Dear Mike... boxing writer Daniel Smith writes open letter to his hero Mike Tyson

Dear Mike,

I loved you Mike Tyson; more so than any other fighter or any other heavy there was. You went from a timid, delicate-lisped-voiced kid living in the poverty-dungeons of Brownsville, where drugs, violence, prostitution, murder and robbery was an everyday commonality, to becoming heavyweight champion of the world.

Your path aligned with Cus D'Amato’s – the man who adopted you, nurtured you and trained you in the noble art. You worked hard, Mike – studied boxing’s greats like an academic, later becoming a pugilistic-menace with a rapacious appetite for brutality and knockouts within the heavyweight jungle.

Back in the early days, you were the most feared, most vicious, most relentless, most formidable boxer on the scene and men avoided you like a philanderer avoids his missus on a Saturday night. Your dismantling of an opponent was annihilating, destructive and nasty. The sound of your punches shrouded in leather was unlike anything we’d heard before as they collided with another man’s flesh, bone and consciousness and the crowds who watched you fight were thunderously-exhilarated by how ruthlessly you conducted your affairs.

At twenty years of age, you fought and took-apart Trevor Berbick to win the WBC title become the youngest heavyweight champion in the history of the sport. You won and defended the WBC, WBA and IBF titles, had fame, glory and money (more than enough to live a hundred times over). But like your belts and your unbeaten record, you later lost your fortune too. But you could still fight. The blows you inflicted could still wreak havoc. And you still had your name: ‘Iron’ Mike Tyson – you still had that.

Everyone wanted a piece of you Mike – and pieces of you they certainly took. Everything except the two and a half years you served at Indiana Centre in Plainfield of course - no-one complained or sued or insisted on a slice of that pie, no sir. No managers or promoters demanded a cut of the punches, the knockdowns or beatings you suffered from Buster, Evander and Lennox. Nor did any of the parasites or bloodsuckers want to share the pain you felt after losing to guys who fought you at a time when your shadow was merely a shadow of the Tyson who, in the ring, created such beautiful, violent and bloody vignettes. No – you got to keep all that shit, Mike. All of that was definitely just yours.

In the later period of your career, I still loved you Mike, but I hated witnessing what occurred during those years you carried on fighting, losing bouts and pieces of your soul to boxers who wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in the world of a prime Tyson. However, I understood why you did. You had to. You needed to, for you were in love with boxing and maybe felt indebted to it for all the good it brought to your life. But unfortunately, everything comes to an end. And, like so many of your compatriots before - boxing retired you - not the other way around.

I still love you, Mike. Now you’re retired and in a solid place where no-one can physically, psychologically, emotionally or financially hurt you; I’m glad about that. New champions have been as inevitable as the sun rising and setting. Some have enticed, excited and enthralled us while others could not claim to anything more than interim occupants. However, one thing is certain: Like your achievements in boxing; the knockouts you scored, the opponents you beat, the titles you won, and the legacy you carved into the history books - no matter how old you get, how much weight you gain or lose over the years; and for an eternity after you’re gone – your name will forever be ‘Iron’ Mike Tyson.

Yours faithfully,

Daniel Smith

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