A life wasted

Glimmer of greatness Tyson possessed long ago is gone

My opinion of Mike Tyson is generally in line with most of society's. His behavior -- in and out of the ring -- is shameful and abhorrent. His vulgar tirades are embarrassing to himself and to everybody in the room. Any room. His treatment of women is inexcusable. He is a one-man freak show. I wish he wasn't boxing anymore.

In my case, however, there's more to the emotions than just revulsion. There is a sadness, too. A little background: In a previous life -- his and mine -- I covered Tyson for a medium-sized newspaper in upstate New York, not far from the teenaged boxer's enclave in Catskill. Tyson was, for roughly two years, my primary beat.

In this capacity, I not only covered Tyson's fights and his press conferences, but also many of his workouts at Cus D'Amato's dusty, dimly lit gymnasium above the police station on the main drag in Catskill. I watched Tyson dismantle sparring partners in groups of two and three. I watched him dislodge a heavy bag from its moorings and do speed drills with an alacrity that seemed impossible in a man who weighed, at the time, nearly 220 pounds. As an athlete, he was a force of nature, not just in climbing to the heavyweight title in 1986, but also in every one of his workouts.

Yet there was more. As disconnected as this now sounds, Tyson was a joy to interview. Oh, there were some bad moments. I can't forget sitting in a back dressing room at Johnny Tocco's famous training gym in downtown Las Vegas and listening to Tyson describe to a visitor his sexual encounter of the previous night. He made it sound nasty and cruel and he seemed to delight in the telling. But from the young Tyson, this was a rare moment. Or at least a rare public moment (it's entirely possible that such encounters -- or descriptions -- weren't rare at all).

Most of the time Tyson enjoyed sitting and talking. In the back room at the gym. In the diner across the street. In his second-floor bedroom at Camille Ewald's house out in the country. In a hotel restaurant. He loved to talk boxing history. That's part of the Tyson mythology, but it's true. He was smart. And he also liked to talk about movies and television and food. He used to ask about my infant daughter. He even called the paper's office to offer congratulations when she was born.

There were the occasional anonymous phone calls to the office, warning of Tyson's disturbing behavior in nightclubs, of his rude actions toward women. Every journalist has at one time or another in his career wished that the truth about an athlete wasn't true. In Tyson's case, hindsight suggests that every rumor was probably accurate.

But here's the issue with me. Many people have called the grown, gonzo, vulgar Tyson an irretrievable mess. Never should have been let out of the ghetto. Never should have been removed from reform school to become a boxer. Should have been allowed to rot and die young.

I don't buy it entirely. D'Amato gave Tyson too many privileges. His early managers paid off too many potential lawsuits in order to keep the cash cow earning money for them, when hard lessons could have been taught. People like early trainer Teddy Atlas, who wanted to inject discipline -- and who knew that Tyson could be very, very dangerous -- were ignored. So the monster was allowed to flourish.

I don't pity Tyson. He has made and squandered millions and done terrible things to other people. He's had more chances to redeem himself than most would get in five lifetimes. This is his life; he deserves whatever fate he gets. It seems almost certain that his talents -- especially those quick, lethal hands and sound ring instincts -- have eroded beyond rescue. If Lennox Lewis were not so prone to desultory efforts, I would say Tyson has no shot at all in Saturday's title fight.

But even if Tyson were to win (and I really don't think he will; even at his best, tall guys were a problem), his retribution will be temporary. Old habits die hard. Tyson will self-destruct again. And again. Perhaps nobody else will be hurt when it happens. When it does -- sooner or later -- people will nod their heads knowingly or shake them in disgust. I'll do neither. I'll remember that once there was the faintest spark and now it is hopelessly gone. A life wasted.

Sports Illustrated senior writer Tim Layden is a regular contributor to CNNSI.com. Click here to send him a question or comment.

 

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