Constantly told it has had its time, Professional Boxing often sits alone on the edges of the skatepark, watching others have their fun. He watches the cool kids – Influencer Boxing, Netflix Exhibitions, Power Slap and Bare Knuckle – show off their tricks and remembers a time when he performed the same tricks and passersby appreciated the level of skill required to execute them. He then watches Influencer Boxing, Netflix Exhibitions, Power Slap and Bare Knuckle attempt to monetise their tricks by sitting down with their phones and livestreaming. It is at that point Professional Boxing gets up and leaves, unsure of what any of it means.
Days later, Influencer Boxing, Netflix Exhibitions, Power Slap and Bare Knuckle feel sorry for Professional Boxing, this luddite divorced from reality, and decide to take him shopping. The plan, they say, is to update him, drag him into 2025, and alleviate the sadness and confusion Professional Boxing carries with him to the park each day. They first give him a diagnosis and a podcast on which he can discuss his diagnosis ad nauseam. Then they give him a TikTok account. After that, they buy him an iced vanilla matcha in a plastic cup, a phallic-shaped dummy he can suck to produce bubble-gum flavoured smoke, and various pimple patches, all different colours. Finally, having buried him in clothes three sizes too big, they sit Professional Boxing down and explain to him what he is doing wrong, placing particular emphasis on his lack of drip and rizz and his predilection for drawn-out arguments and collecting belts. They suggest he should go away, take their advice, and reinvent himself. So, that’s what he does.
With Professional Boxing now away, Influencer Boxing, Netflix Exhibitions, Power Slap and Bare Knuckle happily house-sit for him. Inside the house, which Professional Boxing built, they are free to now livestream all day and will soon invite their friends over and set up a hub for content creators. It’s fine, they say. He’ll understand. He has no choice. Besides, should he complain, they will simply remind him of all that he is doing wrong. This, they will explain, is the future. Come join us, old man. Either that or die.
In August, Professional Boxing was away a lot – thinking, planning, relaxing – and as a result Misfits, a nickname for Influencer Boxing, had the run of the house last weekend. This, for Misfits, was an important development because it meant that for once it would not be battling for its authenticity on a weekend dominated by “proper” boxing; otherwise known as Professional Boxing. In the absence of that, they no longer had a direct comparison to highlight everything the naysayers accuse it of being: low in quality, a distilled product, shamelessly shit. Instead, they could for one night parade themselves as The Real McCoy. Better yet, they could fill a void for any boxing fan susceptible to late-night cravings or suffering withdrawals following a barren month.
It was close enough, after all. There were gloves, there were punches, and there was a ring. There were also faces familiar from the world of combat sports, including Darren Till, Luke Rockhold and Tony Ferguson, all of whom once appeared in the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC). Although not boxers per se, the gradual introduction of MMA stars to Influencer Boxing provides it with a veneer of authenticity it would otherwise lack. Without them, it becomes significantly harder to pass off a card featuring Joey Essex, “Salt Papi” and Demi Sims as anything even tangentially connected to boxing.
At least with the likes of Till and Rockhold, Saturday’s headliners, you have some actual fighters on display. Neither would be considered “boxers” necessarily, but both were known for their striking in the UFC and therefore the sight of them throwing punches in gloves at Misfits 22 was less offensive than other Misfits fights have been. Not only that, if you’re into this kind of thing, the main event actually delivered, with Till knocking out Rockhold with a big left hand to leave him crumpled on the canvas, his legs folded beneath him. Indeed, if you didn’t know any better, you might have even thought you were witnessing a knockout shot from a legitimate professional boxing match. It was that convincing.
Whether a fight like that, and a clip like that, will ultimately convince traditionalists to become Misfits on weekends with no other options is still up for debate. However, it is certainly noticeable how those within the industry – pro boxing, that is – are becoming more interested in and welcoming of Misfits and Influencer Boxing the more it gains traction and increases its output. On Saturday, for instance, Misfits made a big deal of Conor Benn showing up to the event, and there were others, too. Liam Smith, the former WBO super-welterweight champion, was present at ringside and apparently impressed by what he saw. “Say what you want about Joey Essex, but the man’s got a pair of balls – not just getting in there in front of thousands of eyes watching (while he has fame and makes money from TV) but to bite down and fight while absolutely fucked on his feet,” Smith wrote on social media. “Hats off.”
Also ringside was Carl Froch, the retired former world super-middleweight champion who has long teased a return to the ring to fight an influencer. First there was talk of Jake Paul, the obvious choice. Then, on Saturday, it was Darren Till, who targeted Froch after his win while metres from a dwarf. “You’ve got so much to say on your little YouTube channel with 10K viewers… get in this ring, you little shithouse,” said Till, before reminding himself that Froch was “fifty” – he is actually 47 – and suggesting he was perhaps too old.
Maybe, in the end, he is. Maybe Froch is too old to fight again and too old for all this juvenile carry-on with the chronically online. But, even if that’s true, it won’t stop Froch getting involved, nor will a fighter’s age ever take precedence over the more important number mentioned in Darren Till’s call-out. For it is views that really matter these days, not a man’s age. Gather enough views and you have power and prominence, more than even skilled and high-achieving professional boxers. Gather enough of them and you can do whatever you want to do and “fight” whoever you wish to fight.
The good thing, too, is there is enough to go around – views, influencers, platforms. Even in the dangerous world of combat sports, boxers, both active and retired, now find themselves with an embarrassment of riches when it comes to prolonging their careers and building their profile and fortune. If boxing takes too long, and too much discipline and skill, they can simply turn to Influencer Boxing or, for a bit more authenticity, Bare Knuckle Boxing, which, in 2025, commodifies what was once an underground taboo.
In that world we have recently seen numerous ex-professional boxers dabble and often for the same reason: relevance. The latest to entertain fights in Bare Knuckle Fighting Club (BKFC) are James DeGale, like Froch a former world super-middleweight champion, and Kell Brook, a former world welterweight champion. For them, rather than a way of making influencer-type money, Bare Knuckle Boxing represents a chance to return to doing what both do naturally – the only thing they have ever learned to do.
"UK, I'm back,” DeGale, 39, wrote on Instagram ahead of his bare-knuckle debut on September 27. “This time the gloves are off.
“Everyone asking what version you’re getting... seven years out, body healed, mind sharp – it’s the best one yet. Demolition job pending.”
Brook, meanwhile, also 39, told Boxing Scene: “It is in me; it’s in my blood; I have done it [boxing] all my life. Boxing is my life, and it is hard to close the door on it.
“You see these fighters, and you begin to think, I can beat all these guys.
“It is not about the money. I have enough money. It’s about the challenge. It’s about seeing what I have left, and I believe I still have it.”
Many return for the same reason, of course, and there is no shame in that. Letting go of anything in life is difficult, as is both change and accepting the passing of time, and fighting professionally offers no immunity from these things.
To make matters worse, or just harder, there are now constant reminders for retired boxers no matter where they look. There are reminders of what you once did every Saturday night and there are also now platforms and opportunities for retired boxers to believe that an anti-ageing serum can be found in either slapping, going bare knuckle, or calling out streamers. This, quite clearly, does more harm than good – in every possible sense. It tempts the already tempted and it encourages retired boxers not to rise above but instead lower themselves just for some validation, attention, and a future. After all, if boxers see the sport doing it – degrading itself to get with the cool kids and stay alive – why shouldn’t they do the same?
