In the latest upset, it was those 30 seconds at the end of the ninth round that determined Oleksandr Usyk would end the night with all four heavyweight belts, the first man to do so this century; and in the process complete a climb to the rarest championship air of all time.
This was a beautiful heavyweight fight, 12 rounds of skill, heart and, in the case of Tyson Fury, a bloody will to keep throwing punches from the brink of unconsciousness. While that half-minute was crucial, a knockdown that ultimately decided the judges' cards, it also established the broader patterns of a fight in which Usyk worked away at Fury like a man chopping down a tree with a forged steel axe.
Fury may actually believe he was robbed. The former champion stated that Usyk was only given the decision due to sympathy for the war in Ukraine - strange and unnecessary comments that reflect poorly on Fury. (To his advantage, this is not a rational arena: it takes a necessary degree of self-deception to even get into the ring.)
Related: 'I'm ready for a rematch': Usyk looks to family and future after world title win
One judge, Canada's Craig Metcalf, agreed, somehow managing to score the fight in Fury's favor and leaving Usyk champion via split decision. In reality, the only split here was between Usyk winning by a mile and a half.
By the end, this beautifully poised 36-year-old from Simferopol in occupied Crimea, a boxer who seems perfectly square as Mr Strong from the Mr Men multiverse, has united the sport's fractured blue chip division. This is the top, that place where the dirt, misery, politics and greed of boxing give way to the purity of clashes.
Undisputed at two weights. Olympic gold medalist. Unified heavyweight champion after five years of killing men four inches taller and three stone heavier. After Saturday night, Usyk might be the gypsy king too. He makes a pretty compelling argument for being called the greatest of all time, at least to the extent that such comparisons have any real meaning.
Fury had his moments in the Kingdom Arena. There was a shift in momentum in the third to sixth rounds as Fury began controlling the distance between the two fighters, arms curled up like forklift handles, and landing some punishing body shots.
On either side, Usyk subjected Fury to a horribly exhausting expression of his own fighting personality, pushing him around the ring, throwing punches from every angle (at one point appearing intent on punching Fury in the chest) and never leaving his own stare go away more. Fury's line of sight.
Fury sometimes showed pointlessly. At others, he simply turned his head away and walked across the ring, allowing himself a moment of reset. It is sometimes said that sitting across the table from chess grandmaster Garry Kasparov was simply exhausting. The confrontation with Usyk should be just as grueling, with the need to always be on, always tense, always facing the pressure of the weather.
Then there were those 30 seconds. It started when Usyk landed a sudden left strike on the side of Fury's head. Fury's face changed. He knew. He leaned back on the ropes and felt for his legs. Usyk pressed the gas and threw three more lefts to the side of the head as Fury lurched back across the width of the ring looking for solid ground.
The key to those exchanges was watching both men's feet as Usyk clapped his toes together and clicked his heels, a perfect balance even with the adrenaline pumping at the dead end; Fury walks around like a drunken camel, somehow staying upright, bobbing and bobbing like a doomed fighter plane still dodging anti-aircraft fire.
Fury touched all four ropes in the span of twenty seconds as he fled from that stabbing, suffocating presence. He eventually ended up in Usyk's corner. The ropes held him up. The bell saved him. The referee, Mark Nelson, really could have stopped the fight at that point instead of simply awarding a knockdown. If this hadn't been Fury, the resurrection man, and the bigger man too, maybe he would have done that.
From then on, it was a tribute to Fury's extraordinary fighter's heart that he saw it through to the end, that he came back to fight three more rounds and that he ended the night on his feet. Maybe that will be enough to convince him to trigger the rematch clause. On the other hand, Fury is now 35, with a lifetime of scar tissue, worn down not only by all those heavyweight rounds, but also by the constant war with his own body and mental state.
The years have been tough. Having a great chin is an essential quality. Having a great chin also means you get hit a lot. When he comes back from depression and drinking, winning and then losing 10th place (the equivalent of losing to a grown-up Lionel Messi) is a testament to his will.
But these things all cost you a bite. Fury earned an estimated £80 million in Riyadh's Ring of Fire. The wisest thing would be to retire now. But what ever had sense to do with it?
The Kingdom Arena had been a well-known spectacle as the fighters walked out, populated, we were told, by a galaxy of stars, though this seemed to consist mainly of regime favorites. Most strikingly, Cristiano Ronaldo was ringside, slick and primed and glazed with plasticized good health, the ideal frontman for the new reality of global sport as the plaything of a propagandistic dictatorship.
Usyk entered the ring looking brutally focused, wearing a feathered fur hat and traditional clothing. Fury arrived in a shirtless vest and a dashing black cowboy hat, like a Strippergram version of U2's Edge. He danced as a father to Barry White and Bonnie Tyler. He grinned across the ring as Usyk just stared.
From the start, Usyk pounded the gas as Fury weaved and ducked close to the ropes. Muhammad Ali floated like a butterfly. Fury floats like a shipping container on a pair of roller skates. But his slippery speed kept him out of trouble as Usyk found his range, feet constantly shuffling and back fat jiggling over his hulking green shorts.
There were some solid Fury uppercuts in the second quarter of the fight. But otherwise this was a catch-up, the angles of attack so sudden and varied that Fury never quite seemed able to unload and assert his own physical advantages.
Related: Oleksandr Usyk beats Tyson Fury to win the undisputed heavyweight championship - as it happened
Usyk sank to his knees after the decision and shouted "Slava Ukraine!" Fury has always drawn strength from his own identity as an outsider, a visitor from the combat zone, Grendel in baggy shorts, although there is still debate about the added value of his father leaning over SugarHill Steward's shoulder and shouting: ' We fight men. !" between rounds.
But Usyk's own outsider story is a modern sports wonder. He was born into communism in the Soviet Union. His hometown has now been bloodily taken over by Vladimir Putin. The same weekend that Usyk fought in Riyadh, Ukraine launched a massive all-or-nothing drone attack, while the front line was thin. As Wladimir Klitschko has noted, watching Usyk offers an hour's reprieve from bullets, bombs and missiles.
At this weight, Usyk is now the greatest boxer of modern times. The champion is 37. This might as well be the end for him too. Most likely there will be a rematch, if only because the money demands it. But Usyk really has nothing left to achieve from here, no more doors to unlock.
