IN boxing, the birth of greatness is rarely quiet. It crackles and hums like an exposed wire in a rainstorm, drawing attention even from those who pretend not to notice. And right now, as the heavyweight division creaks and lurches under the weight of bloated belts and bloated reputations, there is a young man from Chatham whose every movement in the ring seems to scream a prophecy: Moses Itauma is coming. And he is coming for all of them.
He moves with that unnerving calm that belongs only to the most dangerous of men. Like someone who’s dreamt this all before and is now simply playing out the vision. 11 professional contests, 11 victories. Nine of those victims didn’t see the final bell, and several never even saw the second round.
The boxers surrounding the world title scene in Britain—Wardley, Clarke, Adeleye, Fisher, Dacres—ought to have him plastered on their bathroom mirrors, a recurring apparition in sweat-soaked dreams. Because Itauma doesn’t just beat opponents. He obliterates the illusion that they were ever his equals.
The comparisons to Mike Tyson were inevitable. They always are when a teenager steps into the professional ring with the musculature of a Greek statue and the menace of a sharpened axe. But in Moses’ case, the ambition wasn’t merely metaphorical—it was literal.
The plan was to beat Tyson’s record as the youngest ever heavyweight champion of the world. Tyson did it at 20 years and four months. For Itauma, May 2025 was the cut-off, the summit to be scaled. But even mountains move slowly in boxing, particularly when the sport’s guiding hands prefer caution and marination over boldness and truth.
And yet, you’d be a fool to think that missing out on that record means missing out on destiny. This lad has the look of someone who was born to be champion, regardless of the calendar.
His story begins in Slovakia, in the cold shadows of Kežmarok, where he was born to a Slovakian mother and Nigerian father. But dreams didn’t survive there. Racism, ugly and unabashed, forced the family to uproot themselves and seek a new start in England. They found Chatham.
It was his brother Karol—himself no stranger to the fight game—who dragged young Moses into the gym. The bug didn’t bite right away. There was a brief romance with football. But boxing, with its brutal honesty and solitary arithmetic, has a way of calling back those it truly belongs to. At St Mary’s ABC, the itch returned. And then it spread.
By 13, Moses looked like a man among boys. His shoulders rolled like they were built to carry burdens far beyond his years. In sparring sessions, he was already trading leather with grown men—fully-fledged heavyweights.
There’s talk, quiet but insistent, that he held his own with the likes of Anthony Joshua, Daniel Dubois, Lawrence Okolie and Joe Joyce while still in his teens. Okolie has openly admitted it was “great sparring.” Joyce, known for being unflappable even when being battered, was similarly impressed. These weren’t whispers in the wind. They were confirmations that something unusual was happening.
In the amateurs, Moses’ dominance was biblical. 24 fights. 24 wins. 11 knockouts. Gold medals rained from the heavens—Schools, Juniors, Youth Europeans, and the World Youth Championships. In the European tournament, every opponent was dismissed in the first round. Not beaten—dismissed. Like they were never meant to be in there with him in the first place.
His professional debut came in January 2023, on the undercard of Beterbiev vs. Yarde. I was there that night, barely settled into my seat before it was over. Twenty-three seconds. That was all it took for Itauma to obliterate Marcel Bode. The sound of that finish still echoes in the ears of those who witnessed it—a kind of sonic reminder that this was no ordinary prospect.
And while some of his early opposition resembled human punchbags (a harsh, but stark truth) more than proper pugilists, the signs were all there. The fast-twitch violence. The ability to set traps with mature patience. The cold stare afterwards, like a wolf disappointed the prey wasn’t more of a challenge.
In an age when many young fighters are babied through the ranks—fed a steady diet of journeymen, padded records, and meaningless regional trinkets—Itauma did something rare. He spoke up. He said he wanted better opponents. Said he didn’t just want to win, he wanted to prove something. That sort of talk makes promoters nervous and opponents even more so.
He did go the distance twice—against Kostiantyn Dovbyshchenko and Kevin Nicolas Espindola. Two tough men who’d never been stopped. In those 10 rounds across two fights, we saw something else: a young man capable of boxing sensibly, showing ring IQ, working angles and breaking opponents down over time. It was a necessary moment. The power is mesmerising, yes, but the ability to control a fight, to win rounds when knockouts don’t come—those are the tools of champions.
But then the leash came off.
In the span of six months, Moses ran through four opponents like a scythe through dry grass. First round knockouts. Brutal. Uncompromising. These weren’t lucky punches or referees jumping in too early. These were clinical disassemblies. He made experienced fighters look like amateurs, and amateurs look like bystanders.
And then came Mariusz Wach. A true veteran of the division. He’s shared the ring with Klitschko, Povetkin, Whyte, and countless others. None of them dispatched him with the cold indifference that Itauma did. It was like watching a young predator testing its fangs on an old lion—and realising they were sharper than it imagined.
Then came Demsey McKean—a solid, experienced southpaw who had shared the sparring ring with Anthony Joshua and was once considered a potential spoiler in the division. Itauma took him apart with chilling efficiency. That night, on the undercard of Fury vs. Usyk, we saw something new again: poise under pressure, control against an opponent who could fight back, and the kind of finishing instinct that makes grown men gulp.
Now, we wait. The only thing we haven’t seen yet is the crisis moment. We haven’t seen the chin tested, haven’t seen the bloodied nose or the wobbly legs. That moment will come. It always does. No fighter, no matter how gifted, escapes the reckoning. What remains to be seen is whether Itauma possesses the dog, that hidden reservoir of animal will that reveals itself when the storm hits.
But let’s be honest—every one of those British heavyweights you see on posters, puffing their chests out and calling each other out? They all know about Moses. Even if they won’t say it. You can tell by the way they mention him, if they mention him at all. With a half-laugh. A slight hesitation. As if speaking his name out loud might summon him. Because while most boxers are looking for fights, Moses Itauma is the kind of fighter that other people try to avoid.
He fights again this weekend. The opponent may be another step along the ladder, another name to tick off. But what’s becoming increasingly clear is that this young man is not climbing the ladder. He’s ripping the rungs off as he goes.
The British title? It would be an honour, of course, but one suspects he may bypass that in favour of European gold or a high-risk ranking fight. The problem is no longer his ability—it’s finding someone willing to share a ring with the nightmare they’ve all heard about.
At just 20 years old, Moses Itauma is not yet a champion. But he carries the air of inevitability. Like a storm rolling in over the hills, visible for miles but impossible to escape.
The future is not just bright. It crackles, it roars, it terrifies. And it wears a pair of 10-oz gloves.
