Let’s get straight to the point—boxing is a global sport with heroes hailing from every corner of the planet. Yet, the most prestigious honor in the sport, induction into the International Boxing Hall of Fame, is overwhelmingly US-centric. Sure, the Hall of Fame in Canastota, New York, has celebrated some of the sport’s international greats, but the fact remains: many fighters from outside the US are often overlooked.

It’s one of boxing’s dirtiest little secrets—top fighters gaming the system to stay at the top of the rankings without taking any real risks. While fresh contenders grind their way up, some big names cling to their status by staying inactive or facing low-level opponents. The question is: should boxing force ranked fighters to face top-10 opposition to keep their place? It’s a radical idea, but would it bring the competition back to life or push fighters to the breaking point?

Imagine this: you’re ringside at a big fight. The atmosphere’s electric, and the fighters are leaving it all in the ring. But with every passing round, one question gnaws at everyone—who’s winning? Fans speculate, trainers shout advice, and commentators guess. Then comes the decision. Boos echo through the arena as the result leaves half the crowd stunned. Was it a robbery or just another example of boxing’s opaque scoring system?

Boxing is no stranger to controversy—especially when it comes to judging decisions. You’ve heard it all before: “He was robbed!” or “Worst decision I’ve ever seen!” But here’s the million-dollar question: should fighters have the right to formally contest those dodgy scorecards?

Let’s pull no punches—women’s boxing has exploded over the past decade. From Katie Taylor’s historic rise to Claressa Shields’ undeniable dominance, female fighters are finally getting their due. But here’s the glaring omission: where are the women coaching these champions? For all the progress inside the ring, it seems the coaching corner remains stuck in the past. Female coaches are still rarer than a fair scorecard in a hometown decision, and it begs the question—why?

There’s something undeniably thrilling about a fighter stepping into the ring, introduced with a nickname that echoes like a war cry. But let’s be honest—how many times have you heard “The Beast,” “The Destroyer,” or “Iron” and thought, Here we go again?

Boxing is often billed as 90% mental and 10% physical, but what happens when the pendulum swings too far in one direction? In today’s fight game, it’s no longer just about having the fastest hands or the hardest chin—it’s about mastering the mind. Fighters are increasingly turning to sports psychologists, meditation apps, and visualization techniques to gain a mental edge. But here’s the big question: is this trend a game-changer, or are we overcomplicating a sport that’s been about grit, blood, and guts for over a century?

Boxing is a sport built on dreams—the Cinderella stories of fighters rising from obscurity to global fame, from rags to riches. But let’s strip back the glitz and glamour for a moment. For most rising fighters, boxing doesn’t pay the bills. In fact, many boxers are juggling full-time or part-time jobs just to keep their heads above water. The harsh truth is that while some fighters bask in multi-million-pound paydays, others return to the grind of everyday work even after the fight of their lives.

Let’s shake up the boxing world with an idea that’ll either make you cheer or cringe—a fighter draft system. Imagine this: top amateur talent getting picked by promotions in a dramatic draft event, much like the NFL. Fighters would be evenly distributed, ensuring no single promotion hoards all the star power. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it? But here’s the big question: could it work in a sport as fiercely individualistic as boxing?

Let’s get one thing straight—the heavyweight division is the shiny centerpiece of boxing. The marquee act. The division that puts bums on seats and draws eyes to screens. Ali, Tyson, Holyfield, Lewis, Fury—just say the names and even non-fans perk up. Heavyweights are the blockbuster movies of boxing: big, bold, and bankable.

Let’s get one thing straight: just because you’ve conquered the amateur ranks, draped yourself in gold medals, and been hailed as the next big thing, doesn’t mean you’re destined for professional glory. Boxing history is littered with amateur stars who failed to transition into successful pros. But why? What is it about crossing over to the professional ranks that separates the hype from the hope, the contenders from the pretenders?

Once upon a time, boxing was America’s game. The US held the keys to the kingdom, dominating world champions, fight nights, and pay-per-view numbers. But as we sit in 2025, the global landscape of professional boxing has shifted dramatically. A sport once ruled by American icons is now showcasing its international flair, with fighters from Europe, Asia, and beyond claiming titles across weight classes.

The walkout. It’s the moment a fighter steps into the spotlight, leaving the comfort of the dressing room and entering the cauldron of noise, expectation, and pressure. More than just an entrance, it’s a spectacle, a psychological statement, and a chance to seize control before the first punch is thrown.

In the electrifying world of boxing, few phrases are as polarising as “lucky punch.” It’s the ultimate insult to a knockout artist, dismissing their victory as the result of random chance rather than skill, timing, or preparation. But is the lucky punch a real phenomenon? Or is it a convenient excuse, wielded by fans and fighters alike to discredit a defeat or diminish a victory? Let’s explore whether luck truly has a place in a sport built on precision, discipline, and strategy.

There’s something undeniably electric about today’s heavyweight boxing scene. From the towering charisma of Tyson Fury to the explosive power of Deontay Wilder, the gritty resilience of Oleksandr Usyk, and the redemption-seeking spirit of Anthony Joshua—we’re living in an era that feels like it’s on the edge of something legendary. But as these giants contemplate hanging up their gloves, the big question looms: Is this the last golden age of heavyweight boxing?

In the high-stakes world of boxing, we focus so much on the fighter—their grit, power, and discipline—that we often forget about the constellation of people orbiting them: the entourage. An entourage can be many things: a lifeline, a fortress, a support system. But it can also be a source of distraction, indulgence, and ego. The question is: Do entourages truly keep fighters grounded, or are they just a circus of “yes men” who can derail a career as fast as a right hook?

In the world of boxing, few things ignite debate quite like the rematch clause. Initially intended to ensure deserving fighters a fair shot at redemption, rematch clauses have evolved into one of the sport’s most controversial mechanisms. Today, they’ve become a staple in boxing contracts—a tool to guarantee another shot, another payday, another chance to reclaim glory. But here’s the question: Is this truly about fairness, or are fighters and promoters gaming the system to secure lucrative returns?

In boxing, fighters are celebrated for their toughness, resilience, and the grit to withstand anything thrown their way. But what happens when the battles extend beyond the ring, into their minds and hearts? Boxing is one of the loneliest sports, and its pressures are staggering. Fighters don’t just face their opponents in the ring; they face themselves. The question is: are we doing enough to support these warriors beyond the ropes, or are they left to fight their demons alone?

Netflix’s foray into live boxing with the Jake Paul vs. Mike Tyson exhibition fight has sparked debate across the sport. With 60 million reported streams, it was undeniably a massive event, but does it signal the start of a new era for boxing, or has it exposed critical flaws in the streaming model? From the PPV dilemma to piracy, technical reliability, and the sustainability of multimillion-dollar fight purses, Netflix’s big night has raised more questions than it answered.

In boxing, the decision to retire is as much about the heart as it is about the head. Fighters are wired differently—unwavering in their belief that there’s always one more fight, one more shot at glory. But as careers stretch into their twilight years, the question becomes: are boxers holding on too long, risking their health and legacy for dreams that might never materialise? And who, if anyone, has the right to tell a fighter when to hang up their gloves?