COLUMN: The sad tale of Mike Tyson

From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ," Fall '99 From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ," Fall '99March 23, 1985. Michael Gerard Tyson stepped into the ring. He was seventeen years old. Clothed in simple black trunks and black shoes, he looked like a strange mix of innocence and maturity. His face was that of a boy's, but his body was a man's body, chiseled and powerful. With many fans still settling in their seats, he floored Hector Mercedes in the first round, and a legend was born. We loved him for his blistering manliness, for the women that adored him, for the fame and fortune that he literally fought and bled for. The story and meaning of his life was at the heart of what we thought was the American dream. A young man who started out with nothing, lost everything and still clawed his way to the top. Boxing is a difficult thing for many people. Some refuse to even call it a sport, unable to understand how to men hitting each other in the head requires any sort of skill. Others concede that while there might be subtle technique in boxing, it has been so corrupted, so removed from the place it should be, that it cannot qualify as a "real" sport. For others, boxing is a dated relic of a much older, more barbaric and uncultured day, when men were forced to hurt one another in order to prove their manliness. But for many others, boxing represents all that is great about America. The metaphors for life we take from boxing, however garish and unsophisticated they might be, drive to the core of our society. The fundamental identity of each citizen, acutely alone, struggling against his adversary and himself. The story we take from boxing is the story of the "great man" of history. Exploring, discovering, fighting, winning. Mike Tyson captured the WBC and WBA heavyweight titles, becoming the first fighter to achieve this feat since Muhammed Ali. Even before he gained this honor, people were already saying that he could be the greatest fighter of all time. When Mike Tyson married Robin Givens, the gorgeous actress and pride of the black community, he further solidified his legend. I still remember the heroic image of him, championship belt blazing brilliantly across his arm, Robin Givens smiling long-leggedly beside him, Don King grinning at the crowd with lust in eyes, the reporters writing down every syllable that Mike uttered. 1991. It all seemed to fall apart so quickly. His much publicized breakup with Robin Givens. His conviction of rape and subsequent sentencing. In Washington, D.C., practically every one I knew had a "Free Mike Tyson" T-shirt and would wear it proudly. No one wanted to believe he was guilty, that he had come so far only to make it back to the same fate that might have clutched him in if he had not become a fighter. When his shocking behavior in the ring against Evander Holyfield was displayed to audiences across the nation, even the most die-hard Tyson fans, myself included, were quieted. But I still hoped he could get it together. When the latest news of his repeated incarceration was reported last week, the end had come. Mike Tyson is no saint. He never was and he never will be. He is an immensely foolish man, trapped mostly by himself, a victim of his own stunted development. He lacks the stunning charm and beauty of Ali, the cool graciousness of Ray Leonard, and the calm chivalrousness of Joe Louis. He is sharp at the edges, painfully unpredictable, utterly frustrating. And now, at age 33, $22 million in debt, Michael Gerard Tyson is going back to prison. He will never box again. Ever. When he returns to the world two years from now, he will find himself without the myriad of friends that once surrounded him, that once hung on his every word. Don King will have sunk his teeth into a new boxer's neck. The dream Mike Tyson lived was America's dream. The dream of the self made man, scratching, clawing, fighting, biting, doing whatever it takes to get to the top. More than 10 years later, we realize that no man is truly self-made, but becomes successful, or does not become successful because of himself and others. In Mike Tyson's case, he did not get much help, either from his so-called friends, or from Mike Tyson. Part of me will always remember him the way I remember him at 13 years old. Running out in the yard after he knocked someone out, sending blows towards the stars, invincible to the lighting bugs and my little brother. For myself, and for many in my generation, he will always be our living, breathing, manhood.