Quitting Time

Tyson, 34, moves on a little further, although before the bout he said it might be his final one. "Maybe this is my last fight," he said. "[Boxing] brought me money and fame, but it never brought me no happiness." But it brings him too much money and fame to imagine him gone. Tyson, however honorable his effort was on Friday, recognizes from time to time the fool he's been made to play and, while he's disheartened, he keeps reupping.

It is a well-paying gig (he made at least $10 million for the Golota bout), and no matter how wary of the demands made upon his brand of salesmanship he might have become, he's always an eager player. At times he seems to enjoy going over the top, vowing to eat Lewis's children or put a bullet in the back of his head. Then, with a wink, he'll claim it's the Zoloft talking, or he's simply trying to sell tickets. "I know Lewis don't have any children," he says playfully.

Mostly, though, he's not very playful and, like Golota, cites some injuries we just can't see: the hatred he feels from the press ("You guys got no love for me," he told USA Today), the cynicism that makes him so much money. He'd like to get away from it—maybe even spit the bit the way Golota did—but there's a fight with Lewis that could earn him $30 million and rehabilitate him for good, make us love him. He's got to do this all over again.