I really don’t know what to make of Mike Tyson’s boxing. He’s not the biggest fellow, but that doesn’t make him look any less intimidating. He doesn’t have the swagger or stunning theatrics of Mohammed Ali, and he doesn’t really look like the sort of man who could peddle a grill. He’s half Tiger tank, half Pit Bull. If you get within arm’s reach of him, he’ll beat you within an inch of your life, and if you try to run away he’ll chase you down and politely ask you not to do that. Just kidding, he’ll still beat you to a pulp.
He’s eighteen years old in those first fights. Eighteen. I didn’t look like that when I was eighteen. I was mostly sitting around on the beach with a mouth full of sand. I can see that in the first fights none of the other fighters thought that much of him. They came in swinging wild and they got put on their ass in the first 20 seconds. Half of them only take two hits before going down for good: One hit to knock some sense into them, and a second hit to knock it back out again. Well, as Iron Mike said, “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.”
I didn’t watch the whole video, so the last 20 minutes could just be Mike eating raw Tyson chicken from a bag while staring longingly at the ring-card girl until his court-ordered electric sex pants give him a jolt. I assume the rest of the matches are equally as spectacular as the beginning. And by spectacular I mean we get to watch Mike Tyson stand around for a bit while a team of doctors desperately try to revive whoever he was fighting.