After a grim night with 58-year-old Mike Tyson, here comes a nobody-asked-for-it rematch between Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Manny Pacquiao
By Jason Gay
In September, Netflix, the streaming colossus behind fare like Martin Scorsese’s “The Irishman” and a sinking civilization’s “Poop Cruise,” will present a boxing rematch between 49-year-old Floyd Mayweather Jr. and 47-year-old Manny Pacquiao. As someone who attended the original “superfight” between Mayweather and Pacquiao more than 10 years ago, I regret to inform you: I await this sequel like a second bout with the mumps.
Please know, when the audience exited the MGM Grand Garden Arena in May 2015, nobody was thinking: more, please. If anything, there was frustrated regret, that this once-promising fight had taken too long to schedule, that the Mayweather and Pacquiao camps had bickered over terms for so long that both boxers were past their prime, resulting in a somnambulant scuffle that lived up to none of its extravagant hype.
Still, here we go, again. This nobody-asked-for-it reprise featuring a boxer who hasn’t won a legit fight since 2017 (Mayweather) against one who hasn’t won since 2019 (Pacquiao) will take place Sept. 19 at the Sphere, Jim Dolan’s LED orb hovering on the Las Vegas Strip. No marquee name has been proposed, but how’s this: The Bumble in the Bauble.
I suppose an upside to the weird venue is that it offers the potential for alternative entertainment. Perhaps midway through a snoozy fourth round, when Money and Pac are leaning on each other like a pair of stragglers at the pub, the Sphere can beam “The Wizard of Oz” or a college-football game onto its Central Park-sized video screen, or simply plug in Phish.
What is Netflix’s game here? If I wanted to watch a pair of agitated fortysomethings engage in a comically meaningless tangle, I would hit the parking lot at a travel soccer tournament. And yet the digital media giant, which recently began hijacking Christmas with the NFL, continues to lean in to these superannuated sports fliers.
In May Netflix will show a mixed-martial arts fight between Ronda Rousey, who left the UFC nearly 10 years ago, explaining later it was due to concussion worries, and Gina Carano, who hasn’t fought since 2009. Most infamously, it booked a 58-year-old Mike Tyson to skirmish the 27-year-old YouTube goof Jake Paul, only to watch a creaky Iron Mike wobble into the ring wearing a chunky knee brace and fight like he was, well, 58 years old.
We can howl about how this stuff hurts the business of up-and-coming fighters, but aging punchers grabbing late checks is a staple of the trade. George Foreman captured the heavyweight championship at 45. Bernard Hopkins won a title at 49. Evander Holyfield gave it a swing at 58. Despite the obvious medical concerns, and the chronically inert action, there remains sizable public nostalgia for watching fighters who are too old to fight.
Netflix will tell you: Tyson-Paul is its biggest sports hit to date, drawing a live audience that reportedly peaked at 65 million, bigger than any sporting event outside of the Super Bowl.
That’s the aim here. At a combined 96, Mayweather-Paquiao has Tyson-Paul beaten by a robust 11 years, but they’re recognizable names, a curiosity, and they will likely attract a crowd. This stuff is less expensive than an NFL game, and a far safer bet than another pricey alien movie, or, heaven forbid, “The Irishman Part II.”
I don’t believe anyone, including Mayweather and Pacquiao, is under the illusion that this fight will be good, but this fight wasn’t booked to be good. It is about attention, and eyeballs, and the calculation is that an extended pillow fight between two near-quintagenarians is an easier way to lure them than, say, a legitimately compelling brawl between two lesser-knowns.
It is sports as clickbait, the athletic equivalent of FIVE FOODS YOUR DOCTOR SAYS STOP EATING IMMEDIATELY or SHE MARRIED A TARANTULA—AND YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT.
There’s no reason to be holy about this. I’m a part of the problem, too, yapping about this silly kerfuffle six months out. I should use my time more wisely, writing about NBA tanking, the NFL combine, college wrestling, pro cycling’s fresh fascination with Johannes Klaebo, or even just feeding the cat.
The only thing more mortifying than a shameless stunt fight is knowing you’re shameless enough to watch it. I’m the hypocrite who’s stayed up for Jake Paul’s boxing matches. I even ponied up for a pay-per-view a few years back to see Mayweather spend eight rounds gently caressing Jake’s overmatched older brother, Logan. I have no claim to a high horse.
I was bored to tears watching Mayweather-Pacquiao a decade ago, but I won’t be able to resist when they tussle blandly in September. I can snarkily compare it to the mumps, and groan all I want about civilization’s decline, but come on. Who am I kidding? I enjoyed “Poop Cruise.”
