What are the boxing weights in order?
Boxing weight classes are like a Russian nesting doll of human beings—except instead of cute wooden figures, you get sweaty folks punching each other. Officially, there are 17 weight divisions, ranging from “did you eat breakfast?” to “how is this person allowed on an elevator?” Here’s the lineup, sorted lightest to heaviest, with all the chaotic energy of a weigh-in scale after a burrito buffet:
The Tiny Titans (0 lbs – 118 lbs)
- Strawweight (105 lbs): For fighters who could double as a carry-on item.
- Light Flyweight (108 lbs): Where “light” means “still probably lighter than your emotional baggage.”
- Flyweight (112 lbs): Named after houseflies, because both could be batted away with a magazine.
- Super Flyweight (115 lbs): The “super” here is doing *a lot* of heavy lifting.
- Bantamweight (118 lbs): Technically a chicken breed, but also where boxers start to resemble actual adults.
The Middle Ground (122 lbs – 168 lbs)
This is where things get spicy—like jalapeño-in-your-mouthguard spicy. We’re talking Super Bantamweight (122 lbs), Featherweight (126 lbs), and Lightweight (135 lbs)—weights that sound like rejected My Little Pony names. Then comes Welterweight (147 lbs), a term stolen from 18th-century farmers who definitely didn’t see this coming. By Middleweight (160 lbs), fighters have graduated from “I’ll have a salad” to “I’ll have your entire stock of protein powder.”
The “Are You Sure This Is Safe?” Division (175 lbs – 200+ lbs)
- Light Heavyweight (175 lbs): Neither light nor heavy, but 100% confusing.
- Cruiserweight (200 lbs): Designed for boxers who could also moonlight as cruise ship anchors.
- Heavyweight (200+ lbs): The VIP section, where everyone’s strategy is “hit hard” and the scale just says “error.”
Fun fact: The “super” prefix in weight classes isn’t scientific—it’s just boxing’s way of saying, “we ran out of ideas and raided a comic book store.”
What is 170 lbs in boxing?
Ah, 170 lbs—the weight class that doesn’t exist, like a platypus in a dog show or a sandwich made entirely of napkins. In boxing’s meticulously organized chaos, 170 pounds is the awkward middle child between super middleweight (168 lbs) and light heavyweight (175 lbs). It’s the weight where fighters either panic-shed two pounds of water weight or awkwardly bulk up by eating a entire pizza while crying into their protein shakes. Think of it as boxing’s version of showing up to a costume party dressed as a “tax accountant”—technically allowed, but everyone’s confused.
The 170 lbs Conundrum: A Fighter’s Crossroads
At 170 lbs, boxers face a critical life choice:
- Option 1: Channel your inner cactus and survive the desert (aka cut to 168 lbs).
- Option 2: Embrace chaos, gain five pounds, and join the light heavyweights, where you’ll be called “small” until someone’s fist corrects them.
Historically, legends like Canelo Álvarez and Roy Jones Jr. have danced around this weight, proving that 170 lbs is less a division and more a vibe—like jazz music or a raccoon solving a Rubik’s Cube.
If 170 lbs Was a Real Division, What Would It Be Called?
Let’s brainstorm:
- The “Why Can’t You Just Lose Two Pounds?” Division
- Buffetweight (for fighters who enjoy second breakfast)
- Schrödinger’s Weight Class (both real and imaginary until the scale breaks)
Until then, 170 lbs remains boxing’s favorite hypothetical—a number that lives in gym math, dodgy contracts, and the nightmares of cornermen everywhere.
What is 190 lbs or more in boxing?
Ah, 190 pounds—the magical threshold where boxers officially enter the realm of “Wait, is that a human or a walking refrigerator?” This weight class, my friends, is where the Heavyweight Division starts flexing its biceps. If you’re 190 lbs or more, congratulations! You’ve graduated from “I work out” to “I could bench-press a small car… or at least convincingly pretend to.” Here, fighters aren’t just throwing punches—they’re hurling entire personalities wrapped in sweatbands and existential dread.
Where 190+ lbs lives on the boxing food chain:
- Cruiserweight (up to 200 lbs): The heavyweight’s “chill little brother” who still thinks kale smoothies are a good idea.
- Heavyweight (200+ lbs): The no-limit chaos mode of boxing, where the only rule is “don’t blink, or you’ll miss a man shaped like a mountain falling gracefully.”
In this weight class, strategy involves equal parts footwork and “How did I get here?” life choices. Fighters over 190 lbs aren’t just athletes—they’re human wrecking balls with a pension for knockouts and post-fight ice baths big enough to double as a kiddie pool for mythical creatures. Fun fact: The “super heavyweight” label in amateur boxing starts here too, which is basically code for “We ran out of scales, just assume they’re part Yeti.” Whether it’s a 191-lb underdog or a 250-lb titan who probably eats entire pizzas in one breath, this division is where boxing’s laws of physics go to die… gloriously.
Why are there 17 weight classes in boxing?
Imagine if boxing weight classes were decided by a group of people who also design buffet menus—endless options, slightly chaotic, and someone definitely shouted “BUT WHAT ABOUT THE CRUISERWEIGHTS?!” mid-meeting. The 17-division system is like boxing’s attempt to please everyone, from hummingbird-sized flyweights (112 lbs) to “how-is-this-even-the-same-sport?” heavyweights (200+ lbs). It’s the Goldilocks of combat sports: this division is too small, this division is too big, this one… eh, let’s just add another.
Boxing’s Love Affair with Precision (and Chaos)
Originally, there were eight weight classes. Then promoters realized more divisions = more belts = more “undisputed champion of the 4:30 pm snack break” opportunities. But why 17? Simple:
- Safety (so a featherweight isn’t yeeted into orbit by a heavyweight).
- Commerce (cha-ching).
- Someone really wanted “junior” prefixes to exist (looking at you, junior welterweights).
It’s like splitting a pizza into 17 slices—absurd, but now everyone gets a participation trophy (and a title fight).
Let’s not ignore the conspiracy angle. Seventeen is a prime number, which means it can’t be divided evenly—much like boxing’s logic. Maybe it’s a secret tribute to the 17 muscles it takes to frown at a questionable judge’s decision. Or perhaps it’s a ploy to keep mathematicians awake, muttering, “But why not 16? Or 18? WHY PRIME?!” while the rest of us enjoy the spectacle of 17 humans trying to weigh in without spilling their electrolyte water.