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Captivated by Tyson Posted: Monday June 10, 2002 10:05 AM
I am not a violent man, not a confrontational man and not a particularly angry man. So here it is, more than 24 hours after watching the Lewis-Tyson fight, and I'm wondering why I found myself saying stridently to the TV in the middle of Round 1: "Come on, Mike!!" Why was I rooting for Mike Tyson?
We had some friends over to watch the fight and I was not alone in my sentiments. My buddy Kevin, a big fight fan, wanted Tyson to win, too. Here's my three-headed theory as to why so many people were pulling for this miscreant, who has managed to ruin his own life about 63 times in the last 15 years: a. Tyson appeals, somehow, to the dark side in me. Why do we root for villains sometimes, in movies or sports or real life? We do it because their victory would upset the natural order of things, and we like to see the world go topsy-turvy every once and a while. But that doesn't explain why I, a father of two daughters, would root for a convicted rapist, and so now I have to move on to my second theory. b. Tyson is so singularly exciting that I can overlook his foibles. A couple of decades ago I covered Aaron Pryor, the self-destructive Cincinnati-born fighter, and I fell in like (not love) with the sport of boxing. Once, at a Pryor-Alexis Arguello fight, I came down the elevator at the Miami airport Marriott and found a member of the local boxing commission reading a woman's palm. Weird, wild stuff. That's what boxing is -- pure weirdness. What kind of people do you expect in a sport where the object is to knock another very fit man unconscious? And Tyson, navigating his way through all the strangeness of boxing, became absolutely magnetic to me over the years -- in the ring. Out of it I hated him. In it, I couldn't resist him. Anything could happen when he stepped in the ring. I guess I wanted that to continue Saturday night. c. I am drawn to compelling figures. Only once before Saturday night had I purchased a pay-per-view fight. I paid the night Tyson bit Evander Holyfield's ear. And I have to admit that part of the reason I plunked down $54.95 this weekend was the sheer unpredictability of Tyson's behavior. What boorishness would he exhibit this time? What body part would he gnaw? How would he, once and for all, ruin himself? And in the end, it was a simple prizefight. A pretty good one, but not great. Tyson was Rocky Balboa, Lewis was Apollo Creed. Tyson, for once, was the punching bag. What an incredibly tough person. Five of Lewis' shots might have killed me, and I weigh 246 pounds. When it was over, I found Tyson a bit pathetic. Gentlemanly, but pathetic. He sounded like a panhandler. With blood inhabiting both eyes and his nose, he asked Lewis pretty-please for a rematch. He was not saying: I really think I could beat you if we fought again. He was saying: Thanks for giving me the chance to make $17.5 million, and I'd like it if you gave me the chance to make $17.5 million more because my financial situation is worse off than my mental state. But what do we expect of Tyson? Boxing gallantry? We are a society of enablers. We've allowed this cartoon character to develop over the years, and we still cheer for him against someone like Lewis, who seems to be a decent guy. I probably wouldn't order the rematch, but it says something about the state of boxing that I definitely would not order the next Lewis fight. He's a great boxer, but I have no interest in him. Tyson's cloak of unpredictability, now that interests me.
1. I think, after participating in Mike Martz's golf tournament Friday and having my ball used five times in an 18-hole scramble (three on pretty nice hooked drives), that the best things about these tournaments are the free food, free beer and free sun. A nice day on the golf course still can't be ruined by my divots. 2. I think the reason Derrick Alexander is a Viking today is that he dogged it too often in Kansas City. I sat behind Dick Vermeil on the bus out to the course Friday morning, and he said Alexander just didn't practice enough and didn't fit in with his program, which basically mandates that if you walk, you practice. Very impressive and pretty big of Vermeil, I thought, to come to Martz's tournament, after things between the Rams and Vermeil got nasty during his negotiations with the Chiefs last year. Impressive, too, to see Trent Green at the tournament. Most impressive: Watching Sterling Sharpe drive a golf ball. Three of mine equal one of his. 3. I think -- no, I know -- that Kurt Warner is fine. St. Louis QB coach John Ramsdell told me that at the Rams minicamp last weekend Marshall Faulk came back to the huddle after catching a Warner swing pass with an amazed look in his eye and said, "Woo, Rammy! He's humming it again!" 4. I think Martz has led a sheltered life. Did you know that the first time he stepped on the island of Manhattan in his life was last fall, when he spent his bye weekend with his wife in the city? They went to The Producers. Loved it. Now they want to come back to see Mamma Mia before training camp starts. 5. I think these are my personal thoughts of the week: a. Montclair (N.J.) High Softball Note of the Week: At 7:43 a.m. this morning, I asked Mary Beth King, going out the door to school, if she had anything she wanted to say as part of the last Montclair High School Softball Note of the Week. "Yeah," she said. "Put in there that it sucks having a cast." Well, that will take some explaining, won't it? When we last left the Mounties, the little softball team that could -- 20-11 after winning nine, six and nine games the previous three years -- was preparing to play in the New Jersey state semifinal game in the large-school division against West Milford, a northwest Jersey power ranked ninth in the state. This incredible piece of good fortune happened after we swept through our sectional tournament, 7-0, 2-1 and 7-0, with soph southpaw Mary Beth getting wins in those three games. And so here came the big game, on a partly sunny afternoon last Tuesday in Ramsey, N.J. Big crowd, maybe 400 people, stretched down both sidelines. Our leadoff hitter, Allison Farley, lined a single to center, and Mary Beth, batting second, put down a sacrifice. She got under it too much, and an inch before it hit the ground, the third baseman lunged, made a great catch and threw to first. Double play. Bad omen. Really bad. Over the next 6 1/3 innings, we would be no-hit. Meanwhile, Mary Beth and our usually fine defense had met their match. West Milford is a hitting machine. Every out was loud. A deep speared liner to right in the first, another in the third. Mary Beth made a throwing error in the third (she ended the year with the Chuck Knoblauch yips on the throw from pitcher to first), leading to the first run, and we handed them two more runs in the fourth. Four more hits in the sixth, ringing ones, made it 6-0. Pitchers know there will be days like this, and Mary Beth hung in there, living on the outside corner, trying to get them to chase. But they were smart hitters, and they knew with Mary Beth's control she'd give them something to hit eventually. And now came the top of the seventh. With one out, Mary Beth stepped in. The first pitch from West Milford's ace, Michelle Bark, was inside. The second pitch, further inside. Mary Beth turned to avoid it, but there wasn't time. The ball thwacked against her right forearm, right on the bone connecting the wrist with the elbow. She dropped her bat and jogged to first, not showing that it hurt. I figured it didn't. She got to first and she crouched down, cradling her right arm in her left hand. The ump called time, and our first base coach, Harold Ferguson, called for a pinch-runner. Mary Beth jogged off and went to the bench. Her pinch-runner scored on a three-base outfield error. Final: West Milford 6, Montclair 1. Dream over. "It really hurts," Mary Beth said after the game, but the trainer didn't think it was anything more than a bruise, so she rode home on the team bus. She ate pizza at the postgame feed at the Giammellas' house, still cradling the arm but not complaining about it. Then we went home to meet Erika, the chemistry tutor, because Mary Beth needed a two-hour session (and she'll have more of it this week) to save her term. "It's killing me," she said before bed, Aleve-ing herself. It was still killing her the next morning, so her mom took her to Mountainside Hospital in town, where the X-ray found a clean break, a V-shaped fracture halfway between the wrist and elbow. Six weeks in a cast, from just below the armpit to the hand. Much pain for a few days. Vicodin to the rescue! Or not. I told her the Brett Favre story about Vicodin, but she'll never have the chance to get addicted. The stuff made her nauseous, and so she gave it up after two pills. Three days on Aleve did nothing. The pain was killer. But by Saturday, the real pain was knowing she'll have this thing on until the end of July. Montclair High athleticophiles were pleased to know it'll be off in time for preseason field hockey practice, however. Quite an end to a compelling, exciting season, a season none of us will ever forget. b. Coffeenerdness: Speaking of addictions, the new Starbucks product "DoubleShot" is getting that way. Two shots of espresso, in a can, with milk, poured over ice. Now that's an incredible drink. c. There is nothing like interleague baseball, especially when dumb baseball finally has different divisions playing each other rather than the same cookie-cutter game so we don't have to endure another Pittsburgh-Minnesota series. Bonds in the Stadium, Arizona at Fenway, the Dodgers at Camden Yards, the Yankees (upcoming) at Coors Field ... Great, great stuff. d. Will all baseball players who have not injected themselves with illegal substances please raise their hands? 6. I think if I were a Carolina Panthers fan, and I were embarking on life in a new division against Aaron Brooks, Michael Vick and Whoever Jon Gruden is Playing at Quarterback, I would not be pleased to know that my club's starting corners this year just might be named Terry Cousin and Deveron Harper. 7. I think I just got a glimpse of the Patriots' Super Bowl rings on their team Web site and I believe the players will have to embark on a new weightlifting program to lift them, not to mention a new sunglasses program to glimpse at them. Uh, 143 diamonds per ring. I mean, Elizabeth Taylor doesn't have 143 diamonds, does she? 8. I think Keenan McCardell and Keyshawn Johnson will combine for 187 catches and 22 touchdowns next fall in Tampa. Great, great signing, Mr. Gruden. 9. I think Sam Adams is headed to the Redskins -- that is, after he squeezes a few more dollars out of Daniel Snyder. 10. I think I would like to say one thing to Jack Buck, if he's listening: We're pulling for you out here. Feel better. Sports Illustrated senior writer Peter King covers the NFL beat for the
magazine and is a regular contributor to CNNSI.com. Monday Morning
Quarterback appears in this space -- no kidding -- on Monday mornings.
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