"No one ever has seen you fight!" the promoter shouted.
"No one has," I agreed.
" America will buy this!"
" America will buy just about anything."
The idea is that Tyson is running out of opponents. He has been steam-rolling through a collection of has-beens, never-beens and never willbes. His fights have become embarrassments—90-second thrashings after months of hype and hoopla. He's going to fight someone named Razor Ruddock in a skating rink in Edmonton in November. Towns and cities and countries everywhere want to stage the bout after that one. Bored househusbands want to make the magic call to the cable-TV company to give their lives a one-night, pay-per-view jolt of excitement. Demand far outweighs supply.
"You could be a bigger attraction than Razor Ruddock!" the promoter shouted.
"I probably could," I agreed.
"You could be as marketable as Tony Mandarich ever would have been!"
"Undoubtedly," I replied.
The papers were signed in a moment. I now have a trainer named Angelo, who tells everyone my workouts are going great. I run in the mornings. I hit the speed bag and watch Oprah in the afternoons. I talk with my accountants at night. There are rumors that the bout might be held in Tokyo, though I suspect that it probably will be staged next door to a gambling casino in Nevada or New Jersey. Someone said that Donald Trump is interested.