My sons, 20 and 22, avatars of this TikTok-crippled era, will join me at the altar of absurdity this afternoon for the Tyson/Paul showdown—a collision of decades that have no business sharing a ring. The 1980s, drenched in sweat, glory, and unfiltered ferocity, lurches forward in the form of Tyson, a hulking remnant of when men settled things with fists and fury. Meanwhile, the 2020s, all algorithms and spectacle, sends forth Jake Paul—a YouTuber-turned-pugilist who turned clout into currency and chaos into career.
We'll likely be sprawled across the sofa, prisoners of convenience and streaming dominance, since the hotel bar's television remains enslaved to the mediocrity of tier-two day time sport broadcasts. Not a whiff of Netflix there, no chance to witness this cultural fistfight under the flicker of public neon. But maybe that’s for the best. Tyson versus Paul deserves the intimacy of a private absurdity—a father and sons watching the ghosts of two radically different Americas duke it out in high-definition surrealism. It's Reagan's America vs Trump's.
The world will watch in a feverish, bloodthirsty stupor as two men—Mike Tyson, the once-unstoppable feral beast of the 1980s, and Jake Paul, the viral kingpin of the influencer-saturated, screen-obsessed 2020s—face off in a bout that is as much about a cultural collision as it is about the sweet science of boxing. This isn’t just a fight. This is a showdown between the raw, primal strength of yesterday and the slick, self-made, digital grind of today. It’s Rocky vs. TikTok, if you want to get philosophical about it. The world is watching, popcorn in hand, and the rest of us are left wondering: What the hell does this spectacle really mean?
Let’s get one thing straight. Mike Tyson was the goddamn king of the 1980s. Men wanted to be him, women wanted to be with him except perhaps, for Desiree Washington, the 18-year-old beauty contestant he raped in a hotel room, a crime that led to him being counted out for 10 years by an Indiana jury.
And everyone else just wanted to get the hell out of his way.
This was the era when masculinity wasn’t about being cute on the ’gram. No, it was about walking into a room and making sure people feared the very sight of you. You don’t talk. You don’t smile. You just unleash violence. And Tyson—pockmarked, tattooed, and scowling—was the embodiment of that unrelenting power. He wasn’t just a boxer; he was a force of nature, a weapon of mass destruction in human form. If you could survive Mike Tyson, you could survive anything.
Tyson wasn’t born from the soft cushion of the digital age, where everyone gets a trophy just for showing up. He grew up in the chaos of the Bronx, a product of grinding poverty and violence that cultivated something dark and ferocious in him. By the time he became the youngest heavyweight champion in history, Tyson wasn’t just a boxer; he was a goddamn myth, an untouchable creature that lived in a different stratosphere of masculinity. He was the 80s’ answer to the mythic, tortured antihero: big, bad, and able to take down anyone in seconds.
This was a time when men didn’t have to show emotions—hell, they didn’t even have to talk. Strength, power, and dominance ruled the day. The culture was steeped in testosterone-fueled fantasies, and Tyson was the pinnacle. There was no room for softness in the world of Tyson; it was all about surviving, taking, and conquering.
Jake Paul, Algorithm Man
Enter Jake Paul—post-millennial, algorithm-driven, and armed with nothing more than his smartphone and an ego as inflated as a Kardashian’s butt. Paul’s version of masculinity is less about blood, sweat, and real fights and more about creating a spectacle that keeps the world’s eyes on him. Forget about the “tough guy” image of the 80s; Paul’s brand of masculinity is about manipulation—of both the media and the people who feed on it. His rise to fame is rooted not in the ring, but in virality. It’s about likes, retweets, shares, and becoming a celebrity not for being tough, but for being seen, talked about, and packaged for mass consumption.
This is the age of influencer capitalism, where men are marketed as brands, not as fighters or providers. Paul isn’t in this for glory or for honor. Hell no. He’s here to turn every punch into content, to turn every hit into a headline, and to brand himself as the most “real” guy in the room by posting video after video of his life as if it were a goddamn reality show. The modern man doesn’t need to break a sweat—he just needs to be famous enough to get people to pay attention to his next move. And let’s be clear: Jake Paul has mastered this.
What does Paul’s masculinity say about today’s man? It says: Embrace the grind. But the grind here isn’t about punching bags or sweat-stained gyms. No, it’s about crafting an identity through endless self-promotion and digital theatrics. It’s a relentless hustle of personal branding, throwing around million-dollar deals with influencers, and flexing for the camera. Real fights? Sure, they’re a part of the act, but the true fight is the one he’s fighting for relevancy in an online ecosystem that is more merciless than Tyson’s uppercut.
Now we’ve got the two of them in the ring, each a monster of their own era’s making. Tyson, the avatar of raw, unfiltered masculinity, with his history of dominance and destruction. Paul, the sleek, self-aware, Instagram-ready version of masculinity, where strength is measured not by fists but by followers. It’s not just a boxing match. It’s a fight for the soul of what it means to be a man in an era that prizes curated images over true grit.
What Tyson represented in the 80s was straightforward: Be tough. Be strong. Be unbreakable. And if you weren’t? Well, that was your problem. In a world that valued physicality, Tyson’s body was a weapon, and the 80s loved him for it. He wasn’t just a boxer; he was an institution of unyielding power. Also a rapist.
Jake Paul, on the other hand, exists in a world where men are told to be more than just tough—they are told to be everything. Vulnerable. Emotional. Empowered. But only if it’s packaged right, of course. The social media era demands that men not just be something, but that they market themselves as that something. Paul’s masculinity is defined not by his fists but by his ability to stay on top of the noise, ride the waves of viral trends, and create the illusion of strength in a world that is more obsessed with the spectacle than the substance.
Primal needs
So, what are we witnessing here? A confrontation of worlds. Tyson’s fight wasn’t about money or spectacle—it was about the primal need to win, to prove that he was the most powerful force on the planet. Paul’s fight, though? That’s about relevance, about making sure people are still watching and clicking and sharing.
The bell is about to ring. Tyson may still pack a punch, but Jake Paul, well, he knows exactly how to capitalise on the moment. This fight isn’t just about men throwing fists at each other. It’s about two competing visions of masculinity—and how the world is shifting from raw, physical dominance to something far more intangible: fame, influence, and control. You might not like it, but it’s the fight of our times.
We’re all just spectators now. And, goddamn, we’re paying attention.
J