Boxing promoters and organizers behind the scenes in offices across America are surely looking at putting Mexican Zepeda into a good fight soon.
He did well in his last fight to Shakur Stevenson even though he lost.
He just stepped in there with a genius that’s all, it happens.
Picture this though: a southpaw storm from San Mateo Atenco, all relentless forward march and hooks that land like monsoon rain. That’s William Zepeda, the 29-year-old Mexican machine who’s turned the lightweight division into his personal demolition derby.
In recent years, he’s not just winning; he’s erasing opponents, one pressure-cooked body shot at a time. But here’s the rub: in a weight class stacked with slick technicians and golden boys, Zepeda’s the uninvited guest who shows up with a sledgehammer. Nobody at 135 wants smoke with Camarón. Why?
Because facing him means surviving a 12-round avalanche, and good luck with that.
Let’s rewind to his breakout. October 2022, against Joseph “JoJo” Diaz, a former Olympian and world champ with pedigree for days. Zepeda didn’t circle or jab pretty—he swarmed, throwing 1,100 punches in a CompuBox record-shattering clinic. Diaz, tough as old leather, folded like cheap cardboard after eating 400-plus connects. Dropped him like a fly, crushed him like a bug.
William Zepeda Deserves Maybe Another Opportunity Maybe Boxing Will Give Him One
Three records smashed: most total punches, jabs in a round, jabs attempted overall. It wasn’t boxing; it was a blitzkrieg. Fast-forward to March 2024, Maxi Hughes crumbles in four via corner stoppage in a title eliminator. René Alvarado, Mercito Gesta—former champs turned speed bumps—get steamrolled. Even Tevin Farmer, in a gritty interim WBC title rematch last March, barely escapes with his chin intact after 12 rounds of hell.
Zepeda’s style? Pure nightmare fuel. He’s 5’9″ with a 69.5-inch reach, orthodox in a southpaw’s body, but his engine runs on Mexican machismo and endless cardio. He presses like a freight train, cutting angles with zero regard for defense, forcing foes to trade in the trenches. Punch resistance? Ironclad—he’s been dropped once, by Shakur Stevenson in July ’25 for the full WBC strap, but rose swinging, losing a razor-close UD that screamed “contender, not pretender.” Stevenson, the division’s Houdini, admitted post-fight: “That pressure… it’s different.” Yeah, Shakur. It’s the kind that turns elite into exposed.
So why the dodgeball at 135? Vasiliy Lomachenko eyes legacy dances, not dogfights. Devin Haney prefers checklists over chaos. And don’t get me started on the politics—promoters whisper “too risky” while padding safer paths to paydays. Zepeda’s the boogeyman because he exposes the frauds: the movers who wilt under fire, the stylists who can’t punch back. He’s not chasing belts for Instagram; he’s hunting souls, one hook at a time. In a sport where desire fades like old ink, Zepeda’s got that fire—hell, he’s the whole inferno.
At 29, undefeated in spirit despite that one scorecard hiccup, he’s primed for a rematch rampage or a super-fight splash. Imagine him vs. a resurgent Ryan Garcia, post-washout redemption arc. Or hell, drop Gervonta Davis down for a pressure cooker. But mark my words: the longer they sidestep, the louder his growl. Zepeda isn’t waiting for invites. He’s kicking down doors. And at 135, that sound? It’s the echo of careers cracking.
What goes around comes around in boxing, right? For the elite ducking Camarón, karma’s got a left hook with your name on it. Zepeda’s not washed—he’s the tide washing everyone else away. Move up, move over, or get moved out. Simple as that.
Big times for boxing soon, maybe we can bring him back, Zepeda, into some meaningful opportunities provided for him by boxing again soon.
