S.I. article, 1991, Where's The Fire? {Mike Tyson}...thoughts of Tyson at the time

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Richard Hoffer

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For some time it was reassuring To think of Mike Tyson as the careful curator of his own legend, somewhat unpredictable outside the ring, yes, but entirely dedicated to the service of history within. You could count on him for violent spectacle. He came to the workplace unnervingly conditioned, in a terry-cloth towel with a hole punched through for his head, the towel barely concealing his muscled menace. He was technically reliable, hewing to the rigid disciplines of the late Cus D'Amato, the trainer who transformed him from street thug into the youngest heavyweight champion in history. And he was so powerfully motivated to perform "bad intentions" upon his opponents that their fear became palpable—indeed, almost comical—as, one by one, they were scattered about the ring.


His fans enjoyed the notion of Tyson rummaging through those canisters of old fight films, finding his role models in the crackling celluloid. Dempsey. Louis. Marciano. That Tyson was a serious student of greatness was encouraging in a sport that so often honors mediocrity. It would not be possible to distract him from so high-minded a devotion.


Yet now there is increasing doubt that Tyson can sustain his reputation. There was his loss by a knockout in February 1990 to Buster Douglas, his unsatisfying win over Razor Ruddock last March, and evidence that his skills were declining even before those fights. Is Tyson, who will turn 25 two days after his June 28 rematch with Ruddock, already fading into history? Is he merely a passing phenomenon, undone by fame and comfort like so many others? Is he just something to remember the '80s by, a footnote to boxing history?


Tyson, who turned pro in 1985, has a record of 40-1, with 36 knockouts, and he did KO Ruddock, after all, so requiems for this heavyweight are obviously premature. He is still the most bankable fighter in the world, even as a challenger. Last week Dan Duva, the promoter of champion Evander Holyfield, offered a record $51.1 million for a Tyson-Holyfield fight in Las Vegas in October or November. But there is a feeling in the boxing community that Tyson has already crested, and that even if he remains above the rest of the division, he is nevertheless on his way down. "He was great for boxing," says Emanuel Steward, Tommy Hearns's manager and trainer for many years. "But it's a whole new ball game."


Tyson's critics say that he has been ruined by Don King, the promoter who wrested control of Tyson's career from Bill Cayton when co-manager Jimmy Jacobs died in March 1988. Later that year trainer Kevin Rooney, a D'Amato protégé, was fired, and a string of successors have failed to hone Tyson's skills or maintain the link to D'Amato. Sometimes they have had trouble even getting him away from the discos and into the gym. It is said that Tyson has been ruined by his own inescapable wealth and power, and that not even D'Amato or Rooney could have prevented that. He has been corrupted by comfort. Or he simply wasn't built for the long run. There's no agreement on the reasons, but nobody denies that Tyson has neglected the abilities that made him the most feared boxer of his time. Agreed: He has abandoned his potential.


He has no jab, he doesn't work the body, he throws few combinations, and clinches frequently. He shows less and less defense and only sporadically returns to D'Amato's trademark peekaboo style. He no longer intimidates. True, Henry Tillman and Alex Stewart, two stops on Tyson's way back from the Douglas fiasco, appeared to be terrified. But Ruddock stood in with Tyson and was not horribly damaged or even terribly impressed. Steve Lott, a member of the Tyson camp when Jacobs and Cayton held sway, is most struck by this growing composure among Tyson opponents. "You used to watch Mike, and you'd think, This guy doesn't get hit," Lott says. "These other guys are hitting air and he's coming back with bombs and the fight's over. Now the top guys are saying, Wait a minute. Ruddock stood toe to toe with Tyson, shot for shot, for seven rounds. This never happened before. It happened for 30 seconds, but seven rounds? Now, Ruddock may be a good fighter, but he's not Joe Louis."


The example of the journeyman Douglas, who fearlessly jabbed Tyson to defeat, has emboldened the young heavyweights. The Ruddock fight woke some people up too. But it's not a case of suddenly realizing the emperor has no jab. In the past Tyson did not usually try to intimidate his opponents in prefight press conferences. "What he did was," explains Lott, "he used to hit them pretty hard."


Now, though he still hits hard, Tyson does not hit often enough, or in the right places. Eddie Futch, the veteran trainer who has taken on 23-year-old Riddick Bowe for an assault on the title Tyson once consolidated, says, "He's stopped using his jab to work his way in. He comes straight in, head up, swinging his punches. He seems to be trying to bomb his way through. The intensity is there, but the direction is not. Apparently his shots are not hitting the vital spots as often."


At his best, Tyson had a viciously simple style: He would engage his opponent's attention with a punch and quickly follow up, and the opponent would soon be sliding down a ring rope from the damaging flurry. But there are no flurries anymore, just the single punch. "Tyson used to stun you with those quick deliveries, the quickest since Joe Louis," says Futch. "But the value of his punch was realized in combination. He'd finish you off after he stunned you. Now he's looking to hit home runs all the time."


Trainer and broadcaster Gil Clancy saw the same thing in the Ruddock fight. Those home run swings were easy to see coming, and the blasts were quickly knocked down for ground-rule doubles. "So instead of having to get out of the way, Ruddock could just brace himself," says Clancy.


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What has happened to Tyson's skill at working the body? At coming in behind the jab? "Not there," says Teddy Atlas, who worked with Tyson in D'Amato's camp years ago. "He doesn't work his way in behind the jab, he doesn't punch to the body. Rather than work his way into position to throw punches—and it is work—he loads up with wide punches and long punches. The one thing he has retained is his power. But when he's loading up, he's vulnerable."


And, finally, what about defense? Why was Ruddock able to hit him? Says Butch Lewis, who managed former champion Michael Spinks, a one-round knockout victim in the fight that is regarded as Tyson's greatest: "He was always in perpetual motion. He never stood straight up for us. Always the head moving, the shoulders rolling and pumping, side to side. Every time you looked back up, he was in your face, that little son of a gun. Where did that come from? Now he just stands up straight. Douglas exposed that."
This dereliction of technique is not easy to explain. Steward suggests that it is actually the result of the aging process, a natural regression. At 24? "I never saw him being successful past 26," says Steward. "His style was strictly youth and instinct, based on driving through people. It never allowed for a long career. All youth and aggression, fighting with your head up front. The second you slow down, for whatever reason, you lose it. Because your face, which is 10 inches closer, isn't getting out of the way like when you were young and fast. You just can't get away with it anymore."


Steward sees Tyson slowing noticeably. "You watch him when he breaks from a clinch, he takes quite a few seconds to get organized, needs a little time to regroup, and then he just throws the one punch at a time. There's no way for him to regain what he once had."


Most think that Tyson's decline has much to do with a loss of discipline and desire, which is perhaps inevitable as a fighter grows rich and famous.
"When you make that kind of money," says Atlas, "it's not abnormal to slow down a gear or two." Atlas sees a damping of Tyson's fire and fury that perhaps not even D'Amato could have reversed. "When I say he's not punching inside, that's not just a technical breakdown but a lack of desire. When a guy no longer wants to fight inside, he finds ways not to. So he creates clinches, whereas in the past, when he had a lot of fire and desire, he would create ways to punch. Now Mike puts his hands behind the guy's head. It's a lack of work ethic, and maybe you can understand that, with all that money he's already made. Maybe he'd have strayed whether Rooney or Cus was here or not."


Predictably, those from D'Amato's cult blame King for Tyson's decline. Cayton, Tyson's manager of record until Feb. 12, 1992, says that King has "poisoned and destroyed what could have been one of the greatest fighters of all time." Cayton believes that only Rooney could restore the spirit and discipline to Tyson's life. King, he says, uses Tyson to enhance King's position as a promoter. For example, Cayton maintains that King used the first Ruddock fight more to strengthen his own tenuous hold on undefeated junior welterweight champion Julio César Chávez than to provide Tyson with a payday; Chávez was paid an inflated $2.2 million for an undercard appearance, at the expense, some say, of Tyson's purse.


Tyson has never seemed eager for an accounting, and though Cayton has said that he could have provided Tyson with an additional $50 million in contracts, this appears not to matter to the fighter. Jose Torres, who wrote a scathing book about Tyson, Fire and Fear, which began as an authorized biography, says Tyson is more thrilled by King's bonuses of $100,000 in cash, money he can immediately distribute to his entourage, than the extra $3 million or $4 million he should be getting in purses. "King understands the psychology," says Torres. "That's how he keeps Tyson in

his portable jail."


Yet you can hear the fighter rattling his chains from time to time; there are reports that Tyson and King have feuded, even to the point of physical confrontation. King declined to talk to SI. Last week USA Today quoted him as acknowledging that he and Tyson argue but adding, "When we do, I cuss him out and he cusses me out, and it ain't no boxing match." King also told the paper, "Ain't nobody screw with me, man. Part of my job as promoter and friend ain't to get my fanny whupped. I don't submit to that. I'm not afraid of Mike, and he's not afraid of me. We don't have to come to blows to resolve personal differences."


The differences between King and Tyson have less to do with money than with King's failure to procure a title shot for Tyson, which has obviously not been as important to King as to Tyson; King keeps making Ruddock fights for Tyson, and even with Duva's offer on the table, King is entertaining the idea of a date with George Foreman. Cayton says that King is taking this approach because Duva, not King, has the rights to a Holyfield-Tyson fight. As a consequence, Cayton says, "King uses Tyson's drawing power to make these other fights and pays exorbitant prices to his stable of fighters like Chávez and Simon Brown. This Ruddock rematch just compounds the stupidity. He should have fought for his title by now."

 

Torres, another D'Amato prodigy and a light heavyweight champion in the 1960s, is careful not to romanticize the D'Amato years as compared with the King years. Both men sought the same thing, says Torres—a heavyweight championship—if for different reasons. "Do you know why Cus died?" Torres asks. "Because his work was done. He took Tyson from scratch and, along with Cayton and Jacobs, fabricated this monster. All those one-round knockouts, it was an incredible manipulation and management. He was their creation, 100 percent."


Still, Torres deplores King's control when he sees Tyson setting new lows for press-conference behavior, as in a session last month when Tyson promised to make Ruddock his girlfriend. "I can't wait for you to kiss me with those big lips of yours," he told Ruddock.


"Strictly jailhouse talk, the strong violating the weak," says Torres. "With that, you can see King working with his mind, how he controls him. He's going back into Mike's childhood, trying to get him to rediscover the bully in him."
For many people Tyson's behavior at that press conference, where he also called his opponent a "transvestite," was shocking. But it is not fair to blame King entirely for Tyson's behavior. "It has more to do with where he comes from," says Lewis. "All he can remember is that the tough guy, the bully on the block, gets all the respect." And Tyson, it seems, has become desperate for respect.


Atlas thinks that Tyson is desperate for more than that. He believes Tyson sees it all—the fame, the wealth—slipping away. Says Atlas, "Early in his career, when he believed in himself, he said things in a controlled way, very Spartan words, honorable words. Even when he talked about driving a guy's nose into his brain, he didn't mean that in a disparaging way. To him that was something Jack Dempsey might say. He thought it was sportsmanlike, glorious. But now, when he sees himself slipping, he's grabbing for something he never thought he needed before, a stick to take into the ring."


Even if Tyson is unraveling before our eyes, there is still plenty of material left. "If 30 percent of Tyson materializes in the ring with Ruddock or Holyfield," says Cayton, "he wins easily." And, says Lewis, "if he signs for a title fight, you just might see that old attitude."


But Tyson may be spent emotionally as well as physically. There comes a time, says Atlas, when it is no longer possible to persuade a fighter to step into the middle of the ring and "face this...thing in front of him, doing what he's doing to him. Cus used to say he could put a gun to a fighter's head and say, I'll kill you if you don't fight.' But then that fighter gets in the middle of the ring and he's still only thinking about one thing, that guy in front of him. He's not thinking about the gun." To be a great heavyweight champion, the one so many thought Mike Tyson was sure to become, may require more animal barbarity than he can sustain.


"Sometimes, if you listen to Mike, you can hear him preparing for failure," says Atlas. "He says, 'I've been poor once, I can be poor again.' He's said that a number of times. He's not saying, I'll never lose what I've got. He's saying the opposite—I could lose everything and I could handle it. It's like he knows he's vulnerable and he's preparing for that day."
Perhaps that day is not yet at hand. Or perhaps Tyson, who on a bad day lost to a far lesser fighter, wonders more and more what it would be like to step into the middle of the ring and face this...thing in front of him, some young guy so disciplined, so confident, so elemental that he needn't wear anything but an old towel for a robe. Someone like Mike Tyson.


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What also can be looked at is the fact that Tyson, when younger/amateur sparred both Bruno and Williams so he had some idea what they were about.

With Douglas, he had never shared a ring with him. So preparing for Douglas he would have to work more on watching tapes, getting the right sparring partners, working out a game-plan, etc.
Who was in Tyson's camp making sure that is all done?


Richie Giachetti seemed to help him out a bit, but one thing I came across in reading articles was that Cayton mentioned that D'Amato and Giachetti didn't like each other and he thought Tyson had to know that.

Other tidbits, like I've mentioned before, he got away from some of D'Amato's drills/training after he left Rooney...like the use of the "Willy."
I put up some information before about it with regards to how D'Amato trained Buster Mathis with it and how important it was...especially for a D'Amato trained fighter.





After Tyson vs. Ruddock II:

On Centerstage: Mike Tyson....Tyson said his desire was gone after the first Razor Ruddock fight.



In addition:

 

New Article: Post-Prison return.

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His comeback has been conducted as controlled mystery, little pieces of him appearing in odd corners of the public consciousness. Nothing substantial, you understand. Snippets of conversation in a hip-hop magazine. An appearance on Larry King Live. Unrevealing interviews in The New York Times and the Los Angeles Times. A cover photograph (but no Q and A) in Vibe. He has been positioned as an enigma, silently jumping rope in a hotel ballroom in one unveiling or smiling blankly from behind podiums in others. He gives three-word answers to boxing questions, behaves inappropriately at others. What little he does or says in public merely confounds. He appears to us as an empty vessel.


The marketing genius here: You fill him with meaning, you take his violent history, his horrifying success, the perverse glamour of his prison term and construct your own terrible attraction. This betrays a canny understanding of today's boxing fan, whoever he or she is. The contender promoted as inkblot. Neither style nor substance is offered, only just enough memory to provoke our imaginations. Mike Tyson is back!


A newsreel unspools in our minds: The spartan warrior stands center ring, no socks, only a white towel with a hole in it for his sullen head; a slab of malevolent muscle bores in on an opponent like a pneumatic drill, producing sudden and breathtaking dispatches; a convicted ****** mocks justice, wriggling his handcuffs for the camera; a converted Muslim leaves prison in an Indiana dawn, promising a prayerful humility; the rebuilt contender, three years gone, resumes his place in boxing yet refuses comment on his intentions. The effect of this docudrama, so slim it almost becomes interactive as we struggle to project significance onto it, is remarkable. A foe promises to wrap Tyson in a "cocoon of horror," and Tyson, sitting quietly nearby, only arches his eyebrow. It is funny, it is chilling. The empty vessel seems to fill with menace right before our eyes.


The fascination we have with Tyson is undeniable, heightened by failures of character and hints of redemption. He would not be nearly so interesting had he not lost to Buster Douglas, his invincibility shattered by a one-hit artist of modest credentials. What intrigue would there be if Tyson's life had not been derailed by his casual decision to force sex upon a beauty-pageant contestant? Could he command this attention if he had regained his heavyweight titles instead of going to prison, unrepentantly, for three years? It's odd; Tyson did not seem very complicated before, yet now—defeated and humiliated—he adds wrinkle to Greek tragedy as he struts across the world's stage sockless, a white towel over his shoulders.


The first of his comeback fights is Saturday, although few others besides Showtime and the sponsoring MGM Grand in Las Vegas insist upon it as an athletic event. This is simply another appearance, a matchup not much more dangerous than Tyson's coupling with Larry King and probably not as interesting. His brush with Peter McNeeley, termed "ritual slaughter" by a rival in the boxing business, does not figure to tell us whether Tyson can long remain on the stage, or even if he remembers how to box. It is a scheduled 10-round mismatch of epic proportion, even for a man who has been out of the game four years and was, even before, in apparent decline.


"This is total and complete fraud," says promoter Bob Arum, who happens to be a bitter enemy of Tyson's and McNeeley's promoter, Don King, and also happens not to have any promotional association with arguably the biggest draw of the '90s. "You have to understand: He's fighting somebody even I can beat. McNeeley is not a real pro fighter. When we did shows on ESPN in the Northeast, and the local promoter would ask for [McNeeley], we'd hide him from TV. He can't beat anybody. He's the stiff of stiffs. This is the equivalent of Tyson going into the gym and hitting the heavy bag or doing sit-ups. It's not even the equivalent of watching him spar."


Anybody gone from his game as long as Tyson was deserves some kind of setup, but most boxing people feel McNeeley, a genial fellow (he did give us "cocoon of horror"), does not even qualify as that. McNeeley's 36-1 record is a beguiling statistic, but his last four opponents had a combined record of 45-113-11. "I don't want to belabor the point, but I have rarely seen anybody worse," says Arum. "This, this is really demeaning. A scam, a bill of goods."


The fight wouldn't be worth Arum's vitriol or our notice if not for the fact that King, who negotiated a $36 million contract for Tyson to fight six times at the MGM (against opponents and on dates of Tyson's and King's choosing), is pricing the Showtime telecast exorbitantly. The pay-per-view show is being delivered at the worst possible time (PPV events are rarely scheduled during August, when viewers are presumed to be on vacation), but it will still cost the curious as much as $50. Buyer beware: McNeeley could be gone faster than the 91 seconds it took Tyson to knock out Michael Spinks in 1988.


But nobody is selling competition here, or even pretending to. The point of the promotion is to showcase Tyson and to satisfy, only by degrees, the public's fascination with him. If the first punch does knock McNeeley out? History is not made, but image is at least partly restored. A second fight, against somebody else, is sold, maybe.
Still, the drift of this comeback troubles many. The stink of easy money is in the air, and it makes even Tyson fans queasy. The question hangs in that polluted atmosphere: Does Tyson mean to make history or just the dough?

 

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Teddy Atlas, who trained Tyson as an amateur and who has trained former heavyweight champion Michael Moorer, thinks he knows the answer. "With this group it's just money," he says, speaking of King and Tyson's co-managers, John Home and Rory Holloway. "They're hitting all the buttons, tapping into all the things the public's imagination is susceptible to. Like being in jail, as if coming out of prison after three years has made Tyson mean, angry and better. The Return of Godzilla, that's their plan. Mike's whole agenda, and this is no knock, is about taking advantage of corporate America and the public. He's playing on their weakness to believe in this monster."

That Tyson can carry this off probably says as much about the public as it does about him, because it has been a while since he has been a monster in the ring. "Amazing," says

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, who has trained Thomas Hearns, Julio Cesar Chavez and a number of other champions. "All of a sudden, the machine of 1988, the guy who beat Michael Spinks in 91 seconds, is back. It's not so much Mike, it's that boxing is sorely in need of a hero. We're at a point where anytime a boxer wins two fights in a row, he's called the best, pound for pound." His return is, to put it mildly, opportunistic.

Certainly our memories of Tyson have been clouded by time, our doubts stripped away during his exile. Says

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, who buys fights as HBO Sports vice president but had no chance at Tyson's after the former champ reunited with King: "People have this image of him savagely brutalizing opponents, even though they don't remember that the majority of his fights were not really like that. They forget him getting battered, ring post to ring post, by Buster Douglas. They forget how unimpressive he was in the two Razor Ruddock fights."

DiBella marvels at Tyson's appeal but wonders if it doesn't simply represent the taste of the times. "It's very 'in' to put the bad guy on the pedestal, this whole gangster image," DiBella says. "He's the outlaw, that's the attraction."

Tyson's appeal has given his camp enormous leverage. The huge casino contract demands very little in the way of guaranteed entertainment (Tyson could fulfill the contract without fighting anybody outside the King stable, which includes two of the three heavyweight "champions") and allows Tyson and King to set the parameters of his exposure. The fighter's camp recently refused to agree to an interview for an ESPN show if the network's boxing reporter, Charley Steiner, was involved. ESPN countered with two other choices. They too were rejected. Tired of the haggling, ESPN finally decided it could live without the Tyson interview. King and Home have similarly refused to allow Tyson to have any dealings with SPORTS ILLUSTRATED.

But this is small intrigue. The larger question is what Tyson will do after this fight, and the next, and the one after that. Does his return amount to a calculated money grab, or does he intend to take back his place in ring history? For that matter, can he? Inevitably, it has been noted that

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, a charismatic boxer when he was politically exiled at the age of 25, came back at 28 to become a truly great fighter. Can the 29-year-old Tyson, whose career was interrupted and resumed on a nearly identical time line, duplicate the feat?

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doubts it. "Ali's style permitted longevity," he says. "Tyson, his kind don't have long careers. Everything he does is instinct, aggression. But that tapers off at 26 or 27, like with Joe Frazier. The ferociousness declines, and that was Tyson's main asset."

And if

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has been truly reformed by prison, well, that may be a factor as well. "

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, his mind never went through emotional change," Steward says. "Ali stayed Ali. But if Tyson went through this great metamorphosis, changing religion, getting tattoos of Chairman Mao and Arthur Ashe.... The ring is no place for a philosopher. It might make him better for society but hurt him in the ring."

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who was able to train during his three years of political exile (for refusing induction into the Army during the Vietnam War), was able to change as a fighter when he came back to the game. He had suffered a tremendous erosion of the skills that once made him untouchable, but he demonstrated the horrifying ability—and even more horrifying willingness—to take a punch. Coming back, Ali did not sign up for a joke fight, either, but took on Jerry Quarry, a tough top contender. Tyson, who was not able to train in prison, likely has suffered the same erosion of skills as Ali, though given the matchmaking at work here, it might not be apparent for a long time. Certainly McNeeley won't give him much practice.

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to evade punches was becoming suspect at 26; his speed was diminished. It is not likely to be restored, even in the five-step training program devised by the mysterious Carlos Blackwell, the diet and exercise guru who steadfastly refuses to name one athlete other than Tyson he has ever worked with. However, Tyson is not likely to lose his power. George Foreman hasn't lost much of his at 46. However steep Tyson's decline, his harshest critics do not doubt his ability to wade through most of today's heavyweights. Tyson may even be, in his own word, "breathtaking" as he scatters the likes of McNeeley, then possibly Buster Mathis Jr. and even the WBC champion, Oliver McCall.

 

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But what happens if Tyson makes a play for destiny instead of money? Who's to say he won't? Who's to say the public, fed too many Peter McNeeleys, won't eventually demand a legitimate fight? What happens if Tyson ventures beyond the King stable to take on the likes of Riddick Bowe or Lennox Lewis, as the laws of boxing commerce (or perhaps Tyson's pride) may demand?

Atlas, a Cus D'Amato protégé like Tyson, doesn't know what will happen, but he says you can't use Ali's second career as a guideline. "Ali went away for a principle, Tyson for a lack of one," Atlas says. "Ali was never the same fighter coming back, but he went on to another phase of greatness because, I think, of his principle. Ali was ready to die professionally, to give up his worldly possessions, for three years. He was practicing character, character he would have to use when he lost to Joe Frazier. He believed there was some great meaning to his being, a statement he could make to his people only by becoming champion. There was that purity to him. He had the character to endure that loss and become champion. Does Tyson? Or does he unravel in self-pity? You can't buy character at a five-and-dime."

However, if character can somehow be hammered in the forge of a public life, Tyson may still have a chance. His critics were not impressed when, at a recent press conference, Tyson was asked what he might say to his **** victim, Desiree Washington, if she were present, and he laughed, clapped his hands and said, "Just enjoy the fight." Was this a total lack of remorse, or, more likely, Tyson reacting out of frustration to what he perceives as tabloid journalism.

Yet, it might be said on his behalf that he seems determined to return to his roots (his trainer, Jay Bright, is a D'Amato protégé), and his few public utterances have not been frayed by bitterness. His jail term was deserved, he has said, not for a **** he still insists he didn't commit but for the life he had led up to that point. "I don't know if prison was a blessing in disguise, but I do know I made it a blessing," he told the music magazine The Source.

But for now, Tyson remains a blank slate, ready to take on whatever meaning we assign him. He's a convicted ******, he's the prodigal son, he's a primordial force, he's the Voltaire-quoting Muslim, he's the washed-up fighter. He's boxing's debris or its deliverance. All those things or none of them. Poor Peter McNeeley will look into Mike Tyson's eyes Saturday night and try to decide for himself, and some of us will pay $50 and hope, from the safety of our couches, to see whatever it is he sees.


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