The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (24 page)

In July 2004 Mike Tyson stepped between the ropes for the first time in a year-and-a-half, ending eighteen months of speculation as to what his next step would be. In that time he’d declared himself bankrupt. He had also been linked with a bout against kick-boxing man-mountain Bob Sapp (in a similar financially lucrative stunt, during his ban from boxing in 1997–8, he’d appeared in the WWF). He and Sapp had swapped insults and shoves but never actually stepped into a K1 ring together. (Tyson had often stated his love for martial arts, being a big fan of movies of the genre, and had been tempted several times by offers to fight in mixed martial arts tournaments.)

During this break Tyson had received six months’ anger
management
counselling for his hotel assault back in 2003, not receiving a prison sentence this time because the judge had accepted he had been provoked.

The distractions were all very entertaining, but what was less clear was how Tyson was going to maintain his extravagant lifestyle without entering a boxing ring. He was thirty-eight years of age, the same age Muhammad Ali had been when first Larry Holmes and then Trevor Berbick finally ended the magic of the “Greatest”, and the exact same age Holmes himself was when a young Tyson handed him his first knockout defeat. His best years were long behind him but, as Mike himself acknowledged, he “wasn’t going to go into brain surgery” and so, with a sad inevitability, he prepared to wage battle again simply because he had no other option. There were still bills and creditors to be paid.

Tyson’s latest comeback was different to the others in that there was no particular end product in mind this time. Whereas
previously
every ring return had been seen as a prelude to another assault upon the world championship, this time around no one – including Tyson himself – was under any illusions. This was all about the money. People were still prepared to pay to see “Iron” Mike in the flesh. It helped that his last contest had been a devastating
firstround
knockout victory. That helped erase the image of the Lewis humbling. He was an icon, a living legend and it was akin to buying a ticket to see Sinatra after 1970. You knew his voice was shot but he still retained the aura – he was still “Ol’ Blue Eyes”.

Anyway, a bottle of rioja and I sat up late to watch my man but Mags didn’t bother. She happily watched endless Steven Seagal, Jean-Claude Van Damme and other martial arts movies with me, but she drew the line at sitting up until 3 a.m. to watch boxing. I was politely asked “not to shout too much” in case it woke Delilah. Oh, please!

Tyson versus Danny Williams was a strange evening altogether. Mike had chosen someone whom he felt reasonably certain he could dispose of comfortably and earn a few quick bucks, although at this stage of his career there were no such certainties. Former British and Commonwealth champion Williams appeared made-to-measure in that he was a decent boxer with a reasonable punch but was
emotionally
as stable as Judy Garland and had a questionable chin.

Williams had often threatened to emerge on to the world scene but had always stumbled when faced with opponents he’d been expected to defeat. By his own admission he was fragile mentally and thus appeared the perfect fall-guy for an intimidator like Tyson. Unfortunately for Mike, what Williams had perceived about Tyson’s reluctance to enter the ring on a regular basis was true. He was completely shot and no longer capable of intimidating a
halfdecent
young foe. And that’s why Danny had been so eager to accept the bout.

Williams admitted afterwards that he’d been in awe of Tyson when he was a twelve-year-old boy watching “Iron” Mike decimate the heavyweights. That Tyson, he knew, no longer existed. Only his marquee name survived, offering a spring-board for Williams to leap into the heavyweight title picture, if he could only hold himself together emotionally under the intense pressure Tyson was still liable to provide.

In the opening three minutes Tyson’s hand-speed was awesome and he blasted Williams with an assortment of hurtful punches, staggering him and causing him to lurch drunkenly from one side of the ring to another, defying gravity by remaining upright. I shouted my appreciation – Mags can’t claim that she wasn’t warned! – at what, so far, had been the most devastating Tyson performance since Gołota. Little did I know that he’d practically exhausted himself with that three-minute burst of non-stop punching.

Tyson hadn’t taken training that seriously, believing that he’d walk through Williams based upon his erratic record and
reputation
. Mike hadn’t foreseen that this wasn’t merely a nice payday for Danny but, rather, a life-altering opportunity for him – a chance to emerge from obscurity – and so a hitherto unseen mental fortitude allowed Williams to come out for the second round and risk
everything
, matching Tyson blow-for-blow.

It was an exciting fight whilst it lasted. In the second and third rounds the two men swapped fast, damaging punches but it was noticeable that Tyson’s work rate was already slowing. Instead of putting his punches together in quick-fire clusters Mike was now regressing to throwing single big shots and then absorbing Williams’s rapid counters.

The end came in round four. Whilst it had been acceptable for the likes of Holyfield and Lewis to batter him, it was painfully
embarrassing
to watch a lower-grade heavyweight walking forward and pouring punches into a clearly demoralized Tyson’s face.

When Tyson fell backwards into the ropes and slid to the floor it saddened many boxing people to watch him simply sit there, waiting for the referee to complete his count. Mike’s brave and stoic
acceptance
of his pummellings at the fists of Douglas, Holyfield and Lewis had led even his fiercest critics to applaud his courage and
warriorlike
spirit; a willingness to go down fighting. Now, he simply gave up! As soon as he realized that Williams wasn’t going anywhere and had tasted Danny’s determination via repeated punches to the face, Mike waved the white flag. It was a fantastic moment for the
unheralded
Williams but the latest method Tyson had conceived to further damage his standing in the annals of boxing history. FUCK!!! (Note: There’s only one “fuck” to follow this defeat, symbolizing both my new-found calmness and contentment, and my realization that “Iron” Mike Tyson had long since departed. It was the bankrupt Michael Gerard Tyson who now begrudgingly pulled on the black shorts and ankle boots, echoing the image of Jack Dempsey but without his previous savagery and spirit. Tyson without the anger was impotent.)

In October 2004 Delilah celebrated her first birthday and we’d planned a party for family and friends. A week or so prior my dad had gone to my sister’s for the weekend and suffered severe stomach pains and diarrhoea, which had continued over the following days. Concerned at his drastic loss of weight, his neighbour contacted the doctor and dad was admitted into hospital for tests.

I was explaining this to my friend Danny and he said he’d pop into the hospital and say “hello” to my dad the next day. None of us believed that it was anything more serious than dehydration due to days of diarrhoea and sickness, until Danny phoned me the next evening and warned me that it appeared more serious than we’d thought.

The following morning I packed a bag and spent the next
fortnight
at my dad’s, going back-and-forth between his house, work and the hospital, and watching my dad slowly deteriorate each day.

It was a mystery as to why he was getting worse instead of better. The hospital had diagnosed that he’d been suffering from food poisoning when admitted but his condition had rapidly worsened and he was pumped full of drugs, virtually comatose, incapable of interacting with anyone around him.

Late one evening the hospital phoned me and asked my
permission
to operate. They didn’t really know what they were looking for but stated that, if they didn’t “open him up for an exploratory”, he would definitely die.

I phoned around friends and family and then spent the night waiting for the hospital to ring back. When they eventually called it was good news. They’d discovered a section of “dead” intestine which they’d removed and had reconnected each end of the working intestine.

I went to the hospital in the morning and was amazed to see my dad sitting up in bed. I explained to him what had been happening for the last few days and why they’d had to operate, and told him that I’d see him later, after work. It was the last conversation we ever had. Within hours his condition had deteriorated again and, several days later, he was dead. A combination of an infection and blood poisoning had killed him. Mum, my sister Lisa, our cousin Karen and I sat around his bedside and watched the last remnants of life drain slowly away from him.

For hours afterwards I cried. I cried for myself, I cried for Lisa, I cried for our dad, but most of all I cried for the relationship we never had.

The time I spent staying at my dad’s and the subsequent period leading up to the funeral gave me an opportunity to reflect upon my life and my relationship with my father and how it had affected my adulthood.

I regretted a lot of decisions I’d made and actions I’d taken over the years and wondered how much of the man I’d been back in the 1980s and 1990s had been a self-creation or the sum of my genetics and all the influences around me.

If, as I believed, this “new me” was a self-made man, made calmer by good choices, positive people around me and learning from life’s experiences, then how much of my anger, resentment, depression and generally anti-social behaviour back then was down to my early life experiences. I thought of nothing but my childhood for days.

“Nature versus nurture” is an expression used to compare
someone
’s innate qualities and genes versus their learned experiences when determining how responsible we are for our own behaviour. At this point in my life I keenly explored these concepts in an effort to better understand myself and my conflicting emotions.

Some things are definitely genetic and are personality traits or physical characteristics we inherit from our parents whilst other factors can be attributed partially to genes and partially to the learning environment we find ourselves in. For instance, my mother is artistic and thus my pursuing a career in art may be partially due to innate creativity. (That and the fact that art college seemed a great way to do bugger-all for three years whilst staring at girls.) However, art – like many talents – can be taught and there is no doubt that my basic skills were improved upon by studying the mechanics of art: proportion, tone, perspective, etc.

Again, with sportsmen whose sons or daughters follow them into professional sport, how much is genetic inheritance and how much applied technique and learning?

Personality has been proven to be genetic, although it can be influenced by external factors and people may try to model
themselves
upon personalities which attract them. In a series of studies, identical twins that had been separated at birth were found to have very similar personalities when later reunited; far more similar in fact than adopted siblings who were raised together.

One of the great questions about genetic inheritance controlling our later behaviour is “What about free will?” At what point do we take control of our own destiny and make decisions based around what’s right for us and not based on the previous actions of others?

Genetically, certain diseases have been passed down through generations but where does this leave addiction such as alcoholism? It’s been proven that a susceptibility to nicotine addiction is genetic but debate continues as to whether alcoholism is genetic or learned behaviour from watching other people who abuse drink.

This was definitely one of the factors which intrigued me. The period when I’d drunk a crate of brandy per night in order to forget that I was married to that abusive cow Liz had left me believing that I’d inherited my dad’s (and granddad’s) propensity towards over-indulgence. Certainly, when I’d stayed with him we’d sit up drinking until the early hours, pouring glass after glass of alcohol until it was either all gone or he’d decided it was time to spew. (Sometimes he decided it was time to fall over various items of furniture first.)

I’d always convinced myself that I couldn’t possibly be on the road to alcoholism – (just off the M4) – because I didn’t feel the urge to drink alcohol every day. Often it was just weekends that I’d drink (although weekends tended to last from Friday to Thursday when I was with Liz), and so I reassured myself that I was in control. Then I read an article which explained that alcoholism was not – as most people thought – a constant craving for booze but an inability to stop drinking once you’d started. This was me!

I’d never met a bottle of red wine I didn’t like. In fact I liked them all so much I had to drink them from start to finish, just to show my appreciation. Once I had “the taste” for alcohol I would not look back.

My sister Lisa was lucky. She also liked a good drink but had the capacity of a three-year-old to absorb it. Thus, she’d get drunk after three glasses and then just giggle for hours (except one night at my house when I had to carry her upstairs because she had “alcohol blindness” and couldn’t see).

Anyway, maybe alcohol addiction is inherited; maybe it isn’t, but either way, if you’re surrounded by heavy drinkers all your life it’s bound to make an impact. Perhaps more pertinent to me, though, was whether my dad’s uncontrollable anger was an inherited trait or, again, learned behaviour.

Biologically anger is not actually a problem; it’s an instinctive reaction to threat and part of our primitive inner selves, designed as a vital aspect of our survival mechanism. As with fear, anger triggers the adrenalin rush which gives us the energy for fight-or-flight and better enables us to defend ourselves and our loved ones.

However, in modern society it’s how we behave when feeling this emotion that causes other people’s perceptions and interactions with us to be negative or fearful. Shouting, violence and hurtful comments are prime ingredients of uncontrolled, damaging anger. (Although I take serious exception to sarcasm being described as a negative by-product of anger. Sarcasm, in my humble opinion, is a magnificent art-form and I will continue to use it lovingly
throughout
the remainder of my life!)