Jermell Charlo has let it be known that he intends to turn his hometown of Houston into a kind of boxing mecca. If he’s looking to advance his efforts with some marketing material, all he needs to do is blast out highlights of his performance Saturday night in the Space City.
It’s time to feast, and Tony Harrison’s talking appetites—not for food, but for that which puts food on the table: wins. He’s doing so because he’s about to face a man who, metaphorically speaking, is hungry enough to eat a horse chased by a rotisseried yeti.
Punching power is the athletic equivalent of an open bar: It’s totally, totally awesome, but if you get carried away with it, you could wake up naked in a field, searching for your pants and the nearest burrito dispensary.
On a Saturday night in July, one second wiped out the 1,500 or so that preceded it. All it took was a well-placed right hand, a fist that doubled as an eraser, which didn’t stop time so much as negate it, cleaning the slate in a flash of leather.