A reflection on Mike Tyson vs. Jake Paul

It occurs to me that if those on the left wanted a candidate who is train-wreckishly watchable, oddly relatable to a bunch of people, a member of a minority group, interesting without even trying, and never condescending, they could have done a lot worse than Mike Tyson. Would it have been any more absurd than what they actually got? Probably not.

I wrote the following after Tyson’s last “fight”—an exhibition snoozer against Roy Jones Jr. in 2020: “I covered Mike Tyson’s last real fight, in June 2005, at the MCI Center in Washington, D.C. Tyson clearly wasn’t ‘into’ it and quit on his stool before the seventh round, before giving what I thought was probably the most honest and insightful post-event interview anybody in the world had ever given up to that point. I became completely enamored with Tyson’s self-awareness and introspection, which was evident in a slightly worshipful book I wrote about him called Facing Tyson: Fifteen Fighters, Fifteen Stories.”

Before you race to the comments section to remind me that Tyson was/is a terrible person, I know, and he knows, and that’s part of what made the 2005 version of him so compelling. This was a truly guilty man who needed repentance and a Redeemer.

Because of the book, friends understandably assumed I would be all over the Tyson-Paul thing and texted accordingly. The thing about me and boxing, as far as being enamored with it, has always been the deep-seated respect the fighters have for each other. After all of his knockouts, Tyson practically raced across the ring to hug the other guy and make sure he was OK. To a man, every guy I interviewed for the book wished Tyson well. They respected each other. A thing that seemed barbaric (fighting in a ring) actually seems sane and rational and kind of … nice … compared to the mudslinging and social-media dreck we’ve just waded through politically.

Last week set world records for overwrought blog posts, wimpy and self-important tweets (“We need hope now, more than ever”), and national Christian publication think pieces. It was all very predictable and all super boring. What some people on both sides really wanted to do was punch each other in their respective smug, condescending faces. Boxing just cuts to the chase.

For me, the main thing at stake on Friday—when Tyson fought Jake Paul on a weird streaming platform (Netflix, which performed horrendously) at a weird venue (AT&T Stadium) for a weird reason (fame and more money, I guess?)—was self-respect. Tyson, 58, hasn’t had it for a long time. He’s been selling weed products and advocating for shrooms on podcasts, doing Mike Tyson karaoke for the last decade and a half. Jake Paul looks like the kind of derpy young adult you’d see working at a Hot Topic in the mall, save for the fact that he is obscenely rich and famous for doing stupid and banal things on YouTube before everybody else started doing similar things.

The only path to self-respect for Tyson would have been for him to come out like the old Tyson, full of fury and rage, showing the mix of defensive expertise coupled with bomb throwing that made him the youngest heavyweight champion in history. Paul’s path to self-respect would have been to show up in shape, fight hard, and take a savage beating at the hands of Tyson, going out on his shield (which would probably include bleeding and getting up off the deck at least once).

What happened was what was inevitably going to happen. Two rich, sad guys dancing around and getting somehow richer and sadder all at the same time. It will be quickly forgotten and hopefully never replicated. Tyson barely threw a punch.

“It would be like if you had to watch a young Roger Clemens blowing fastballs by a 58-year-old Mickey Mantle—it would bum you out,” I told my dad, the morning after.

But the night did deliver something magical. My buddy Lance and all of his sons were there with me. My son Maxim was there. We watched an incredible undercard fight between Mario Barrios and Abel Ramos that was a 12-round example of why boxing is so amazing and will be a fight-of-the-year candidate. Lance’s boys fell in love with and appreciated a cool sport, perhaps for the first time. I texted the old pro heavyweight (my dear friend Sam Comming), who I used to spar with and manage. He texted me some old videos of our sparring sessions.

The next morning, with my wife, I thanked God for my friends, my sons, and my sport—all of which have been better to me than I deserve.