TOKYO – Last week, Naoya Inoue and Junto Nakatani reminded me just how good boxing can be when it’s done properly.
From start to finish, there was no name-calling, no shoving to sell tickets. There was respect throughout, and it was refreshing to see. We have all become accustomed to watching two fighters whose mouths go at each other all week in an attempt to manufacture interest. However, when two of the very best meet at the right time, none of that is necessary. People will watch anyway.
Every interaction between the pair across the week oozed class, and when fight night came, they delivered a high-level chess match in front of 55,000 at the Tokyo Dome that was impossible to look away from. Inoue retained his undisputed junior featherweight crown after a competitive contest, and even then, the respect remained and the embrace at the final bell said it all.
In many ways, their conduct is exactly what you would expect of two Japanese fighters competing at home. Respect and how you represent your gym comes first. Which is refreshing in itself. Like in the amateurs, you don’t just fight for yourself, you fight for your club and what that represents.
I spent close to a decade as an amateur boxer, fighting for little more than a medal, pride, and a McDonald’s on the way home. The greatest compliment I can give this week in Japan is that, in spirit, it felt the same.
Not in level, far from it, but in purpose.
Despite the sheer size of the event, it actually just felt like a sport. The biggest fight in Japanese boxing history wasn’t sold on noise or controversy. It was sold on what it was, two elite fighters stepping into the ring to decide who was better. Nothing else.
The stakes, of course, were far greater than a post-fight Big Mac, but the way Inoue and Nakatani carried themselves, you might not have known it. The tone was set as early as Thursday’s press conference. Sitting side by side, there was tension, as there should be considering what was at stake, but never the sense it would spill over. Neither ever threatened to lose control.
Even the room felt different from what I’ve become used to at boxing events in the UK and US. The entire press conference was conducted in Japanese, but rather than feeling shut out, the local media went out of their way to help me. One reporter, Masahiro Muku of "The Answer," sent over translated quotes afterwards, and continued to do so throughout the week.
It was a small gesture, but one that said plenty about boxing in Japan. Respectful, accommodating, and focused on the sport.
I took a walk through Tokyo after the press conference, trying to get a sense of just how big the fight was to the city. In Shinjuku, a district lit brightly with billboards and advertisements, I expected to see Naoya Inoue’s and Junto Nakatani’s faces everywhere. I didn’t see one.
At first, it felt strange. This was a fight I’d travelled 6,000 miles to cover, one of the biggest in the sport, so where was it? The answer came the following day.
Thousands packed into the famous Korakuen Hall for the ceremonial weigh-in to watch Inoue and Nakatani face off one final time. That was when it hit. This wasn’t a fight that needed selling on street corners or billboards. It was already imprinted into fans’ minds long ago.
I thought about how my editor, Matt Christie, told me about how he felt seeing Floyd Mayweather Jnr and Manny Pacquiao finally face off at their weigh-in in 2015. Standing there in Korakuen Hall, I understood what he meant.
This was Japan’s Mayweather-Pacquiao. It was huge.
What happened next, though, was something else entirely. Could you imagine Manny Pacquiao inviting a young foreign reporter into his hotel room 24 hours before the biggest fight of his life?
No, and quite rightly so, but Junto Nakatani did.
He sat on the sofa alongside his friends and team, cracking a joke as I nearly walked in with my shoes on – something I never quite got used to in Japan. He was calm, relaxed, completely unfazed ahead of facing the undefeated knockout artist known as “The Monster."
It felt surreal. It also felt familiar.
It reminded me of the nights before amateur tournaments, crammed into hotel rooms with teammates, laughing, messing around, anything but thinking about the fight the next day. Back then, it was just a sport. Nothing more, nothing less.
And sat there with him in his room, it seemed that way for Nakatani, too.
He was confident. So was Inoue. And the next night, they would find out whose confidence was best placed.
Now, the weigh-in had offered a glimpse of what Inoue-Nakatani meant to the people of Japan, but it still didn’t prepare me for fight night. I arrived at the Tokyo Dome an hour before the opening bout, thinking I’d have time to grab some sushi and pick up a fight T-shirt to take home. I should have got there six hours earlier, the queue for the merchandise store alone stretched endlessly.
Outside, you could barely see the ground. Thousands filled the surrounding streets, hoping to get their hands on a ticket or simply be part of it. And yet, when I finally made my way inside, it felt as though there were even more people within the Dome than outside it.
The 55,000-seat arena was almost full for the first fight of the night. In the UK, turning up that early usually means spotting the odd reporter, not 50,000 fans already in their seats. It was incredible, and so was the fight.
It wasn’t the bloodbath or war many had hoped for. It was something better. Two of the finest fighters on the planet engaging in a duel laced with finesse, one that only a handful in the sport could truly appreciate. Momentum shifted throughout, each man adapting, adjusting, and finding moments of success.
The atmosphere was something I had not experienced before.
There was no shouts of “Fucking hit him!” that I’d become used to hearing in UK arenas or fights in the stands. The Tokyo crowd cheered when a shot landed and merely chanted the name of their chosen fighter when things weren’t going well. They were respectful throughout, and so were both Inoue and Nakatani.
There was a brief moment in the eighth round that captured it perfectly.
Nakatani slipped a right hand from Inoue and fired back with two shots of his own, only for Inoue to duck underneath them by millimeters. Inoue popped back up and threw again, but Nakatani made him miss once more.
For a split second, both men paused, and smiled. Almost in admiration of what the other had just done before immediately returning to the task of trying to take each other’s head off.
The crowd applauded as the smile was shown on screen in the arena. They loved it.
“I was fighting while feeling Nakatani's technique and fighting spirit,” Inoue said afterwards. “I think he felt the same way. I think we were both enjoying the space where neither of us could land a hit. I think that smile came naturally from that.”
The respect between them continued after the final bell.
Despite defeat, Junto Nakatani – with a nasty gash over his eye and a broken orbital bone – still gave the media his time. Just five minutes, before heading to the hospital. He almost seemed apologetic that he couldn’t give more. He owed us nothing.
Things were kept brief for Naoya Inoue, too. He would speak again the following day at his boxing gym, as is customary in Japan – something I can’t help but feel we should adopt in the UK.
I’ve never quite understood the rush to put a microphone in front of a fighter seconds after they’ve had their head punched for 36 minutes. Twelve rounds at that level is draining, both physically and mentally. The day-after press conference allowed true reflection, and time to process the result, to occur.
It also reminded me, quite quickly, that I was no longer in the UK.
I walked into the Ohashi Boxing Gym and, without thinking, kept my shoes on – a mistake I quickly corrected when I saw the feet and smiles of everyone else.
A small thing, but in Japan, those things really matter. Respect isn’t just reserved for the ring. It’s everywhere, ingrained from a young age, and evident in how fighters carry themselves, how gyms are treated, and how the sport is spoken about.
It’s not something that’s put on for the cameras. It’s part of the culture, and it’s something I’ll take with me long after this week is over.
Weeks like this don’t come around often. Not in modern boxing. No chaos, no controversy, no stunts for social media. Just two of the very best proving that when the sport is left to speak for itself, it says far more than any promotion ever could.
It reminded me of why I fell in love with boxing in the first place, the purity of competition, the respect and pride in bettering another man in the ring.
This was boxing at its core. Boxing done properly.
Tom Ivers is a lifelong fight fan and former amateur boxer who has a master’s degree in sports journalism. Tom joined BoxingScene in 2024 and is now a key part of the UK and social media teams.































