Tyson Fury, left, who defeated Wladimir Klitschko in Saturday’s world heavyweight championship, may provide the dose of celebrity that boxing needs. Photograph by Lars Baron / Bongarts / Getty

A few weeks ago, The Mail on Sunday published an article beneath a headline that asked a seemingly simple question: Is Tyson Fury fit to fight Wladimir Klitschko for the world heavyweight title? Variations of this question are frequently posed in the weeks that precede big boxing matches. In the case of Klitschko, who was the generally recognized heavyweight champion of the world, and Fury, who fought him in Düsseldorf, Germany, on Saturday night, the competitiveness question seemed easy to answer. Klitschko, from Ukraine, had won his previous twenty-two fights, a streak that stretched over a decade; against Fury, an Englishman, he was a five-to-one favorite. But while Fury was neither a great athlete nor a great technician, he is big—six feet nine, which is three inches taller than Klitschko, with longer arms—and he was undefeated, with a record that included a few respectable wins. In that sense, Fury seemed fit, or fit enough.

But in another sense, a sense perhaps more relevant to boxing’s promoters, the question of fitness was harder to answer. The story in The Mail was a classic specimen of pre-fight sensationalism, and the headline continued with an irresistible offer: “Read his vile homophobic slurs and bizarre rants about devil worshippers and Armageddon.” The article espoused earnest concern about the challenger’s “mental well-being” and “the influence Fury might have on those who look up to him.” But it also made Fury seem like can’t-miss entertainment—the perfect antidote, perhaps, to the predictable professionalism of his opponent.

There was a time when the heavyweight champion of the world was by definition a celebrity. But for much of the last decade, even a well-informed all-around sports fan might not have been able to tell a Klitschko from, well, a Klitschko. There were two, for a while, Wladimir and his older brother Vitali, generally recognized as the best heavyweight boxers in the world, although crowning a consensus champion would have required Klitschko vs. Klitschko, a fight that both agreed would never happen. In 2013, Vitali retired in order to spend more time with his prospective constituents—he was elected mayor of Kiev the next year. Not long after Vitali’s retirement, Wladimir Klitschko defeated the next-best heavyweight and became, in the eyes of most boxing fans, the legitimate heavyweight champion of the world. He was a star in Germany, but less of one in the U.S.; even after his engagement to the American actress Hayden Panettiere, he failed to attract huge television audiences to his methodical championship defenses.

Even Klitschko seemed slightly relieved when Fury built a résumé strong enough to make him a plausible challenger: finally, a Klitschko fight that wouldn’t be boring—at least, not until it started. Although Fury was raised outside Manchester, he is descended from the group known as the Irish Travellers. His father is a former boxer and bare-knuckled fighter who was known professionally as (Gypsy) John Fury. This past February, John Fury was released from prison after serving four years of an eleven-year sentence stemming from an incident that the Manchester Evening News had described memorably, with a pair of crowded sentences:

John Fury left Oathie Sykes, 44, half-blind after a 12-year grudge erupted in bloody violence at a car auction. Moments before shoving his finger into Mr. Sykes’ right eye, 46-year-old Fury declared himself the country’s toughest man, Manchester crown court heard.

Given this history, Tyson Fury’s provocations might seem less shocking. He talks often about his Christian faith, and he shared some theological thoughts with The Mail on Sunday, asserting that the legalization of homosexuality and abortion were two of the “three things that need to be accomplished before the devil comes home.” (The third was pedophilia.) “The end is near,” he said, although he seemed sure that the end of Klitschko’s reign as champion was even nearer. During a Sky Sports interview, Fury said, “I’m going to make Wladimir look stupid before knocking him out—and that’s a promise.” At one press conference, he told Klitschko, “You have about as much charisma as my underpants.” At another, Fury arrived dressed as Batman, and then scrambled over a table to tackle a man dressed as the Joker, while Klitschko watched and smiled. “I don’t want to be an ordinary person,” Fury told The Mail. “Awkwardness to the utmost, highest level.”

Where Klitschko looks dignified and—considering that he is thirty-nine years old—disconcertingly muscular, Fury is a stranger sight. He has spindly legs, a big but comparatively ill-defined torso, and a prominent chin, which is sometimes covered in a beard and almost always wagging. On Saturday night in Düsseldorf, Fury talked right through “God Save the Queen,” as performed by the masked German pop-classical singer known as the Dark Tenor; he enunciated vehemently, staring hard across the ring at Klitschko, who seemed typically unflustered.

The fight was broadcast in the U.S. on HBO, and once the bell sounded it seemed like time for the Fury show to end. Klitschko’s style is sometimes disparaged as “grab and jab,” a description that has sometimes been accurate but downplays the cumulative effect of Klitschko’s unspectacular punches, which can be brutal. (Last year, facing a big and decent heavyweight named Kubrat Pulev, Klitschko delivered a swatting left hook that sent Pulev flopping backward, slowly, onto the mat, where he remained as the ring filled with happy men in red Klitschko sweatsuits.) And at first Klitschko seemed to be biding his time, while Fury practiced the “awkwardness” he had previously preached. Fury was energetic and herky-jerky, twitching and grimacing and occasionally making contact. This didn’t seem like the kind of thing a fighter could do for twelve rounds, especially against Klitschko.

But where was Klitschko? At the start of the seventh round, Harold Lederman, HBO’s reliably excitable unofficial scorer, said that he thought Fury was winning. “This is unbelievable,” he said. “Wladimir is so inactive, it’s like he’s giving away the heavyweight championship of the world! I’ve got it five rounds to one: fifty-nine to fifty-five, Tyson Fury. Mainly because Wladimir is not punching. I mean, look at that!” Just then, Fury threw a soft left hook and a wild right cross and then, twisting away from Klitschko, Fury let loose a peculiar and possibly illicit punch, a half-backhanded right. Klitschko swung halfheartedly, out of range. “Fury punches,” Lederman said. “Wladimir don’t hit him back!”

This was the strange story of a strange fight: Klitschko didn’t punch much. Compubox, an unofficial monitor, credited him with fifty-two punches landed; in all of his previous twelve-round fights, he landed more than twice as many. (Fury was given credit for eighty-six.) There was no way Fury could lose unless he was robbed, and he wasn’t: he won a unanimous decision. And just as the reality of Klitschko’s poor performance slowly became clear, as the rounds progressed, so too did the importance of Fury’s win, in the moments after it was announced. Boxing championships are a mess, ruined by meaningless belts and endless arguments. But just as nearly everyone agreed that Wladimir Klitschko was the legitimate heavyweight champion of the world, nearly everyone must now agree that the title belongs to Fury. By one reckoning, Saturday night marked the first time in fourteen years that a consensus heavyweight champion of the world has been beaten.