Deontay Wilder is really crafting himself a fine public persona, isn’t he? His arm was broken before the Fury fight, his weight dropped after the weigh-in, the count for the second knockdown was long, and apparently he was extracted via the Jaws of Life in Tuscaloosa after a 16-tractor pileup in rush hour traffic before boarding his plane to Las Vegas. Word is that Wilder had to escape mid-flight because one of the engines went out but somehow he crafted his pants into an effective parachute and landed safely in a Kansas wheat field. There he had to fight off a roaming band of Klansmen who chased him to the Colorado state line where he was able to elude detection and board a train that traversed the snow-capped Rockies. Though he had no coat, the burning anger of 400 years of oppression kept him warm. Then Floyd Mayweather came along and tried to steal the limelight.
In regards to the final HBO telecast, it’s already be stated over and over again, but what a piss-poor way to go. In a show very few seemed to catch, they should have made a bigger deal of all of this. Instead, Lampley, Kellerman, and Jones had to sign off to a meager audience that was devoid of energy. Jim was emotional, as usual, but seeing Roy bow out was tough.
Another note: Cecilia Braekhus is 37 and is long past her best. It seems more people should make light of that.
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Just as last week, I don’t have the energy to address all of these independently.
No, he didn’t. He never will, either.
Yeah, hard to figure that one…
No bias there.
*Thanks to Paul Donnelly, Chris Morris, and Chris Wey for helping me assemble this tour de force of boxing degeneracy.