All The Rage

This is magnificent spending, unrepentant spending, championship spending. Did it persist? Well, not likely, considering that his purses after his Nevada suspension totaled an estimated $58 million before anyone, including the government, had gotten a cut. Pagers and cell phones, $7,259 a month? Those were the days.

Still, Tyson has not taken to canning vegetables out of his various backyards. And being Tyson, in certain fundamental ways, will always be expensive. "I need the fancy cars," he explains, "to get the fancy [women]." Apparently, that is not subject to budgeting. "Shouldn't I enjoy my life?"

That has always been the champion's prerogative, but Tyson has not been champion for some time. He and his camp talk as if the title is his due, that the fight amounts to a formality. And, at least until he and Lewis finally step into the ring, he will have his supporters, people who can't imagine Lewis (who has had some uncertain performances himself) fending off a wildly charging Tyson. It's true, Lewis has not faced many fighters as fast as Tyson; David Tua, whom Lewis beat easily, compares in stature but in hardly anything else.

And Tyson's resolve seems impressive. He told one of his current trainers, "I quit fighting 10 years ago; now I'm getting ready to start fighting again."

But Lewis is a strangely confident, if comparatively quiet, athlete, who seems to rouse himself for big fights. (His two losses, in which his chin was proved to be weak, were to lesser opponents and were both conclusively avenged.) His jab might keep Tyson off him, and with his greater size (6'5" to Tyson's 5'11") and strength, he may be able to suffocate Tyson as he tries to bore in, which could produce an unexciting but somewhat predictable result.

The thing is, hardly anybody's going into this bout expecting a wonderful athletic event. Is there curiosity as to who the better heavyweight is? Some, but not enough to justify the magnitude of interest in the fight. Six years ago, when Tyson's r�sum� still had some boxing highlights in it, the bout might have deserved the buildup on its merits. But now, with Tyson long since passed into a weird psycho-celebrity culture, in which his eventual breakup is the entire point, Lewis only serves to legitimize his challenger's notoriety. The pleasure is a little less guilty for Lewis's involvement. You're free to enjoy the vagaries of brain chemistry without hating yourself too much.

Discouraged? Maybe you should be. Tyson is correct to say that we've all exploited him—for the dark thrills he provides, for this little peephole into alternative humanity—and that we should all feel a little disgusted with ourselves. What hypocrisy, that we condemn him as we order ringside tickets. He is boorish, unforgivably irresponsible in the preservation of his talent, a sad case who can't decide if he wants to be loved or hated and who may not even be able to tell the difference anymore. Yet he is utterly irresistible.

But in our defense: The example of a man who chooses to disable his impulse controls is not always a pleasant one, but it's instructive, maybe exhilarating even, to see where such exaggerated independence leads. As if, the pigeons circling to roost, we didn't already know.