeGale, Billy Joe Saunders, Frankie Gavin, Ryan and Liam Walsh were showcased, so too leading domestic contenders like Ricky Burns and Matthew Hall, while plenty of familiar road warriors like Johnny Greaves, Ibrar Riyaz and Youssef Al Hamidi occupied the away corner. All 24 have been inactive for several years. Even the stadium itself is a thing of the past.

Now 40, though some of his friends claim he’s even older, Chisora plunders on regardless. Since he knocked out Williams, he’s won 21 bouts and lost 13 to take his record to 34-13 (23 KOs). On Saturday night (July 27) he fights for the 48th time when he faces fellow veteran Joe Joyce in a heavyweight bout scheduled for 12 rounds. When the fight begins, Chisora will answer a bell for the 325th time – though the number of rounds he’s endured in sparring sessions is well into the thousands. 

He will be the star attraction inside London’s O2 Arena.

These days the boxing equivalent of a national treasure, it is nonetheless difficult for some who witnessed his rise and numerous falls over the years to watch him in action today. The last time I did so, at least in person, was in May 2021 when he suffered the first of two consecutive decision defeats to Joseph Parker. I vowed never to do so again.

It was a very different experience to the first time. Different, too, to seeing him trounce Sam Sexton, lose to an up-and-coming Tyson Fury, get robbed blind against Robert Helenius in Helsinki, get knocked out by David Haye, go to war with Dillian Whyte, flatten Carlos Takam, or end the career of David Price. Though my private wish for him to walk away unscathed became more pronounced with each passing fight, the feeling of impending doom was almost suffocating during that loss to Parker. It felt like he might short circuit at any moment. 

I’ve interviewed him several times during his career, never once feeling like we had any kind of genuine rapport, but I developed genuine affection for this unique and layered individual. In his heart, I always sense, is a desire to be liked, to be accepted, to feel like he belongs. His love of fighting is secondary to the status of being a fighter. Being a fighter – or rather, being known as a fighter, one who is big and strong and brave and fearless – is what he’s long struggled to relinquish. 

“Let me tell you something about boxing,” he once told me. “It is the crème de la crème of all sports. Forget football and the Premier League. You have some players that are king of kings but in boxing, the moment you lace up the gloves, and you are a boxer, then you make a name for yourself. You are a king in your own right.”

Our first interview occurred in 2010 when he’d secured a shot at Wladimir Klitschko, a fight that never materialized. He laid out his ambitions in scattergun style, failing but never really trying to concentrate on our conversation. As he invited perplexed onlookers to take his picture and exhibited his boredom if certain subjects lingered too long, it was obvious that he wasn’t in the mood to be interviewed. In the end, as we walked along the South Bank in the heart of the capital, he darted onto a pod on the London Eye to escape. 

He has matured immeasurably, particularly since he became a father, but the mischievous and at times suspicious child within remains. That first Parker fight took place during one of several U.K. lockdowns, so we were in the same hotel, eating breakfast, lunch and dinner in the same restaurant, for almost a week. He spent much of it wearing a long white dressing gown, long black cycling shorts and trainers with soles bending under the strain of his heaving frame and pronating feet. 

Up close, I remember being struck with how much his face had changed since I first saw it. The passing of time will do that. Even so, the scars from his occupation were obvious. And as we spoke about his young family, and I was taken with how far he’d come, I wondered how many internal scars existed, the kind that can only be seen later in life. Perhaps it was that unusual level of intimacy before a fight that made the subsequent contest, as heavy blows repeatedly bounced off his skull, all the more uncomfortable to witness. 

Six months later I interviewed Chisora again. It was two weeks before he lost to Parker in their rematch. I pointed out that of the 22 finalists who competed for ABA titles in 2005, he was the only one who still boxed. 

“They’re all fucking pussies,” he said. “I will retire when I want to fucking retire. The worst thing that can happen is you die. That’s the worst thing. Or, you carry on, you keep going. You live life.”

Chisora claimed to not worry about the long-term effects of the countless punches he’s taken to the head. That’s a blessing of sorts. Yet one naturally wonders if it’s true.

Danny Williams told me he was ‘shot’ five months before he lost to Chisora in 2010. He promised to retire afterwards but he did not. He is 51 years old and as of July 2024 is listed as ‘active’ on BoxRec.

“That’s really sad,” Chisora said when I told him Williams was still fighting.