The Tech Guys Are Fighting. Literally.
Walking in the crowded conference room of ETHDenver (an annual cryptocurrency conference), Andrew Batey appeared like any other techie. Mr. Batey, a venture capitalist based in Florida wore a sweatshirt with logos from more than a dozen cryptocurrency companies. These included LunarCrush, bitSmiley, and others. He arrived with a pair Off-White Air Jordans. These are the types of sneakers that people don’t usually take out of their box, according to him. Batey was not at the conference to network with other crypto enthusiasts, but rather to fight a fellow enthusiast — live on YouTube. He was preparing to weigh in at the hotel, which is a short distance from the convention center. This would be the last step before the fight that night, where he would face crypto colleagues. He weighed just under 195 lbs, right on target for the bout. The venture capitalist flexed his biceps in front of the cameras. Men like Mr. Batey, who live across the United States, are learning how to punch, kick and elbow their opponents. In some cases they even hammer them over the head. Mark Zuckerberg is the face of this movement. The billionaire CEO of Meta has documented his transformation from skinny computer geek to martial arts fighter using Instagram, an app he owns. The post shows Mr. Zuckerberg in gym shorts, an American flag shirt, and grappling with his opponent. These tech founders who have turned to fighting are following a testosterone-heavy masculinity ideal that is dominating social media, and which President Trump has embraced. Elon Musk, Mr. Zuckerberg’s longtime rival and fellow billionaire, challenged him in 2023 to a cage match on television. The fight never took place, though Mr. Musk suggested at one point that he was willing to do battle in the Roman Colosseum.
Ancient Rome is, in some ways, a useful reference point for this era of ultrarich braggadocio. Romans of the highest class were fascinated by violent combat. By the early 20th century, fighting was still a popular pastime for the elites: Teddy Roosevelt, an avid boxer during his Harvard years and a regular sparring partner at White House. In the early 20th Century, fighting was still popular among the elites. Teddy Roosevelt, an avid boxer during his Harvard days, sparred regularly at the White House. In this part of the internet men are trying to reclaim the aggressive masculinity which was criticized during the #MeToo period. In a recent interview, Ms. Faludi stated that the increasing male obsession with combat was “a boy’s idea of what being a man means.”
She said, “Living out a childhood fantasy of becoming pro athletes is just puerile.” These guys need to learn yoga.” Batey said that Mr. Zuckerberg’s transformation was a “beacon for hope” to other executives. “Dreamers can latch on to something like this and say, ‘Maybe it’s possible.'”
Until lately, though, a run-of-the-mill tech founder hoping to flex his muscles on TV would have had limited options. Then a company called Karate Combat glimpsed a market opportunity.
A ‘Clout-Forming Exercise’
Most of the tech world’s aspiring fighters have a crucial thing in common: Before they started pursuing their extravagant new hobby, they made a lot of money.
In 2018, Mr. Batey founded Beatdapp, a company that develops software to eliminate fraud in music streaming. He runs Side Door Ventures which invests in crypto-startups. As are many of his colleagues Mr. Batey has a knack for selling. Even the miracles of life are an opportunity to promote crypto. “I hated the idea of giving someone a onesie,” said Mr. Batey. “I don’t like giving people something they can easily afford.” The league is a hybrid of an athletic competition and tech start-up. Rather than offering traditional shares, Karate Combat gave Mr. Batey’s firm Karate tokens — a cryptocurrency that fans can wager on Karate Combat fights, which stream on YouTube as well as TV channels like ESPN Deportes.
Karate Combat’s primary business is professional fighting — mixed martial arts contests featuring seasoned athletes, some of whom also fight in U.F.C. Karate Combat’s representative declined to disclose how much money is generated by the league. The company launched a new amateur competition last year and began offering it at professional events that are often held at crypto conferences. The competition was called Influencer Fight Club, and its premise was simple: Put a couple of tech guys in the ring and see what happens.
Karate Combat’s fights have an extensive following on Crypto Twitter, and Influencer Fight Club has helped attract more of those super-online fans. The competition featured several big names from the crypto community over the past 18 months. Nic Carter is a venture capitalist who has been known for his combative postings on X where he has criticized government regulators and questioned Covid vaccines. Carter, who boasted an impressive physique, defeated a tattooed cryptocurrency marketer at a crypto-conference in Nashville, Tennessee, last summer. In a recent interview, Mr. Carter described the exercise as an “amazing clout-forming” one. “I’m not cynical at all.” Batey went to an Influencer Fight Club in Austin, Texas last year, and decided that he too wanted to fight. He was an amateur boxer who had dabbled with the sport. As his career took off he gained weight and weighed 283 pounds. He was approaching 40 and had to get in shape for his health. “This is my 40th party — me fighting,” explained Mr. Batey. Maybe it’s midlife crisis. After the fight was scheduled for ETHDenver, a conference devoted to the cryptocurrency Ethereum, he booked a block of nearly 30 hotel rooms to accommodate his friends and supporters.
The training was transformative, Mr. Batey said. He built muscles that he had not seen in over 20 years. He said that masculinity was not a factor in his thinking. “But I definitely feel more masculine.”
At first Mr. Batey had trouble finding a suitable opponent. He went to New York last year to spar Billy McFarland. McFarland is the creator of Fyre Festival – the fake music festival that was the inspiration for a Netflix documentary. McFarland pulled out of the fight after Karate Combat declined to guarantee him $100,000 in appearance fees, according to Mr. Batey. Mr. McFarland refused to comment. Karate Combat pays out differently for its influencer matches. The New York Times reviewed a contract that offered a $2,000 fee for participation and a $10,000 bonus in Karate tokens to the fighter who landed a knockout. A second possible opponent declined to fight Mr. Batey over concerns about the venue: He couldn’t appear at an Ethereum conference because he was loyal to Solana, a rival cryptocurrency.
By January, Mr. Batey was worried the fight wouldn’t come together in time. Chauncey John, an upstate New York-based crypto entrepreneur, was the solution. St. John doesn’t seem like a fighter. He said, “I have this Mr. Rogers feeling to me.” He had also faced his fair share of challenges in the crypto-world. He founded Angel Protocol in 2021 to help charities raise funds using crypto. He steered clients to an investment platform linked to Luna, which was a digital coin whose value crashed overnight in 2022. This led the crypto market to collapse, wiping out much of the money raised by charities. After the Luna crash, Mr. St. John, 38 retreated from public view. He reimbursed charities with the money that his firm had saved and turned to Christianity in search of meaning during the worst time of his career. He was scrolling through his phone in January when he saw a group message with other crypto enthusiasts. His eyes fell on a message from an industry colleague who goes by the nickname “The Degen Boii”: Karate Combat needed a fighter for ETHDenver.
The invitation “felt like testimony from God,” Mr. St. John said.
For part of his life, he said, he didn’t fit in with other men, and sometimes wondered if he was gay. He is married to a female. Here was a chance to re-enter the crypto industry, re-establish his public profile and lay claim to what he calls “divine masculinity.”
“We’re trying to make it so equality means there’s no difference between the genders,” Mr. St. John said. “There’s a healthy masculinity that’s been thrown out, baby with the bathwater-style.”
He signed a contract and booked a flight to Denver.
Nerds Trying ‘to Man Up’
A few hours after the weigh-in, Mr. Batey drove to the Stockyards Event Center, a sprawling venue on the outskirts of Denver where Karate Combat had erected four sets of stands, overlooking a pit lined with mats. An extensive entourage came along: two trainers, a couple of fighters from Mr. Batey’s gym and a filmmaker shooting footage for a documentary about his transformation.
With 24 hours to go until the fight, it was time for the ceremonial face-off, an opportunity for ostentatious trash talk. Asim Zaidi called the two crypto-founders to the edge of pit. Batey approached Mr. St. John almost nose-to-nose. Mr. St. John inquired. “Are You Going to Kiss Me?” Mr. Batey responded. He had less time to prepare than Mr. Batey. His entourage was a single trainer who had no professional fighting experience. They had met months ago in an “Indigenous Spirituality Community.” Mr. St. John, alone in the ring began to shadow box. He traveled to Denver as Mr. Batey’s trainer. Even by martial arts standards, Mr. Soumer is uncompromising, delivering blunt insults with a deep accented voice that is vaguely reminiscent to Arnold Schwarzenegger. He is particularly attuned to any sign that someone is “soft” — an unforgivable frailty that, in his view, explains all manner of embarrassing conduct.
“That’s a very soft statement,” Mr. Soumer had observed just a few hours before the face-off, when Mr. Batey lamented that he’d had to give up lattes to lose weight for the fight.
Mr. Soumer wasn’t impressed with the opponent of Mr. Batey, or “this child Chauncey,” to use his name. “No arms, no shoulder,” he said, with the clinical air of a horse breeder offering his verdict on a wobbly foal.
Outside the Stockyards, Mr. Soumer mimed a series of stuttering lunges, while the rest of Mr. Batey’s entourage roared with laughter.
“Bro, soft,” Mr. Soumer said. “Soft as butter, bro.” Batey smiled. He said, “I have never felt more confident in my life.” “After I knocked him out, should i donate my winnings for his charity?”
Mr. Soumer said no. Keep it for yourself. As Mr. St. John slipped into the pit at 6 p.m. a roar erupted throughout the building. Batey’s choreographed movements were not visible. He lunged forward, missed punches, and then lurched back. Mr. St. John spun in a circle with his arms, whirling like a helicopter. Next to the pit, a panel of announcers offered live analysis for the YouTube audience.
“What they lack in technical, they make up for in the heart,” one commentator said. His partner offered a blunter assessment: “It’s hilarious.”
By the end of the first round, Mr. Batey’s nose was bleeding heavily. He pushed Mr. St. John down and straddled his back, letting him rain punches on the top of his head. In less than 10 seconds the referee stepped in: Mr. St. John could not continue. It was over.
Mr. Batey raised his arms and began to dance. He thrust his pelvis towards the crowd. He told the crowd to cheers, “I want to thank my wonderful wife.” “Thank you for supporting me, making my meals, putting the kids to bed.”
Backstage, Mr. St. John was smiling. He said, “I did not embarrass me.” He would do it again. He would do it again
That evening, Mr. Batey celebrated. He washed, changed, and cleaned his face except for one streak of dried red blood on his bridge of the nose. At the entrance of a party near Civic Center Park in New York, Mr. Batey told the bouncer he was featured in “a professional fight tonight, on TV.” The chant “Batey, Batey, Batey, Batey” soon began. A chant soon erupted: “Batey. Batey. Batey. Batey.” St. John had fought well, Mr. Batey told me. Maybe someday they would be friends.
“He’s a good guy,” Mr. Batey said. “We’re both just good dudes.”
Kitty Bennett contributed research.
