While many will point to Deontay Wilder's recent comments hinting at retirement as the reason for his Deontay Wilder-esque struggles in Saudi Arabia last night (June 1), the explanation for 'The Bronze Bomber's' recent decline in form perhaps goes back even further than that.
Certainly, when a boxer hints at retirement, it usually leads to some kind of performance – namely, a loss – but what Wilder fears these days is more than just regression or demise. Indeed, once a man from whom violence could be expected, Wilder is now, in perhaps the cruellest development, Awareness Violence, whether personal or general, has a somewhat adverse effect on his ability to be himself.
The doubts began around the time of Wilder's perhaps most violent act, a first-round knockout against Robert Helenius in 2022. That night, while many were wondering what Wilder would do after his extended break, the former WBC heavyweight champion left his Finnish opponent, a former sparring partner, convulsing on the canvas of the ring with one of the most devastating right punches of his career. The manner of this particular victory, while all but decisive as a win, not only reintroduced Wilder to the heavyweight ranks, but also unexpectedly took something away from him that he will never get back.
Later, in a press conference, Wilder spoke of his respect for Helenius, before touching upon the tragic fate of Pritchard-Colon, whose career ended in 2015 and whose life was forever changed. As he did so, the world watched as Wilder became uncharacteristically introspective, emotional and human. Fighting back tears, Wilder showed a side of himself we had never seen before, and many found this Wilder endearing, positive and likeable. Let's not forget, this is a man who had previously spoken about wanting “a body” on his record.
But in many ways it was the beginning of the end for Wilder. After all, by publicly displaying a hidden side of himself, he not only acknowledged the rigors of the sport and its importance, but also revealed a change in his own attitude and, by extension, his intentions. That is, where Wilder had previously possessed a requisite ignorance and apathy, he now suddenly seemed grown up – albeit in the worst way for a boxer.
Careful: Wilder in the ring during his bout with Joseph Parker (Richard Pelham/Getty Images)
In fact, the only thing worse than a boxer who is afraid of inflicting damage on himself is a boxer who is afraid of both inflicting damage on himself and on his opponent. For all intents and purposes, this is essentially what Deontay Wilder has become since that night against Helenius. Despite his own natural decline (remember, he is now 38 years old) and the fact that he has shared the ring with such superior opponents as Joseph Parker and Jan Zierei, it is fair to say that the Wilder of today is completely different from the Wilder of old. In fact, everything about him has changed. For example, the look in his eyes when he is being outmaneuvered is different. It is no longer the look of a man waiting for an opportunity, but a man wondering when to stop. But even more worrying is the look on Wilder's face when he is about to deliver his punches. No longer are these punches thrown with the aim of securing the “body”, but simply to change momentum or to get a breather. This difference, while encouraging in some ways, clearly takes something away from Wilder as a fighter. Moreover, for a fighter whose entire life hinges on the belief in his abilities and his attitude towards his ability to render his opponent unconscious, even the slightest hesitation or doubt in this regard can deform and destroy the monster he once was.
The fight against Zhang proved this again. Zhang, like Parker, was able to corner Wilder, attack him, and do so without any fear of what might come back at him, a real luxury considering the looks of terror on the faces of Wilder's past opponents. Zhang was free to use his size advantage (he outweighed Wilder by 68 pounds at the weigh-in) to maneuver Wilder around the ring, back him into a corner, and punch whenever he wanted to. This was almost ideal for a man as economical as Zhang. Zhang was winning rounds without doing much and taking much, and he knew the pressure was on Wilder to always get better, take more risks, and finally score the big one.
So it was on to the fifth round, and in the rough, Zhang hit Wilder with a perfect counter right hook, followed immediately by a second hook to finish him off. Those two punches, the first of which sent Wilder spinning, the second of which knocked him down, certainly weren't all that shocking, but you still have to admit how surreal it was to see such a feared heavyweight go down so easily. Of course, it happens to the best fighters, especially the big punchers, but I think what makes Wilder's rapid demise so interesting is how complicit he was in what happened to him. Whether intentional or not, as Wilder has grown older in boxing, he has simultaneously matured and grown further away from what made him such an unpredictable, destructive and terrifying presence for the heavyweights he shared the ring with. He has come to terms with the reality and consequences of both his own damage and the damage he has inflicted on others, becoming half the man he once was, Twice He is a far cry from the man he once was. It's a painful contradiction for a boxer who must erase his human side in order to become a machine with a beating heart, a loving family, and the ability to injure others on fight day. “What is once known can never be unknown,” Anita Brookner wrote. “It can only be forgotten.”
Certainly, Wilder sees and feels differently when he fights now. If he isn’t seeing, say, Pritchard-Colon being re-educated in how to live, he sees the image of himself bowing down under extreme pressure to Tyson Fury in 2020 or 2021, or Robert Helenius, stiff as a board in the ring, aiming to hit that very target after his right punch.
Whatever Wilder sees these days, the images come with emotions and sensations he didn't have before. The images are three-dimensional now; he can touch them, smell them. Carrying them around like photographs of dead relatives, Wilder is less the cold, callous destroyer boxing has fallen in love with and more of a veteran general forced to come to terms with the violence he hoped would be a thing of the past.
Memory alone, and complicity alone, does not work that way. Sure, boxers may be able to forget or distinguish temporarily, but humans do not have the same good fortune or opportunity. Rather, humans ultimately have an inability to forget or distinguish that is the reason they do or do not do something, and often explains their very character. In the case of Deontay Wilder, who suddenly became more human than he had ever been, the inability to forget explained the delays, the hesitations, and the defeats. It also explained the need for a complete transition from professional boxer to everyday person, and that at that point emotions could become something positive, as opposed to what currently endangers him: the danger of one day forgetting everything.
