You could not get a more evocative setting. Sheffield’s Magna Centre, hidden beside an ‘A’ road on the way into Rotherham, is an events space converted from a disused steel works.

Venues like this represent the ‘nearly there’ of boxing, a sort of no-man’s land between small halls and the big time; 1,500 ticket-buying fans will soon pack the main room for a British title fight between two Yorkshiremen.

I arrive there with Glyn Rhodes MBE, an esteemed local trainer. His boy, Tommy Frank, is the defending champion.

At 61 and a former pro himself, this sport has consumed Rhodes’ entire life, a fact carved into his craggy face.

He has witnessed young fighters both thrive and die in its service. Those are not easy things to balance, and he recently underwent psychotherapy to help him cope.

Rhodes has trained and managed Frank for 17 years since he first came into his Hillsborough gym, known as the Sheffield Boxing Centre (SBC), as an 11-year-old.

“You never would have thought Tommy would go so far,” Rhodes says, as we stride past security into the backstage area. “He had a hole in his heart as a child, had a major operation, and his parents brought him to me for fitness.”

Rhodes greets and shakes hands with coaches, officials and assorted diehards with brisk movements, as we negotiate Magna’s labyrinthine interior.

“I get so nervous before they fight,” he says. “I hate it. It’s like walking to the sound of the guns. The thing is, I spend more time with my fighters than I did with my own kids.

“That’s the truth. And of course, you get attached. I know it’s dangerous, but I can’t help it.”

For a moment, Rhodes’ bright eyes betray a man who has made a few too many journeys in ambulances, who has made too many visits to intensive care units.

We are soon joined by other SBC crew members. Former pros Matt Mowatt and Andy Manning, and a guy with a stereo called Sean. They banter and tease. It’s a tight team.

Eventually we find a large, unused space at the end of a corridor and claim it. Boxes are unpacked – scissors, hand-wraps, shorts. Sean keeps up a steady stream of funk and soul on the boombox.

Other SBC stalwarts arrive, as does Glyn’s former British super bantamweight champion Richie Wenton, who won his title in 1994, by stopping 23-year-old Bradley Stone who subsequently died.

Wenton’s mere presence is a reminder of what’s at stake. Then Tommy appears, along with Keanen Wainwright, SBC’s exciting lightweight prospect, whose ninth pro bout is on the undercard.

A waiting game

As the clock ticks, the fighters remain the coolest people in the room. Others fuss over details and disguise nerves with gallows humour.

They change quietly into their kit, then start warming up. I watch as Frank removes the coveted Lonsdale British title belt from his bag, then lays it reverently on a chair, next to a rosary. There is something ceremonial about the way he then performs his floor stretches beside it. Rhodes paces up and down.

“This is the fun part now,” Frank tells me, smiling. “All the hard stuff was before, the weeks of training and making weight. I’m big framed for a flyweight, so it takes loads of discipline [to make 112lbs (50.8kg)].”

Frank’s challenger is Craig Derbyshire, from Doncaster, a super-tough, all-action type who he beat on points in 2018 for the Central Area belt. At 28, Tommy cannot afford to slip up.

“It’s a different fight now to four years ago,” he says. “Craig’s become English champ and he’ll be well up for this, but that’s good, because so am I. I want to push on. I need to defend this then move up into European class. I want to make a splash, get on some big shows. It’s time to get in the limelight and make the most of this while I can.”

Before long the gym’s prospect Wainwright is called, and we head downstairs. The 24-year-old wins his fight by third-round stoppage, against an opponent swinging for the fences. He returns to the room remarkably unfazed, as if he popped out to the shop for some milk.

Referee Michael Alexander arrives to speak with Tommy. Rhodes becomes noticeably more tense. He breaks up the huddle, berating the official, pointing his finger.

“You never mind Tommy – Tommy’s a good kid. But if Derbyshire starts throwing elbows or headbutts, I’m kicking off.”

“OK Glyn, OK,” the ref says, gently. Rhodes glowers.

When the champion’s gloves finally come out and inspectors arrive to watch them being fitted, the air thickens with tension. Once they’re on, a change comes over Frank. His smile disappears, he does some pad-work, then starts punching the wall. Rhodes barks at him to stop. Then the house runner is at the door.

‘Round by round’ – Cometh the hour

“Go on Tommy!” the team chorus as they stand.

Downstairs, by the entrance to the arena, with the smell of booze from the bar filling the air and the crowd murmuring expectantly, Rhodes pulls his fighter to one side.

“Bull and the matador,” he says, leaning in. “Have a look for a couple of rounds, then go from there.”

“Round by round,” says Frank.

They nod at each other. Rhodes stares into his eyes. “Bull and the matador.”

It’s a savage, howl of a fight. The type of fight that takes years off. Derbyshire is five-foot-two of pure gristle and bad intentions, with a mohawk to boot. He looks and works like a demon. Frank never gets an inch. At times he seems like he might wilt, but British champions don’t give in easily.

He puts Derbyshire down in the fifth and the 12th but struggles to keep pace with his challenger at times. Rhodes chews his lip in the corner. He clenches a water bottle until his knuckles turn white.

It’s an exhausting spectacle. At the end, it’s called a draw. Frank keeps his title – just.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhodes says simply, as we head back upstairs. There is a spiky, manic energy about him. Despite being a teetotaller, he looks completely wired.

The champ sits alone and sullen on a chair at the end of the room as we walk in. “No celebrations,” he shouts. “We didn’t win.”

There’s awkwardness. His girlfriend comes to comfort him.

For now, it seems that move up to international class will have to wait. The team start to pack away, so I make to leave.

“I won’t sleep much tonight,” Rhodes tells me, rubbing his eyes. “It takes a while to come down, after.”

“At least he’s still got the belt,” I offer.

“I’m just glad it’s over,” Rhodes says, wearily. He looks a touch older than before. I turn to go. His words follow me out of the door. “Until the next one, of course.”