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SI Flashback Haunted Facing what seems sure to be his last chance at boxing redemption, Mike Tyson struggles to lay the storms and shame of his past to rest
By Richard Hoffer 
For one reason or another he doesn't fight much anymore. Just 22 rounds in the last seven years. When he does box, what transpires is highly unpredictable in any athletic sense. Highly unpredictable in the theatrical sense, too. Between bouts there are, for one reason or another, long layoffs filled with the kinds of distractions that have a lot more to do with tabloid entertainment than sports. And always there's the feeling that his once brilliant career -- his life, really -- has become nothing more than a spectacular display of dissolution, a late-20th-century parable that warns us all how tenuous our talents are, how fragile our contract with civilization. Yet when Mike Tyson steps into the ring on Saturday to fight Francois Botha, we'll all be watching, won't we? As we line up for our $1,200 ringside seats, as we pay $49 for our pay-per-view, we might ask just what it is that's so damn interesting about all his ... confusion. Tyson is 32, he hasn't fought in 18 months, he's coming off two defeats (the second more horrific than the first), and he's got litigation pending. For that matter, he's got his own doubts about his place in the scheme of things. Yet he's still the most galvanizing performer in sports -- witness the $10 million he'll get just to jump into combat with a lackluster opponent. No sense asking why, unless we're ready to search our souls with the same zeal we've searched his. It has to be something about us, too, that reacts to his perverse charisma, something beyond our appreciation for the animal domination he used to -- used to -- personify. Face it if you can: Nothing is quite as fascinating as human devolution, especially when it's portrayed at a comfortable remove. Tyson is haunted by his past, of course. The rape, the prison time, any of several assorted and sordid out-of-the-ring incidents, the very betrayal of his sport when he bit Evander Holyfield's ears and was banished from the game. He's haunted, too, by the lingering atmosphere of paranoia and cynicism that he didn't create but did suffer during his last -- $100 million -- comeback. There's also the residue of humiliation, of submitting to state authorities recently just to regain his license to box. It's a horrible history, and it couldn't help but follow a person and poison his future. So Tyson sits on a stool in a Phoenix gym, a cinder-block building where space heaters are fired up each morning, and steels himself for the hatred he's certain is out there, at times resenting it, at times embracing it. He's so steeped in the sulfuric fumes of his own making that he can scarcely breathe. "Nobody likes me," he says, measuring his listener for his melodrama threshold, the amount of gloom he might find reasonable. Nobody at all? "Nobody. I haven't been liked in so long, I'm just accustomed to it." Around him, however, are a fully functional family and some loyal, well-meaning supporters and advisers. Nobody at all? That's too much gloom for even these circumstances, and he realizes it. He adjusts the spin a little. "Kids like me," he says. But then he adds, "They don't know any better." It's a practiced form of self-pity, a useful self-defense mechanism. Yet as he continues to hone it, there's less and less call for it. As boxing continues to profit from Tyson's hugely marketable malevolence, the truth is, he's not that malevolent any longer. He can still go off -- his camp is an insecure one in that respect, its members fully aware that tents can be folded at a moment's notice -- but he's more inclined to seek approval than the disdain he once devoured. This is certainly reflected in his new management. Don King, who masterminded Tyson's post-prison comeback by projecting Tyson as everyone's worst nightmare, is gone. Co-manager John Horne, whose combative approach to public relations established Tyson as ... everyone's worst nightmare, is gone too. Indeed, those two, along with another former co-manager, Rory Holloway, have been sued by Tyson for taking more than their share of his purses, although that might be the least of their sins. Gone, as well, are the yes-men trainers, Jay Bright and Richie Giachetti, who failed to connect Tyson to his youthful style, in which the accumulation of punches, not the single haymaker, spelled spectacular doom for opponents. In their place is a retinue at odds with previous Team Tysons. Shelly Finkel, a New York businessman who managed Holyfield for 10 years, is the principal caretaker, and his optimism sometimes infects even Tyson. Tommy Brooks, who was in Holyfield's corner in both demolitions of Tyson, is now Tyson's no-nonsense trainer. Although Brooks says he realizes he's moved to "the edge" to train the still volatile Tyson, he's enthusiastic about restoring Tyson's power, that ability to "peel somebody's wig back." Like the others before them, these handlers are in it for the money. Unlike the others, they're not in it only for the money. "You don't need to treat him like some kind of cash cow," Brooks suggests. And if they are in it only for the money, they're in it for less. Finkel says his fee will work out to less than 10% of Tyson's purses, maybe closer to 5%. "That's still a lot of money," he points out. But it's far less than the 50% that King and Horne and Holloway pocketed. Finkel, in addition to his other good works, has negotiated a contract with Showtime and a four-fight deal with host casino MGM Grand that will pay Tyson enough to make all his IRS Problems -- he is $13 million in arrears to the feds -- go away before the first punch is ever thrown. It makes for a much more pleasant camp, for both the entourage and visitors. Motivator-fool Steve (Crocodile) Fitch, one of two holdovers from the last and most disastrous campaign (the Croc is the one wearing fatigues and shouting, "Mystique is a powerful force!"), says what Tyson won't: Just not having Horne around is enough to restore anybody's belief in humanity. "That guy," says the Croc, "I mean, you don't disrespect an athlete like Holyfield, saying he danced like a bitch!" The other holdover, assistant trainer Stacey McKinley, says having Brooks in Tyson's corner has made all the difference. As the guy who has to wear the pads in the ring while Brooks calls out combinations to Tyson, McKinley says, "I can feel the difference in Mike." Tyson's speed is still there for the trainer who cares, or dares, to cultivate it. Brooks, who says he has enough "dollars in my pocket" that he can afford to get in Tyson's face, seems a good fit. When Tyson has challenged him, Brooks has stood his ground. Tyson has responded to Brooks's call for a return to fundamentals, appreciating Brooks's philosophy of methodical destruction of an opponent. "They talk about the art of boxing," Brooks snorts. "People want to see a fighter get stretched." That's pretty much what Tyson wants, too. Whether that happens on Saturday is anybody's guess. Botha, from Witbank, South Africa, who briefly held the IBF title, is an upgrade over Peter McNeeley and Buster Mathis Jr. of a comeback ago. As he proved in 1996, during his leather-eating 12th-round TKO loss to Michael Moorer -- his only defeat in 40 fights -- Botha is tough and gallant and hard to flatten. Then again, he did eat a lot of leather. Altogether, the new presentation of Tyson is remarkably upbeat. At Finkel's urging, presumed media enemies have been invited to Phoenix for exhaustive interviews. Though still capable of moodiness, even danger, Tyson has welcomed the inspection. In spite of himself, he even enjoyed the attention as ESPN, USA Today and CNN trooped through. When a reporter asked if Tyson's court-mandated telephone chats with Georgetown psychiatrist Richard Goldberg did any good, Tyson said just talking to the reporter probably did him good. It's as healthy an atmosphere as Tyson's been in since he left the Catskills, where he was first nurtured by Cus D'Amato 20 years ago. Where there was exploitation, there's now protection. And, in cases, trust. His relationships with his wife, Monica, and their toddlers, Rayna, 2, and 17-month-old Amir, seem to amuse him. Still sitting on his stool in the Phoenix gym, Tyson leans in to an interviewer as if to share a surprising confidence. "You know," he says, "me and my wife have become friends now. We talk." But there's all that history, a past in which he was victim as well as predator. "I'm not blaming anybody," he says. "Anything bad, I probably brought most of it on myself. Did I screw up or what? But there's different standards for me; it's politically correct to hate Mike Tyson." His screwups nearly cost him his career, and may yet. Although he overcame the Nevada ban for biting Holyfield -- and he was fatalistic enough never to have thought he'd get his license back until the votes came in -- he again could lose his license, and much more. When he's sentenced on Feb. 5 in his Maryland road-rage case, in which he pleaded no contest to two misdemeanor assault charges stemming from an Aug. 31 traffic incident, Tyson could be sent back to prison for having violated the conditions of his parole. The consequences for such screwups seem monstrously out of proportion to Tyson, not unlike his three-year prison sentence for what he still insists was consensual sex with a teenage beauty-pageant contestant. "They tried to take away my only sense of independence," he says of his suspension following the Holyfield debacle. "Without boxing, I have no security." He seems resigned to losing it again. "I'm getting ready to go to jail in March or February," he says casually, as if his doom has long since been spelled out. He wants to show he's shrugging it off, that's how heroic he is. But then, without the melodrama, he lapses into genuine despair: "It's tough, man. I know you're supposed to tough it up, but how much can somebody take?" As Tyson's blue Rolls-Royce begins to pull into a fenced area behind the gym, he spots the ESPN crew. He's suddenly furious, altogether unhinged, and asks to be driven around the block so he can cool down. He'd already done a lengthy interview with Roy Firestone and, though he wasn't scheduled to, might have spoken on camera for the waiting ESPN crew, which was doing a pre-fight feature on Brooks. But while channel-surfing the night before, Tyson happened to catch the commentators on ESPN2's Friday Night Fights trashing him. "Charlatans," he later called them. Tyson doesn't care to distinguish between the two ESPNs or among ESPN's personnel. In his eyes it is hypocrisy, to court him on the one hand and degrade him on the other. Justice has to be upheld. Consistency has to be maintained. When he finally enters the lot, not very much cooled off, he angrily orders the network crew from his gym. When they remain, he flies into the face of one of the crew members, producing a truly frightening and familiar moment and reminding everybody invested in this comeback that there's still going to be plenty of risk for their reward. Everybody agrees that, most days, Tyson is trying to do the right thing. Truth is, he has always, most days, tried to do the right thing. He holds himself to rigid standards, same as he holds networks, and is more disappointed in himself than others are when he falls short. But it's tough to do the right thing, day in and day out. Who does? The next day, as it happens, offers Tyson the chance to do the right thing. He's scheduled to visit some critically ill children. It's reflexive to dismiss such a visit as some kind of pre-fight photo opportunity, one of Finkel's attempts to rehabilitate Tyson's image, but Tyson truly enjoys children, sick or well. They line up after workouts, and Tyson hugs them, kisses them, loves them right back. Neither, it seems, knows any better. Tyson is piloted into an intensive-care unit, where it's obvious that big medicine is going on and that it's not doing so well, and where there isn't that much interest in the healing powers of boxers. Thrust to the bedside of a failing teen, Tyson is shocked by what he's facing. A young girl, supposedly anticipating his visit, begins coughing spasmodically. There are tubes running every which way. Anxious parents beyond the bed. The young girl is racked so violently that covers cannot be kept on her. Tyson will leave the unit stricken, as if he has been clubbed with a two-by-four. He will ask Finkel if he really belonged there, if he wasn't intruding on their privacy. But at the moment the young girl below him is coughing helplessly, uncontrollably, and her covers are flying off. There's not much that Tyson or, apparently, anybody else can do. The photographers seem aghast at this idea of publicity, and they quickly slither out of the room. The girl coughs and coughs. Tyson gently lifts the sheet back up to cover her. It's the least he can do, it's all he can do. It's no big deal, repairing so small an indignity. Not really. Probably anybody would do it, it occurs to you, any human being. Tyson steels himself for the hatred he's certain is out there, at times resenting it, at times embracing it. "Anything bad, I probably brought most of it on myself," says Tyson. "Did I screw up or what?" Issue date: January 18, 1999
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