Power of Caring
  presented by Cigna

Hey, Mike Tyson!

Very tough week for you, I'll bet. I mean, you were probably just sitting there at breakfast one day in your hand-rubbed Kobe-leather slippers, munching fresh condor eggs, reading the morning paper under your dwarf-blown Italian crystal chandelier, when some little accountant in Florsheims walked in trembling and said, "Uh, Mr. Tyson? I have some bad news."

"So?"

"You're broke."

Fresh-squeezed guava juice spewed from your mouth. Tiffany silver slid off the butler's tray to the floor. The pet white tiger spit out his morning poodle.

"I'm what!?!"

Well, not quite broke. But it was reported last week that you, a man who made somewhere around $140 million in fight purses in the last 27 months, are down to your last $150,000 in cash. You're just about busted. Tapioca. Upside down.

You say you're fine, but you're in denial. You need me. I'm your new financial planner. If we just come in on the ol' eelskin belt a few notches, use a little common household budgeting, we can get your empire straightened up in a hurry.

Now, first thing most guys will tell you is, "Lose 10,000-watt Hair Boy." But I don't care if Don King is lighting his Cohibas with your $100 bills, you have to have the financial acumen of Spam to blow $140 million in 27 months. Not to be rude, Mike, but do you realize that's roughly twice the gross domestic product of Palau?

First off, we have to let the Visa cool down a little. Before the first Evander Holyfield fight in Las Vegas, you supposedly dropped $70,000 in one hour at the Versace store in Caesars Palace. Not long ago you bought a $123,000 Mercedes over the phone, to set alongside your four $320,000 Bentley Azures. Might not seem like much, but a few hundred grand here and a few hundred grand there, and pretty soon we're talking real money.

I've been to your mansion in Southington, Ohio, just outside Cleveland, Mike, and I'm thinking we might be able to cut back a little there, too. I mean, you've got a seven-car garage. The night I was there, if I remember right, you had three Porsches, three Rolls-Royces and a Lamborghini truck with white leather interior. Mike, this is ridiculous. From now on, we go cloth.

Inside, you step into a giant marble entryway with a magnificent spiral staircase. You walk by the most gorgeous Steinway grand piano you've ever seen, which is wonderful, except you don't play piano. Upstairs you had a king-sized sable bedspread on your water bed. Had to be $50,000, low end. What do you say we sell the thing at a yard sale and just wear socks to bed?

As for your closet, which was roughly the size of Keokuk, Iowa, I saw pair after pair of the same Italian shoe, row after row of the same black Armani suit, shelf after shelf of the same brushed-velvet fedora. What is this, Groundhog Day?

Now, at your monstrous Las Vegas mansion, the one next to Wayne Newton's, there are a few little items we might trim. Love your life-sized warrior statues—Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, Hannibal and many more—but let's think multi-use here. What about using them as sparring partners? Guarantee you, Hannibal gives you a better fight than Peter McNeely.

Key thing: We need to get you on a gifts and entertainment allowance. Remember your 30th birthday, at your 60-room, 52,000-square-foot mansion in Farmington, Conn.? You had a three-day party and you served magnums of Cristal and fine cigars rolled just for the bash. Then you gave six of your posse BMWs or Range Rovers as party favors. Party favors, Mike! Do the words Pez dispensers mean anything to you?

Besides the homes in Ohio, Nevada and Connecticut, you've got that monolith in Bethesda, Md., where your yard runs along the 6th hole of Congressional Country Club. Actually the 6th hole runs along your yard, which is just big enough to stage the Quad City Classic. Again, this would be terrific, if you played golf. Think, Mike.

We can do this thing. Just remember, if you begin some sensible budgeting now, you might someday be able to afford the one thing you really need just before you step into the ring with Holyfield next time.

A prefight meal.

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Past Editions of Life of Reilly

Issue date: February 16, 1998