It hurts. Unbelievably so. Like getting hit on the side of your head with a horseshoe while it’s still attached to the horse.
And it’s true. You really do see stars.
But what I didn’t see was his fist. One moment I’m in the middle of the ring and the next I’ve been Fed-Ex’ed into the ropes. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 equal to my great-grandmother and 10 equal to the wrath of God — I’d rank his punch at a 79.
“It was a 2,” said Deontay Wilder.
Monday morning, my grand idea: Go a round or two with Deontay Wilder. Who’s Deontay Wilder, you ask?