Pick your punch line, please: Evander “The Real Meal” Holyfield. “Pay-per-chew.” “The Sound and the Fury?” How about “The Last Supper?” Carl “The Tooth” Williams (Mike Tyson’s next opponent).
Amid the mix of cynical chuckles fueled by one man’s biting strategy in the boxing ring, we pause for a moment of sobering reflection:
Mike Tyson deserves our pity and our prayers. His world is one that spins out of control, tumbling down a dark abyss spiraling toward tragedy.
A man who lives in a city truly emblematic of risky business is dangerously close to joining Sonny Liston in Las Vegas’ heavyweight row of pathetic losers: The graveyard.
Tyson “celebrates” his 31st birthday this week with his life in disarray once again. Nevada boxing regulators will decide his fate at a hearing Wednesday, mandated by Tyson’s unconscionable acts against Holyfield, whom he bit twice in the third round last Saturday night.
“I cannot tell you why, exactly, I acted like I did, other than to say that when the butting occurred, I thought I might lose because of the severity of the cut above my eye. I just snapped,” Tyson said in a prepared statement. “And I reacted and did what many athletes have done and have paid the price for.”
Tyson didn’t “snap” in the ring. One bite might justify his rationale; two bites screams premeditation – taking into account the warning from referee Mills Lane that he would disqualify Tyson for another bite.
Sadly, Tyson was chomping to get out of the ring, a quitter frustrated by Holyfield’s superior ring skills. Holyfield denied Tyson the opportunity to fire away from close range and land one of his crushing blows that short-circuits lesser men. Tyson then denied Holyfield a clean, undisputed victory by resorting to street-thug tactics.
The truth is, Tyson remains a punk from Brownsville, N.Y. He hasn’t changed despite his claim to have found a sense of peace through Islam while confined in jail for a rape charge, despite his marriage to longtime girlfriend, Monica Turner, despite the spacious house next to Wayne Newton in Vegas and the significant upgrade in lifestyle.
Tyson’s self-destructive predicament only figures to grow darker and deeper. Assuming they have any spine, Nevada boxing commissioners will stipulate that Tyson not fight anywhere in the world for a minimum of two years, in addition to the $3 million hand slap by withholding 10 percent of his purse. Anything less is a joke.
Another prolonged banishment – the rape conviction already robbed him of three prime-time years – will test Tyson’s inner-strength. No doubt the demons that have plagued him for so long once again will surface, tempting him to take another tragic turn.
Right now, Mike Tyson needs to find a small handful of loyal and trustworthy friends, and immediately lose the sycophants and leeches who make their living mooching off Tyson’s empire. I’d start downsizing the dubious entourage by dumping co-managers John Horne and Rory Holloway, followed by barking clown Steve Fitch (“Crocodile”). He’d make an awfully nice – and large – purse.
“It’s a big problem for boxers,” welterweight champion Oscar De La Hoya told reporters this week. “. . . Those are the people who create these problems, the ones who whisper in his ear.”
I’d also pay close attention to the careless whispers of promoter Don King. A red-flag warning will come if King immediately begins peddling Tyson to the highest overseas bidder, assuming Tyson is allowed to fight outside of U.S. borders. Is it all about money, Don, or about giving your “friend” a chance to quell the turmoil that rages in his heart?
Despite his deteriorating ring skills and unstable psyche, Tyson remains a marketable money machine largely responsible for generating about $180 million in live gate, foreign television rights, closed-circuit telecasts, casino profits and such from his most recent fight. He has earned a reported total of $140 million for six fights since his release from an Indiana prison on March 25, 1995.
Right now, though, it is imperative that we look at Mike Tyson as a human being living on the edge of darkness, one misstep away from crashing and burning on the dicey streets of Las Vegas.
Columnist George Diaz welcomes your questions and suggestions. Regular mail: The Orlando Sentinel, MP-8, P.O. Box 2833, Orlando, Fla., 32802-2833. E-mail: osodiaz@aol.com
