We Can Finally Forget About Tyson
Boxing's Biggest Fraud Finally Gives Up
By JIM ARMSTRONG
And so it ends, the latest and God willing last attempt by Mike Tyson to reinvent himself.
Forget the bizarre facial tattoo. The next time Tyson wants to attract a crowd, he'll have to get a sex change, gain 400 pounds and join the circus.
After Saturday night, Tyson couldn't get a gig fighting a one-armed CPA, not that he wouldn't want to if the price were right. Not even the lunatic fringe, affectionately known as Tyson's Trailer Trash, would shell out their hard-earned welfare checks to see him.
He was matched, for one rea$on and one rea$on only, against some nobody named Kevin McBride in a place far, far away from the bright lights of Las Vegas. Trouble is, even a nobody is somebody when standing in the same ring as the Tyson of today. Which is to say, a perfect stranger to the Tyson of yesterday.
Sure enough, after talking the talk in the days preceding the bout, Tyson couldn't walk the walk. He couldn't so much as get to his feet to answer the bell for Round 7. In the end, he was all lisp, no action. He ate his words, but at least he didn't eat anyone's children.
The $44.95 pay-per-view suckers were crying foul, but, for the life of me, I can't figure out why. It wasn't like he was any more pathetic than usual. The last time Tyson was worth watching, gas was a buck a gallon and Bill Clinton was imagining how many chicks would dig him if he became president.
Tyson had long since become more carny act than sweet scientist. His recent fights were must-see TV, provided work was a four-letter word and you had a velvet portrait of poker-playing bulldogs hanging prominently in your living room, right next to the gun rack.
He was more spectacle than spectacular, more sideshow than main attraction. Those who remained loyal to his cause stuck around more out of morbid curiosity than sheer fascination. They watched not so much to see what he could do, but to see if there was anything he wouldn't do.
And now even they're gone. Not that they have a choice. Even if they still considered a Tyson pay-per-view a good excuse to drink Old Milwaukee, he won't be around to embarrass himself more than he already has. There isn't a bowling-alley parking lot in America that would have him
What's he supposed to call himself now that he has lost to the immortal Kevin McBride, barely the heavyweight champion of his own extended family? Iron Mike certainly is out. How about the Has-Been From the Federal Pen?
And while we're on the subject, how would you promote Tyson's next bout? What would you call it? The Brawl in the Bingo Hall? As if anyone not married to his cousin would watch that.
No, it's over, all right. Tyson finally, officially and at long last is yesterday's news, his reflexes shot and his career dead. Once and for all, he can go play with his pigeons and converse with his personalities.
So what's he going to do for a living now that the shill is gone? Beats me, but I'm thinking rocket scientist is out. I have no doubt he could sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame at Wrigley Field better than Jeff Gordon, but that's a one-night stand.
I know. Maybe he can be a stagehand on The Jerry Springer Show. As washed up as he is, I'm thinking he can still handle a crazed mistress swinging a purse at her lover's old lady. And if she started to get the better of him, he could head butt her or try to break her arm, as he did to McBride before wimping out of Saturday's bout.
The question for us real sports fans, the ones who didn't stand in our doublewides and toast our Boone's Farm to Tyson as he bit off Evander Holyfield's earlobe, is how good a boxer he was in the first place. It's not like he ever beat anybody even when he could beat somebody. Sure, he captured the buzz and the belts back in the day, but who was around to do anything about it?
Larry Holmes, you say? He was on the backside of 30, well past his prime, when he encountered Tyson. Michael Spinks? He was an overblown light-heavyweight lured into the ring with Tyson by the smell of cold, hard cash. Trevor Berbick? Please. He was a poor man's Kevin McBride.
Fact is, Tyson is the phoniest fighter that ever was. His management team was careful to dodge George Foreman and Riddick Bowe. By the time he got around to fighting Holyfield, his opponent was a 20-1 underdog. And still, Tyson couldn't handle him. Then came the rematch, when Tyson made sushi out of Holyfield's ear.
So what's to become of him now that even he admits he has fooled his last couch potato? Maybe he'll become a sparring partner for a legitimate heavyweight. Talk about a natural. If there's anything Tyson is good at, it's getting hit.
Boxing's Biggest Fraud Finally Gives Up
By JIM ARMSTRONG
And so it ends, the latest and God willing last attempt by Mike Tyson to reinvent himself.
Forget the bizarre facial tattoo. The next time Tyson wants to attract a crowd, he'll have to get a sex change, gain 400 pounds and join the circus.
After Saturday night, Tyson couldn't get a gig fighting a one-armed CPA, not that he wouldn't want to if the price were right. Not even the lunatic fringe, affectionately known as Tyson's Trailer Trash, would shell out their hard-earned welfare checks to see him.
He was matched, for one rea$on and one rea$on only, against some nobody named Kevin McBride in a place far, far away from the bright lights of Las Vegas. Trouble is, even a nobody is somebody when standing in the same ring as the Tyson of today. Which is to say, a perfect stranger to the Tyson of yesterday.
Sure enough, after talking the talk in the days preceding the bout, Tyson couldn't walk the walk. He couldn't so much as get to his feet to answer the bell for Round 7. In the end, he was all lisp, no action. He ate his words, but at least he didn't eat anyone's children.
The $44.95 pay-per-view suckers were crying foul, but, for the life of me, I can't figure out why. It wasn't like he was any more pathetic than usual. The last time Tyson was worth watching, gas was a buck a gallon and Bill Clinton was imagining how many chicks would dig him if he became president.
Tyson had long since become more carny act than sweet scientist. His recent fights were must-see TV, provided work was a four-letter word and you had a velvet portrait of poker-playing bulldogs hanging prominently in your living room, right next to the gun rack.
He was more spectacle than spectacular, more sideshow than main attraction. Those who remained loyal to his cause stuck around more out of morbid curiosity than sheer fascination. They watched not so much to see what he could do, but to see if there was anything he wouldn't do.
And now even they're gone. Not that they have a choice. Even if they still considered a Tyson pay-per-view a good excuse to drink Old Milwaukee, he won't be around to embarrass himself more than he already has. There isn't a bowling-alley parking lot in America that would have him
What's he supposed to call himself now that he has lost to the immortal Kevin McBride, barely the heavyweight champion of his own extended family? Iron Mike certainly is out. How about the Has-Been From the Federal Pen?
And while we're on the subject, how would you promote Tyson's next bout? What would you call it? The Brawl in the Bingo Hall? As if anyone not married to his cousin would watch that.
No, it's over, all right. Tyson finally, officially and at long last is yesterday's news, his reflexes shot and his career dead. Once and for all, he can go play with his pigeons and converse with his personalities.
So what's he going to do for a living now that the shill is gone? Beats me, but I'm thinking rocket scientist is out. I have no doubt he could sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame at Wrigley Field better than Jeff Gordon, but that's a one-night stand.
I know. Maybe he can be a stagehand on The Jerry Springer Show. As washed up as he is, I'm thinking he can still handle a crazed mistress swinging a purse at her lover's old lady. And if she started to get the better of him, he could head butt her or try to break her arm, as he did to McBride before wimping out of Saturday's bout.
The question for us real sports fans, the ones who didn't stand in our doublewides and toast our Boone's Farm to Tyson as he bit off Evander Holyfield's earlobe, is how good a boxer he was in the first place. It's not like he ever beat anybody even when he could beat somebody. Sure, he captured the buzz and the belts back in the day, but who was around to do anything about it?
Larry Holmes, you say? He was on the backside of 30, well past his prime, when he encountered Tyson. Michael Spinks? He was an overblown light-heavyweight lured into the ring with Tyson by the smell of cold, hard cash. Trevor Berbick? Please. He was a poor man's Kevin McBride.
Fact is, Tyson is the phoniest fighter that ever was. His management team was careful to dodge George Foreman and Riddick Bowe. By the time he got around to fighting Holyfield, his opponent was a 20-1 underdog. And still, Tyson couldn't handle him. Then came the rematch, when Tyson made sushi out of Holyfield's ear.
So what's to become of him now that even he admits he has fooled his last couch potato? Maybe he'll become a sparring partner for a legitimate heavyweight. Talk about a natural. If there's anything Tyson is good at, it's getting hit.
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