Given that he quit in his last fight, a seven-round stinker in 2005 vs. journeyman (which is a nice way of saying bum) Kevin McBride, and given that he hasn't had a meaningful bout since 2002 when Lennox Lewis dropped him in eight rounds, and given that he hasn't held a heavyweight title in 10 years (Evander Holyfield was beating that ass in a '96 title bout, so he bit his ears, twice), it was quite amazing to see hundreds of people circled around the boxing ring set up on Aladdin's mezzanine level on Friday, video cameras recording, camera phones flashing and everyone angling for a glimpse of Mike Tyson, the former "baddest man on the planet," engaged in what might've been the lightest public workout in boxing history.
In the southwest corner of the ring, a crew of backward-hat-wearing surf dudes frantically dialed their friends. "Dude, we're watching Mike fuckin' Tyson," one surf dude said. Over by the bar, a trio of women in too-short skirts and barely-there halter tops tried to sass their way up to the ring. Closest they got were the outside ropes, set up red-carpet style, where Tyson's fatigue-wearing hype man held court: "Y'all ready for Mike Tyson? Huh? Y'all ready for Mike Tyson?" The naughty trio was ready, all right—to do him. "Where y'all partying tonight? What room y'all in?" the largest one asked. Hype man just smiled.
Near the northwest corner, where Tyson rested for at least half of the two-hour session—which featured two to three minutes of punching followed by five to six minutes of shooting the shit with trainer Jeff Fenech—a five-foot-nothing security guard got into a verbal serve-and-volley spat with a video camera-wielding fan. Guard: Put it up. Fan: No. Guard: It's not allowed. Fan: I'm using it as a camera. Guard: Sir, I've asked once. Fan: It's a camera. Guard: How can I tell? Fan: Come see. Guard: No. Fan: Why? Though fan guy eventually relented, the exchange seemed wholly unnecessary in light of the subject matter.
This is Mike Tyson we're talking about.
Mr. "I'm just a domesticated animal"—said in describing himself. Mr. "I want to eat his children. Praise be to Allah!"—said before the Lennox Lewis fight. Mr. "I like doing other things. I like getting high, hanging out with my kids. I like drinking"—said about his parenting style. Mr. "She put me in that state where, I don't know, I really wish I did now. Now I really do want to rape her and her fucking mama"—said about his 1992 rape conviction of Desiree Washington. He served three years in prison.
At times the former Las Vegan's mouth has been more vicious than the uppercuts and hooks he used to knock out Trevor Berbick in 1986 to become the youngest heavyweight champion in history, at 20, and to record 44 knockouts in 64 fights. But that fearsome Tyson, who went from a Catskill, New York, stick-up kid to one of the greatest heavyweights in history, who sold out arenas, popularized pay-per-view boxing and generated a $300 million personal fortune, checked out years ago. In his place is a debt-laden man with atrophied muscles, diminished skills and little desire or love for the sport. As he told the Associated Press: "I truly hate fighting. I'm just looking to make a buck like anyone else."
In that respect, he joins other notable black athletes who've struggled for continued relevance. Returning home after winning four gold medals in track and setting three Olympic records (100- and 200-yard dashes, long jump) in the 1936 Olympics, Jesse Owens couldn't find work, so he became a professional runner, racing against horses, cars and motorcycles for money. He struggled in business before catching on as a speaker and author. In Tokyo on June 25, 1976, heavyweight champ Muhammad Ali tangled with Japanese professional wrestler Antonio Inoki in a staged 15-round fight that left Ali with welts and circulation problems in his legs and turned many Japanese fans against Inoki.
Tyson's freefall might be the most disappointing. Owens left college early to support his family and the job prospects for a black man in 1936 America weren't exactly numerous. Ali was the heavyweight champ when he tussled with Inoki. At 40, Tyson is a shadow of a farce of his former self. That didn't seem to matter to anyone inside. Not the people in the three rows set up like front-row seats. Or to the folks at the slot machines, faking like they were playing. Or the proud papas who hoisted their sons on their shoulders to watch this ... this ... freak show (that's been used before to describe him), this ... this ... circus show (used, too) this ... this ... side show (that, too). Tyson training in a casino for exhibition fights—which are generally easy bouts designed to let the big name escape with a win and without injury—is a modern-day minstrel show, the only difference being that minstrels knew (and, deep down, cared) about being exploited. Tyson's only agenda, it seems, is to get paid, laid (according to a local gossip columnist, he's still quite the man about town) and, well, who knows what else.
At the end of 45 minutes of training, of which he boxed 15 minutes, Tyson sat on a stool at the edge of the ring and said, "I'm tired, I'm ready to go." Judging by the still-bulging crowd, people aren't ready for Tyson to exit stage right, which means the minstrel show will continue, possibly in a city near you.