But it is a fight for all. For honour. For courage. For pride. For manhood. For enduring pain beyond imagination. For glory itself.

For all ages and old alike.

The release of a boxing epic depends on more than just the union of two of the best boxers on the planet. It requires a pair of heroes to give more than what we merely watch with a human right to expect. Step up to Derek Chisora ​​and Joy Joyce.

‘Is this the Fight of the Year?’ a naive, innocent man asked his promoter on Saturday night.

Wrong question. Although close to the answer from the promoter of the Fight of the Century. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Frank Warren.

Well, we have. But not in 50 years, but in a few months. Not since the hot dawn over the Philippines on October 1, 1975, when Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier reached the pinnacle of their immortal trinity.

Not since the earth-shattering morning when Smokin’ Joe was banned by Eddie Futch for the 15th and final round. A ban for which Frazier would never forgive his trainer, who, despite his swollen eyes and almost blinding eyes, still shouted: ‘I can find him with my fists.’

Not since The Greatest was saved from relinquishing his world heavyweight throne by mere seconds when trainer Angelo Dundee delayed complying with the order to cut off his gloves long enough for Futch to knock him out and retire. Ali said: ‘That’s the closest I’ve ever come to dying.’

Not since the film Thrilla in Manila.

Chisora ​​and Joyce couldn’t claim to be that great, but they deserved to be praised together in 2002.

From the first second to the final bell, they pounded each other with more sledgehammer blows than a week of roadworks in London. It was a miracle that both were still standing when the contracted ten rounds were completed.

Those heavy heads bounced like boulders from shoulder to shoulder. Sweat streamed down the ring. Internal organs groaned from the pounding of those massive bodies.

Del Boy – or War as Chisora ​​later liked to be called – landed more blows and with it the decision. Not to mention that Juggernaut Joe didn’t even try to block or dodge the punches. Neither did the Ultimate Warriors.

For us, their head-on collision will be unforgettable. For them, who knows how quickly they will forget. Brain scans are unlikely to produce beautiful readings. That they will continue to do this to others and themselves, they have now relapsed.

Chisora, aged 40, has promised to retire after this ‘farewell dance’. Joyce, 38, has told us for two years that he knows he is taking more punishment than is good for the long-term health of any Homo Sapien.

Now Chisora ​​has announced he wants to continue fighting until his 50th birthday, continuing with fights in Manchester this December and in his African birthplace, Zimbabwe, next year. The cheers rang out. Now Joyce asked the crowd: ‘Do you want to see more of me?’ Again, the cheers rang out.

It was the drug-like addiction of real fighters in the spotlight, the drama, the bloody sawdust, the turpentine, the thrill and danger, the roar of the crowd.

Should they be saved from themselves? Yes, this mano-a-mano brutality was legalized violence. Though in its savagery it would have delighted the audience at the Coliseum.

Here, in the 21st century, Chisora ​​was given the thumbs up by the judges in white robes but black suits. Not just because he scored the only knockdown, with a right hand from deep in a Joyce attack in the ninth round.

Should we watch this show? That was the question we had to ask ourselves on the journey home in the dark hours.

But in the sheer excitement of that moment, we stood up to salute them. Oleksandr Usyk is among us, the undefeated, unified world heavyweight champion taking a night off from advising Ukraine’s Olympic boxing team to support Chisora, who has been his friend since their fight propelled the former undisputed heavyweight king into heavyweight bliss.

Said Usyk: ‘Derek is the one who has to go home and think about his future.’ For better or worse, he might add. Because no one knows better than he that there is nothing like the primal bloodlust on the banks of the Thames in the glory days of sport taking place just down the canal from Paris.