Everyone Still Wants to Believe in Mike Tyson

Mike Tyson stands alone in an empty ring, throwing punches at ghosts. The crowd screams his name, but he doesn't hear them anymore. At fifty-eight, his muscles still ripple beneath flabby, weathered skin, but the speed and movement that actually made the 5’10” heavyweight an all-time great among giants is gone. Jake Paul circles him like a schoolyard bully who's found the former tough guy years too late.

The Netflix stream buffers and freezes, a mercy for those watching this slow dance between youth and age. Some fan paid two million dollars for a VIP package to watch this live. The rest of us settle for pixelated glimpses of what boxing has become — and perhaps what it’s always been, a ridiculous spectacle. When the picture returns, Paul is pawing with his jab, careful not to hurt the old lion. Tyson bobs and weaves at a glacial pace, muscle memory from battles fought before Paul was born. The younger man could end this whenever he wants. He doesn't want to slay his idol.

We're all here because Tyson's name still means something. In the 1980s, he was a destroyer who unified the heavyweight titles, a squat, thick-necked nightmare who ended fights before they began. In the 1990s, he became the villain, serving time in prison for sexual assault, biting Evander Holyfield's ear, and raging against a world that couldn't contain him. Then came the redemption tour that reminded us how weirdly sensitive and thoughtful this wounded bear could be — a solid documentary, a really good autobiography, an acclaimed one-man show, a cartoon series, podcast appearances where he kisses beloved little person Hasbullah like he’s a baby. Now he's something else — a universal figure from the last era when we all watched the same things.

Paul understands this better than anyone. He built his fortune on YouTube, where audiences splinter into a million pieces. His previous fights drew huge numbers — 1.3 million pay-per-view buys, for example, for a lousy scrap against Ben Askren, a wrestler who showed up with a muffin top and bad hip. But Tyson transcends these divisions. Grandparents remember him as the baddest man on the planet. Parents recall his fall from grace. Their children know him from The Hangover and his podcast. There aren't many people left who can unite three generations of viewers.

The fight plods forward in two-minute rounds, preceded by endless dead air and filler even though people were paying Netflix to watch. At times, the referee warns Paul not to measure with his extended hand — a boxing rule far older than Tyson's prime. Tyson's legs are gone, but his chin holds up against 14-ounce gloves that feel more like pillows than weapons. Paul lands when he wants to, then pulls back, understanding that knocking out Mike Tyson would be bad for business. Social media star or not, the so-called “Problem Child” has power: he's knocked down every opponent he's faced except the oldest one.

This is perfect for Paul, who has mastered the art of selling fights to casuals and normies who don't watch fighting. His brother Logan made millions against Floyd Mayweather in a similar spectacle. The Paul brothers have headlined a half-dozen of the forty highest-grossing pay-per-views ever. They've shown that you don't need sanctioning bodies or corrupt promoters if you have enough Instagram followers. Their marketing genius even transformed the bloody, controversial Katie Taylor-Amanda Serrano lightweight title fight into the most-watched women's boxing match in history — a strange gift to the sport from two MAGA-loving brothers who started on YouTube.

But Tyson is different. He's not just another aging athlete looking for a payday, like former dance partner Holyfield was when he got wrecked by steroidal MMA veteran Vitor Belfort in 2021. He's Mike Tyson, the last heavyweight champion everybody knew. His name sells fights even when he can barely throw them anymore. Three years ago, he looked finished against fellow legend Roy Jones Jr. in an exhibition that ended in a merciful draw. Yet here we are again, buying the same story with a different opponent.

The rounds tick by through buffering streams and overlong introductions. The announcer draws out every word — "The one, the only, the baddest man on the planet." Even Tyson seems oddly shy, embarrassed by the grandiosity. After eight rounds, Paul wins a decision that doesn't matter. What matters is that for one night, everyone was talking about the same thing. We all watched Mike Tyson fight, just like we used to. It didn't matter that he was too old or that the opponent was a YouTuber playing boxer. The name still meant something.

The next day, social media moves on to a thousand different conversations. Paul talks about fighting Mexican great Canelo Alvarez, another fantasy that will draw millions of eyeballs. But for those few hours, Mike Tyson united us again. It won't happen again — not with him, not with anyone. The world is too fractured now, split into endless channels and streams. Like recently re-elected Donald Trump, another relic from when we all watched the same news and talk shows, Tyson reminds us of a time when heroes and villains were universal.

Paul returns to his YouTube empire richer than ever. Tyson goes back to his podcast and assorted side hustles, adding another chapter to his strange journey from terror to punchline to elder statesman. The moment passes. But for one night, we remembered what it was like when everybody knew the same names, watched the same fights, shared the same stories the day after. Mike Tyson can't knock people out anymore, but he can still make us all look in the same direction. There’s more power in that than any punch he ever threw.