They danced in the flickering light. Their feet bounced from the floor to the night sky, practically weightless. The competitors glimmered with sweat as they concentrated on the wordless motion of offense, their blood-red gloves tapping a punch.

There were no built-up hits or unrestrained power; they played in a tricky order. They danced back and forth, buzzing like high-strung bees containing their anger.

There were no humans in that ring – only two animals. The only thing to ­decide in this combat was who was the predator and who the prey. Instinct flowed through the veins of the boxers. A wild-eyed panther took shape inside each man, for nothing mattered more than taking down his opponent.

I watched in fascinated wonder. How could we still be so animal, through all we’ve accomplished? Such a primitive sport, but I never knew it could be so beautiful: the flash of bright silk clothing and darkness enveloping them.

Some things never leave us, no matter how hard we fight them; our animal instincts have not died.