Fire And Fury

The Mike Tyson who battled his way to the undisputed heavyweight championship of the world was a snarling, bare-knuckles-type boxer with jackhammer fists. His Doberman eyes were flecked with hate, and he fought not to defeat, but to destroy. Opponents were left bloodied and unconscious. Last Saturday night, against Alex Stewart at Atlantic City's Convention Center, that Tyson was back with a fury. Tyson floored Stewart three times before the bout was halted with 33 seconds remaining in the first round.

The changes in Tyson—from the time he unified the heavyweight title in August 1987 until he lost the crown last February in Tokyo to James (Buster) Douglas, a 49-1 underdog—were gradual, insidious. Over those 30 months and six bouts, Tyson remained a lion, but he became a gentler lion. By the time he arrived in Tokyo, his weight what it should be but his body soft, the flames that had propelled him to excellence were low and flickering. Without his driving ferocity, Tyson is little more than a good small heavyweight.

"I screwed up," Tyson said last week. "When I lost, people expected the wheels to come off. They haven't. I learned from my mistake, but I don't dwell on it. That fight opened my eyes. I never again will sloop on any opponent. The championship is only a state of mind. It's how you feel when you perform. The title belt is only a symbol. Now I just want to fight. I want to feel free again."

If last Saturday's performance is any indication, he's well on his way to freedom. With the savagery of a bayonet charge, Tyson sprang from his corner and hammered Stewart into submission to win his second fight since the Douglas defeat. Most boxing observers took Stewart far more seriously than they did Henry Tillman, who was dispatched by Tyson in less than a round last June. Three years before that bout, Tillman, the 1984 Olympic 201-pound gold-medal winner, had lost to Evander Holyfield in a junior heavyweight championship fight. After that, his career dwindled gradually into retirement. He returned to meet Tyson as a heavyweight and-has since all but disappeared. Against Tillman, Tyson proved he still had the power, but Tillman didn't remain upright long enough to provide the answers to any other questions.

By contrast, the London-born Stewart, who was ranked seventh by the WBC, fifth by the WBA and fourth by the IBF, had lost only once in 27 fights—to Holy-field in November 1989 on an eighth-round technical knockout. A puncher with a powerful right hand, Stewart had achieved all 26 of his victories with knockouts. And he had been off his feet only once, against Conroy Nelson in 1988. Nonetheless, Stewart was a 9-1 underdog going in against Tyson.

While people searched for a clue to Tyson's state of mind, Stewart supplied one to his own. While doing roadwork along the Atlantic City boardwalk one morning at 5 a.m., Stewart saw Tyson, flanked by members of his camp, running toward him. Stewart had some uneasy moments before Tyson passed without incident. "I was happy he didn't challenge me," said Stewart. "I was afraid there might be trouble, and I was alone."

If the positions had been reversed, the recharged Tyson would have plowed through a Stewart group. In any case, Stewart needn't have worried: Tyson would be making $2.5 million for the fight, and he wasn't about to risk that for a street brawl. For his role in Tyson's resurrection, Stewart would earn $535,000.

"People are looking upon this as a warmup for Tyson," said Stewart before the bout. "If I thought that, I wouldn't be fighting him. I am a spoiled brat when I lose. To lose would be to die. I think I'd rather die than lose."

Tyson trained at Trump Plaza. His workouts were closed, his meetings with the press infrequent. Groundless stories circulated that he was partying more than he was training. "No matter what I do, that is what people are going to write about me," said Tyson early last week. "One time I was training in Canada and some friends called and read me clippings from the papers. They had me out partying and galavanting in New York City. I said, 'Wow! Last night? I could have sworn I was in Canada.' I saw this movie about the life of Charlie Parker, the jazz musician. In it, Dizzy Gillespie told him, 'When you die, they are going to talk about you.' I thought, Holy Jesus, when I die, they are going to talk about me like I was a dog. That just rang true to me."

If Tyson partied his way into shape for Stewart, by now fighters everywhere would be setting up camps in saloons and discos. For Douglas, Tyson weighed 220� pounds, but they were putty pounds. For Stewart, he came carved from granite at 217�. "This guy wants to work hard," said trainer Richie Giachetti before the fight. "He's beautiful. He never gave me a minute's problem. But you better know what you are talking about. He's a student of boxing, and you can't——him."