The main event of Misfits Boxing 23, held on Saturday, December 20, 2025, delivered exactly what influencer boxing has become notorious for—chaos, controversy, and a level of technical sloppiness that somehow still captivates massive audiences. Taking place at the Dubai Duty Free Tennis Stadium and streamed live on Rumble Premium, the bout between Andrew Tate and Chase DeMoor will go down as one of the strangest, most awkward main events in Misfits Boxing history.
Despite the promotional hype framing this as a clash of ego, masculinity, and internet bravado, what unfolded inside the ring was less a boxing match and more a prolonged lesson in fatigue, clinching, and unintentional comedy. In the end, DeMoor walked away with a clear decision victory after six grueling rounds, having outlasted—and visibly battered—Tate in a fight that few would describe as skillful, but many will remember for its absurdity.
Andrew Tate entered the ring carrying the weight of his public persona. A former kickboxer and self-proclaimed “Top G,” Tate’s brand is built on dominance, discipline, and an almost mythic confidence in his own physical abilities. For his supporters, this fight was supposed to be a showcase—proof that Tate could back up his rhetoric under bright lights.
Chase DeMoor, on the other hand, arrived with far less technical boxing credibility. Known primarily for his background in American football and reality television appearances, DeMoor has never been mistaken for a polished striker. The narrative heading into the fight was simple: if Tate had anything left of his combat pedigree, he should dismantle DeMoor with ease.
That narrative didn’t survive the later rounds.
The opening round was the cleanest boxing either man would display all night. Tate came out composed, upright, and purposeful. He established his jab early, touching DeMoor both upstairs and to the body. His footwork, while basic, was functional enough to keep DeMoor reaching.
DeMoor’s biggest issue showed itself immediately—his left hand might as well not have existed. Rather than using it to set up combinations or defend himself, he pawed it out half-heartedly, offering little more than a visual distraction. Tate capitalized, snapping quick jabs and lining up the right hand, controlling distance and tempo.
For about three minutes, it looked like the fight might follow the expected script.
By the second round, structure began to erode. DeMoor abandoned any pretense of textbook boxing and started launching looping right hands, often rushing forward into the clinch. From a technical standpoint, it was ugly. From a conditioning standpoint, it was effective.
Tate, who relies heavily on explosive movement and sharp bursts of offense, began to slow. Each clinch forced him to carry DeMoor’s weight, and each awkward exchange chipped away at his gas tank. While DeMoor wasn’t landing cleanly, he was forcing Tate to work constantly, turning the fight into a physical grind.
This round marked the beginning of a momentum shift that would only grow more pronounced.
By the third, Tate’s output dropped dramatically. The jab that had defined the opening round became sporadic. His movement grew stiffer, his reactions slower. At 39 years old, the wear of constant clinching and inefficient energy expenditure became obvious.
DeMoor, despite his lack of finesse, began finding success simply by being present and throwing volume. Right hands started sneaking through. Tate’s defense, once proactive, turned reactive. He was no longer dictating exchanges; he was surviving them.
From this point on, the fight belonged to DeMoor—not because he was better, but because he was fresher.
If the early rounds were sloppy, the fifth round was outright surreal.
DeMoor began dropping his hands to waist level and throwing a bizarre, leaping uppercut that looked more like something from a playground fight than a professional boxing ring. Against all logic, it landed. Then it landed again. And again.
Each time, Tate failed to adjust. His guard stayed high and static, his feet planted. The result was a series of clean impacts that opened a cut and turned Tate’s face into a mask of blood. What should have been a glaring defensive error on DeMoor’s part somehow became his most effective weapon of the night.
The absurdity of it all was impossible to ignore. A move that would be punished instantly by any trained boxer became the turning point of the fight.
The final round settled back into exhausting clinch work. Neither man looked sharp, but the outcome was already clear. DeMoor continued pressing forward, absorbing and delivering just enough punishment to maintain control.
When the final bell rang, there was no suspense. The judges rendered a decision that reflected what most viewers had already accepted: Chase DeMoor had clearly done more over the course of six rounds.
DeMoor’s victory was decisive, but it didn’t elevate his standing as a boxer. If anything, it highlighted how forgiving influencer boxing can be to poor fundamentals. The comparison made online was brutal but telling—DeMoor made Jake Paul look like a polished technician by comparison.
For Andrew Tate, the loss was far more damaging. His brand relies on the perception of dominance, and this fight punctured that image in front of a massive audience. Being outworked, bloodied, and outlasted by a technically limited opponent is not an easy narrative to spin.
Among combat sports fans, the consensus was harsh. Many described the bout as one of the worst high-profile fights in recent memory—less boxing match, more extended clinch-fest that occasionally resembled low-level wrestling.
Misfits Boxing continues to draw attention precisely because it blurs the line between sport and spectacle. Fights like Tate vs. DeMoor succeed commercially because they generate conversation, memes, and outrage. From a purist’s perspective, they are often painful to watch. From a business perspective, they work.
This bout reinforced a key truth: conditioning and persistence can overcome skill deficits at this level. DeMoor didn’t outbox Tate—he exhausted him. In influencer boxing, that’s often enough.
One of the most common reactions online was a simple thought experiment: what would happen if either man faced a legitimate professional fighter?
The answer is almost universally agreed upon. Someone like Darren Till, even past his prime, would have dismantled this version of Tate with ease. The gulf between influencer boxing and elite combat sports remains vast, and this fight did nothing to close it.
Andrew Tate vs. Chase DeMoor will not be remembered for technical brilliance or competitive excellence. It will be remembered because it perfectly encapsulated the bizarre appeal of influencer boxing—a place where fundamentals are optional, conditioning is king, and the unexpected can carry the night.
For fans of chaos, it delivered. For fans of boxing, it was a reminder of how low the bar can drop when spectacle takes precedence over skill. And for “Top G” loyalists, it was about as humbling a moment as imaginable.
In the end, Chase DeMoor raised his hand in victory. Andrew Tate walked away bloodied. And Misfits Boxing walked away with exactly what it wanted: everyone talking about it.
