The Rise And Fall Of Mike Tyson

06.08.04 – By Carlos Campos: My grandfather’s generation had Joe Louis. My father’s generation had Muhammad Ali. My generation had Iron Mike Tyson. For a young man who grew up listening to tales of Ali’s exploits and Louis’ conquests, Tyson was my link to boxing greatness. Iron Mike was the fighter I was supposed to be able to boast about having seen fight in my old age.

“Son, come here so I can tell you about a boxer named Tyson…” Sure, I’ll still be telling stories about Tyson, except they will be synonymous with the all too familiar anecdote of a fighter who had the world at his feet and let it dissolve through his misdeeds and regretful management choices.

When Tyson burst on the boxing consciousness, he was as focused, skilled, and relentless as any other fighter I had ever seen. So powerfully compact, his fluid movements in the ring embodied champions of the past. He had the hook of Frazier, the tenacity of Dempsey, and was as intimidating as Foreman. More importantly, he was a product of my generation.

My first glimpse of Tyson was during a post-fight interview. I will never forget my shock as he described his intention to crush his opponent’s nose bone into his brain! Now, this openly vicious threat was practically unheard of in the PC-laced heavyweight division of the time where the closest thing to controversy was Larry Holmes’ remark on the weight of his jockstrap. Tyson’s brashness was a Pollock painting in a vanilla sports scene, a pronouncement of the new generation of fighters that would soon turn up the excitement level in the world of boxing. To a disenfranchised inner-city youth such as myself, Tyson was our fighter. His actions spoke for us, spoke to us. Tyson was the persona of our teenage angst. However, in hindsight, it was remarks such as the previous one that foreshadowed the career of a very disturbed fighter.

As Tyson’s career began to evolve and the titles started to amass, we began to learn more about whom Tyson really was. During this time, Tyson actions inside and outside of the ring became the stuff of tabloids. Ranging from street fights in the middle of the night to “donating” his Bentleys after car accidents, these bizarre actions did nothing but translate into record-breaking pay-per-view numbers. Of course, the entourage who made up Tyson’s gravy train wouldn’t dare mess up their free ride and did nothing to reign in Tyson’s actions. With years of being surrounded by yes-men, Tyson began to act like he was above the law. In 1992, his conviction for raping a beauty pageant contestant proved he was not.

During Tyson’s career maturation, I, too, started to experience a growth process. The same sound bites that seemed fashionable to a 16 year old now seemed pathetic and an attempt by a bully to inflate his self esteem. And, in fact, if you peeled away his entourage and took his ear away from Don King’s whispers, you would be left with a timid, insecure kid from Catskill who relied on his bravado to perpetuate his reputation as the baddest man on the planet.

Most observers would say that after his release from prison, Tyson was never the fighter he once was. Fed a steady diet of “slam-men” masquerading as fighters, Tyson tricked the public into thinking that he was ready to assume his place as undisputed heavyweight champion once again. But faced with an opponent in Evander Holyfield who refused to be intimidated, Tyson’s mystique and career began its transformation from legitimate boxing greatness to circus sideshow.

After last Friday’s feeble effort against little-known Danny Williams, Tyson’s career is almost certainly over. At least it should be. What was once a promising career has now become a bad reality show. As someone who followed Iron Mike’s trajectory from young, brazen contender to undisputed champion, it is difficult to look at what Tyson has become now and not feel a pang of sadness for him. After all, my future tales of Tyson were supposed to be tales of hall of fame knockouts and record breaking title defenses, not some B-movie tale of a washed up heavyweight echoing refrains from Requiem for a Heavyweight.