Mike Tyson And The Nature Of Greatness.

I love boxing, and always have. Ever since I watched my first bout at the age of seven, sitting next to my Dad and on the edge of my seat, I’ve been hooked. And being a child of the eighties, I held Mike Tyson in higher regard than any other fighter. I still do. 

Others may have been more graceful, more fluid in their style, more technically proficient - but nobody stirred the kind of primal excitement that Tyson did. Everything about him was captivating; the black shorts, the solemn entrance into the ring, the explosive technique that could unsettle the most experienced heavyweight in an instant. Tyson’s menacing aura and destructive potential were such that he often won a mental victory over his opponents before they even set foot in the ring. And once they did, a brief flurry of punches was all it took to render them prone and helpless.     

I would watch him and imagine that I had that same skill, speed and ferocity. As a kid who was always shy, low on self-worth and picked on by bullies, Tyson was an idol to me. He embodied that raw, masculine power that I craved. If I could possess even a fraction of it, people would leave me alone. No-one would mess with me. And I’m sure he meant the same to millions of others.  

Now, I do realise that Tyson is (to put it mildly) a problematic person: a convicted rapist with a penchant for biting ears and issuing dementedly insane threats - one time claiming that he would eat fellow fighter Lennox Lewis’s children. I mean, we’ve all had bad days but few of us have ever resorted to cannibalism out of sheer bravado. Luckily Lewis didn’t actually have kids at the time, so we were spared having to find out if Tyson would follow through. 

But despite all this, I still think he’s the greatest of all time. When I’m bored or struggling to sleep, I find myself on YouTube watching clips of him in his prime. The youngest heavyweight champion in history at 20 years old, he had a terrifying majesty that is unequalled to this day. Watching champions like Trevor Berbick turn to dust under the relentless assault of his wrecking-ball fists is exhilarating no matter how many times you see it. Tyson was, quite simply, a force of nature.      

Which is why I will not be watching when the 58-year-old former champion climbs into the ring this evening to face a cocksure young blowhard less than half his age. I have no wish to see a pale imitation of my childhood hero, somebody whose power and vitality meant so much to me. Memories of Tyson are intertwined with memories of my Dad, of begging him to let me stay up late to watch the fights - because it was a way of spending time with him, of feeling communion with him. Those were sacred experiences to me, and I won’t sour them by witnessing this vulgar, tasteless cash-grab. 

Not even Iron Mike, “The Baddest Man on the Planet”, can fight time. Greatness and beauty are temporary, fleeting things. They can be over in the blink of an eye, and that’s exactly what makes them so special, and such an honour to witness.