My main job now is hype. The promoter tells me I should promise to "make Mike Tyson fall." I promise that I'm going to make Mike Tyson fall. I've worked on a sequence of scowls and grimaces in the mirror to show that I mean business.
"You're older than George Foreman," the reporters say in their tired, singsong voices.
"I'm in better shape than George Foreman," I reply. "Can anyone say that I'm not?"
"You've done nothing more than type for most of your adult life."
"Is there a better workout for developing strong fingers?"
"You don't know what you're doing."
"Ah, but neither does anyone else."
Too bad. Tyson must fall. I'm The Man.