You were a hell of a fighter, Nick Blackwell

Two years later, in 2018, I spotted you from a distance at an outdoors weigh-in in Manchester. Tyson Fury was there, loud and out of shape, and so were you, invited and heroic. It was his comeback fight, the first of many, and like so many, he couldn’t keep away. I remembered, watching you greet him, the time when you were in St. Mary’s Hospital certain he was the man to come break you out. You posed for pictures with him and fans asked for pictures with you, fists up, big smiles. I thought, briefly, about approaching and saying hello, but I didn’t want to confuse matters, so decided not to. It was, I could tell, a lot for you to take in. You were back in that world again; that world you so dearly loved; that world that had damaged you. There would have been mixed emotions, for sure, and the last thing you needed on top of that was some extra confusion. Besides, I could tell, when you walked past, that it would take more than a wave or a handshake to reconnect. I just smiled like a stranger, respectful rather than familiar.