Bringing prestige to Italian boxing by reaching historic milestones and earning major accolades were not just men—far from it. Over the past few decades, several women with outstanding technical and personal qualities have made us proud to be Italian, breathing new life into a movement in constant growth. Among them all, a place of honor belongs to Simona Galassi, the extraordinary “Romagna Queen,” who, after proving simply unbeatable as an amateur—with three world golds and three European golds—also shone brightly in the professional ranks.
Her record includes the EBU flyweight title, which she won twice, as well as the WBC world title in the same weight class and the IBF world title at super flyweight. Driven by a level of professionalism rarely seen, Simona built an unforgettable and remarkably long-lasting career, staying competitive at the highest levels of the sport for over nine years despite entering the pro world relatively late.
Her achievements deserve to be told, and it’s an honor for us to do so through her own words. Simona graciously agreed to look back on the key moments of her fascinating boxing journey on her 53rd birthday.
Your amateur career was impressive: three world golds, three European golds, and an incredible record of 86 wins in 87 fights. The only thing missing—through no fault of your own—was an Olympic gold medal. How important has women’s inclusion in the Olympics been for the growth of women’s boxing, and how much would it have meant to you to take part in the Games?
It was definitely very important. When I fought in my first amateur world championships in 2001, I spoke with Enza Iacoponi, Secretary General of the EBU, who at the time was talking about 2004 as the year women would be admitted to the Olympics, which gave us some hope. Then it was pushed back to 2008, and then delayed again. So for a while, I held on to the possibility of making it to the Olympics—it was a big dream of mine, one I would’ve loved to make come true, because I’ve always been an athlete in heart and soul. I love sports and deeply feel its most intrinsic meaning, which goes beyond competition. It wasn’t possible for me, but that milestone for women made a big difference: it allowed female boxers to enter the military and police sports groups, giving them some financial security—which we didn’t have back then. We had to work and figure out a way to build a training schedule that would fit the needs of a high-level athlete.
After only two pro fights, you immediately got a shot at the European title, but your match against Nadya Hokmi ended in a draw. Was that title shot too soon, or did that draw give you the motivation you needed to stop Bettina Voelker in your next continental fight?
Honestly, I don’t know if it was too soon. I certainly hadn’t understood some things yet. That fight ended the way it did because I was overtrained going into it. The match was originally scheduled for December, then it was pushed to January, and during the holiday period I was already struggling to make weight and had to train on my own since I couldn’t meet with my coach. So I went into the fight in a rough place, especially physically but also mentally. That was my first really tough match, because the French boxer was very strong—not so much technically, where I could outclass her, but physically. I remember the feeling of being completely spent when I returned to the corner after the second round: I had ten rounds to go and I was in despair.
So on one hand, maybe there was a bit of a rush to give me that shot because of my qualities and potential, but on the other hand, I also made some rookie mistakes in managing the situation. Later I learned that in the pros, a fight can be postponed even four times, but back then it was really hard to reorganize the training schedule. Still, there were two positive things that came out of it. The first was showing my promoter Cherchi that I had certain qualities, despite the poor performance. When I went back to the locker room, totally drained from giving everything I had just to finish the fight, he told me: “I saw something in you—very few people know how to grit their teeth like that.” The second was how much I learned from that experience.
After establishing yourself at the European level, you got the chance to fulfill a lifelong dream by facing the then-WBC flyweight world champion Stefania Bianchini in a highly anticipated all-Italian clash. You fought each other twice, and both times the decision clearly went in your favor. What are your memories of those long-awaited bouts, and what was your relationship like outside the ring?
I first met Stefania when I was still an amateur, before either of us became world champions. She came to the national team training camp to spar in preparation for one of her professional fights. During that sparring session, she ended up with a swollen eye—what you’d call a black eye. Later, when she heard I had become a world champion, she said, “Well, I don’t get black eyes from just anyone…” Stefania has always had a strong personality, she speaks her mind and never sugarcoats things. When the world title fight came around, a fierce rivalry developed between us. We both wanted to win, and we both knew we had what it took to win.
I remember that period fondly. I was very motivated by all the things she was saying, even though my fans were getting upset. She used to say things like, “I’m going to knock her out in front of her fans,” and made bold declarations. I would laugh when I read them. On the one hand, I admired her courage because it’s not in my nature to be that bold, and on the other, it amused me, because I was so confident in myself that I’d just think, “Go ahead, talk—then we’ll see what actually happens.” So I experienced it as a healthy competition, regardless of what was said publicly, because everyone has their own personality.
She didn’t take the second decision too well, because it was very clear-cut, while she felt she had performed better than in the first fight and hadn’t been given credit for it. But despite that, we’ve always spoken to each other, she acknowledged my victory, and as much as it may have stung, she’s always been an honest person. Of course, she’ll never be a close friend of mine, but we respect each other as athletes and as people—and that alone means a lot.
A fantastic three-year world title reign came to an end with a controversial decision in Mexico, where Mariana Juarez took your belt with a questionable unanimous decision. Yet just seven months later, you became a world champion again, this time at super flyweight. Would you say setbacks only made you stronger?
Yes, especially because behind some setbacks lie very complex stories. It’s one thing when you realize your opponent is simply better than you, or when you feel like you have nothing left to give. But it’s something else entirely when you know what you went through to get there, everything you gave in the ring, and then how things turned out. That definitely gives you extra emotional drive and determination to do better and come back stronger.
I always drew huge motivation from situations like that to prove my true worth. I went to Mexico after a year of virtual inactivity, because my title defense kept getting postponed—ten times, in fact. Eventually, they said, “There’s this opportunity in Mexico, should we take it?” And I obviously said yes. But I ended up fighting at altitude without adequate preparation for it. As always, I gave it my all, but I really struggled—by the tenth round, I was completely drained. Every loss has to be judged in the context of what came before it. My battles lasted much longer than those ten rounds: they included months of waiting, stress, training camps wasted because of postponements. Knowing all that, I never let myself get discouraged.
The stoppage loss to Szebeledi seemed like it might spell the end of your career, but instead, you continued competing at a high level for another three years, culminating in a great European derby against Loredana Piazza—a motivated opponent seven years younger than you, whom you managed to neutralize. What was your secret to staying competitive for so long despite starting your pro career relatively late?
I started everything later than most athletes: I began boxing at 28, so it was only natural that it took time to go through all the necessary steps. The first key to my success was how seriously I took it. I’m a very serious person, and anything I do, I do with purpose. I never fooled myself: if I had a goal, I knew I had to reach it in the best possible condition—eating well, living a disciplined life, and organizing my work and training properly.
The second crucial factor was that I never settled for my natural abilities. I always tried to improve, to fill in the gaps in my skill set, and enhance what already worked well. Finally, the most important thing was believing in myself. Because if you don’t believe, you can train as much as you want, but you won’t go anywhere.
These three aspects helped me stay strong and push through for as long as I believed. If people knew what really happened behind the scenes, beyond what you see in the ring, they’d discover so many things—experiences that, of course, remain private, but that shaped me deeply and helped me realize how far I was willing to go to reach my goals.
The fight against Loredana Piazza was tough for me, because we had been teammates on the national squad for a long time, and we had a genuine friendship. So there was some anxiety about how the competition might affect our relationship, given our mutual drive to win. I don’t think I fought a particularly good match, both for physical and emotional reasons. But in the end, Loredana’s coach, Dino Orso, gave me a huge compliment. He said, “I was really impressed by you, because you clearly took control of the fight and dictated the pace—you showed your personality in the ring.” Coming from him, that meant a lot to me. It made me realize that being in the ring is about much more than just having good skills.
In the final stage of your career, the goal of becoming a world champion for the third time slipped away by the narrowest of margins. The fights against Susi Kentikian and Debora Dionicius were extremely close, with decisions that could have gone either way. But while the home advantage clearly played a role in Germany, the same didn’t happen in Italy. Do you feel a bit of bitterness about that difference in treatment?
Definitely, yes, because I noticed the difference in certain details. When Dionicius came to Italy, I remember that the Italian supervisor, Rea, kept introducing her to everyone by highlighting the fact that she was undefeated, almost as if she were the one to be protected. Over time, and in looking back at everything that happened, I came to realize that maybe becoming world champion again just wasn’t meant to be. A week before the fight, during my last sparring session with Vissia Trovato, I suffered a deep cut above my eyebrow and needed twelve stitches, some of them internal to hide the wound. Dionicius had already left for Italy, so I was told that the fight absolutely couldn’t be canceled, and I went ahead with it. But stepping into the ring knowing that even a light blow to that area would surely reopen the cut really held me back psychologically, especially in the first half of the fight.
So, when you take all of that into account—along with the fact that I didn’t get the kind of support that fighters usually receive in their own country—it really made me think there was a higher plan in place that didn’t include that victory. To top it all off, I had one last fight in Mexico where I didn’t feel like myself at all—it was a terrible performance—and only months later did I discover I was seriously ill. Apparently, becoming world champion again just wasn’t in my destiny, and in the end, I accepted it.
What I experienced from the day I first stepped through the ropes to the end of my boxing journey was far more important than winning belts or collecting titles: it was a path of profound personal growth in every sense.