He didn’t even shoot his target a glance upon shooting his right hand. “I didn’t have to look at him,” Deontay Wilder explains, reflecting on the inevitability of flesh meeting canvas. “I knew he was going down.”
Everybody heard that “Pin” drop.
There has never been a French or a Mexican heavyweight champion, a drought prolonged in 2015 by the man on the other end of the phone, his voice as emphatic as the sound of one of his punches landing home. Now, Deontay Wilder looks to start the new year by denying yet another country its shot at boxing history. Poland, you’re up.