Last month, Boxingtalk published Charles Muniz's cautionary story about the danger of silence in the face of huge regulatory changes that seem to be coming soon to boxing. The warning was met largely with... silence. Here are Muniz's further thoughts on the subject:

 

There is a reason certain words endure. They sound gentle. Reassuring. Wise.
 Let it be.

 

It feels like patience. Like maturity. Like the calm voice urging restraint when emotions run high. But history shows us that some of the most damaging choices are made not in anger or ignorance—but in calm, collective silence.

 

We celebrate voices today that once unsettled their own time. We quote them safely, long after the danger has passed. Their words are carved into stone, taught in classrooms, invoked whenever it is convenient to sound principled. What we forget is how often those same figures were told—explicitly or implicitly—to wait, to temper their message, to stop making things uncomfortable. They were told to let it be.

 

What if they had?

 

What if Frederick Douglass had accepted slavery as simply the order of things, and decided that measured silence was wiser than moral confrontation? What if he had softened his words to remain acceptable to those who benefited most from quiet?

 

What if Abraham Lincoln had chosen unity over justice, postponement over principle, concluding that the country was not ready?

 

What if Martin Luther King Jr. had waited for a better political moment, or Rosa Parks had stood up and moved to the back of the bus because one seat wasn’t worth the trouble?

 

What if John Lewis had turned back on that bridge?


 

What if Medgar Evers had decided that survival mattered more than speaking plainly?

 

What if Winston Churchill, surrounded by voices urging calm and accommodation, had embraced silence when warning felt impolite?

 

And beyond the United States—
What if Václav Havel had chosen to live within the lie because truth was inconvenient?


 

What if Nelson Mandela had accepted freedom on the regime’s terms instead of prison on his own?

 

What if Lech Wałęsa had decided that challenging power was futile, that silence was safer?


 

What if César Chávez had concluded that exploitation was simply the price of work, and that gratitude should replace dignity?

 

History does not give us those versions. Not because silence was unavailable—but because someone, somewhere, refused to confuse quiet with wisdom.

 

None of these figures were celebrated in their moment. They were disruptive. Inconvenient. Accused of moving too fast, pushing too hard, threatening stability. The advice they received was always the same: be patient, be realistic, don’t force it, don’t make things worse... Let it be.

 

It sounds peaceful. It isn’t. It is the language every system uses when it wants to remain exactly as it is. Whether in sport, government, or any institution entrusted with oversight, silence has always been power’s most reliable ally.

 

That is why this question matters now.

 

In boxing, silence is not accidental—it is learned. Fighters understand quickly that questioning the system can cost opportunities. Officials learn that speaking plainly brings consequences. Promoters learn that compliance preserves access. Over time, resignation begins to feel like professionalism. Survival masquerades as wisdom.

 

And when someone says, “nobody cares,” what they often mean is not that injustice is invisible—but that speaking carries a price few are willing to pay.

 

That silence is not theoretical. When concerns about the future of boxing were shared privately with those best positioned to respond—leaders of sanctioning bodies and major promoters—there was no objection, no disagreement, and no acknowledgment. Not because the implications were unclear, but because coordination itself now carries risk. Some speak individually. Few stand collectively.

 

That is how structural change happens without debate. Not through persuasion, but through fragmentation—where each actor waits for someone else to speak first. In that vacuum, a single, unified entity does not need consensus to reshape a sport. It only needs everyone else to remain separate, cautious, and silent long enough for the future to arrive fully formed.

 

And if that future arrives endorsed—if Congress, after hearings and revisions, signals that the new structure is compliant with its own changes—then the shift will not merely be cultural. It will be codified.

 

Courts do not rewrite statutes. They interpret them. If lawmakers declare a model acceptable, the judiciary will have little room to say otherwise. Compliance becomes shield. Consolidation becomes lawful. What once might have been challenged becomes precedent.

 

That is how eras close. Not with outrage, but with legislative language.

 

And when the framework changes in Washington without coordinated resistance from those it most affects, the outcome will not feel imposed. It will feel authorized.

 

So when institutions stay quiet, when oversight becomes optional, when rules exist but are no longer enforced, this is not neutrality. It is acquiescence. It is continuity disguised as inevitability.

 

Chains are replaced by paperwork. Coercion is replaced by contracts. Silence replaces force. We like to quote that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” What is usually omitted is the truth beneath it: the arc does not bend on its own. It bends because people pull it—against comfort, against convenience, against silence.

 

And when this period is eventually examined—when the facts are exhumed from the graveyard and a fuller autopsy is performed—the cause of death will not be listed as sudden. It will be described as predictable, even inevitable, but only because inevitability is what silence produces in hindsight.

 

Boxing will not be said to have died by force.
 It will be said to have died quietly. Much like the infamous case of Kitty Genovese in March of 1964, when cries for help echoed into the night and were heard—but not answered. No single witness caused the outcome. That was the point. Each assumed someone else would act. Each waited. Each remained still long enough for tragedy to complete its work. The lesson was never about cruelty.
 It was about diffusion of responsibility.

 

When the cry went out, it was not unanswered because it was unheard.
 It was unanswered because it belonged to everyone.

 

And so, when consolidation is later described as unavoidable—when those who remained silent ask how such a drastic change could have happened—the answer will already be written.

 

When words of warning were spoken, those with the most to lose chose silence.
 They chose not to coordinate.
 They chose not to stand together.
 They chose to let it be.

 

History’s most enduring failures were never defended.
 They were simply allowed to be.