II’ve been around boxers for around 30 years. I’ve got used to their rhythms and habits, but there’s a strange ritual I still can’t get my head around.

In the week before a tournament they all get accommodated in the same hotel, although in rare instances world champions demand their own spot. Sometimes they get it.

But for the most part all the fighters congregate in the same place, sharing lounges, breakfast rooms and even the gym. They can’t avoid one another.

It’s often the calm before the storm. Fighters brush past one another in the dinner queue or look across the room, often straight into the face of the opponent they’ll be boxing. There must be a tension that simmers below, but you would never know it. The boxers are mostly quiet and cordial. Respect is their currency.

They doubtless take a look at their plates of food. The bigger guys tend to pile it on; the smaller boxers less so. The boxer who snacks on a lettuce leaf or a single piece of fruit is often struggling with weight. All the signs are there.

Just this morning, I was in the cosy hotel gym when former world champion Ruslan Provodnikov walked in for a workout. Five minutes later, Jesus Alvarez Rodriguez, his opponent on Saturday, strolled in for a run on the treadmill. They didn’t acknowledge each other, the Mexican only doing so with a quick wave upon leaving.

Sunday mornings, the day after the action, are surreal. Bleary-eyed boxers shuffle down to breakfast. Half who do so are winners, the other half are not. The mood is low-key and the fighters wear their scars of battle with quiet dignity. There are puffed eyes and split lips, broken brows and bruised bodies. It’s like a war zone.

They smile and they laugh and they wonder what might have been.

It’s just how boxers are. It’s how they’ve always been. And I love them.