"Great!"
Tyson leaped up in joy and hugged Kus tightly.
"Oh, Mike, don't drape your sweaty self on me!"
Kus pulled back, exasperated.
Camille entered the room, food in hand. "Dinner's ready."
"I'll help!" Tyson followed her into the kitchen.
---
"Mike, are you ready for the match?" Teddy asked while holding up a target.
Tyson paused, his fist hovering mid-air. "Yes, I expect to hear news soon."
"Kus has already given me the heads up—it's just the two of us going."
"Is Mr. Kus not coming?"
"He's too old to be running around," Teddy replied.
Tyson nodded. At 72, Kus was indeed past his prime.
"Will he allow me to participate in the amateur tournament in New York?" Tyson asked.
Amateur boxing bouts were routine in New York, with district champions advancing to state and national championships.
Teddy shook his head. "I don't think he'll let you take that risk just yet, given your lack of experience."
"Then what kind of fight will I be in?" Tyson questioned.
"It's likely to be a 'smoker.'"
"Smoker?" Tyson had never heard of that.
"A smoker is an unsanctioned match. No rules, no medical staff or ambulance on-site."
Tyson understood. "So, it's essentially black market boxing."
"Exactly. Any unsanctioned fight can fall under that category," Teddy elaborated. He shared that he had witnessed several fighters in actual combat.
After some more talk, it was back to training.
On Friday afternoon, Kus arrived at the training hall.
"Mike, you're heading to the Bronx with Teddy now," Kus began explaining the match.
"I know the owner there—Nixon Cuevas. He was a fighter in his day and has everything arranged."
He exchanged a few words with Tyson before turning to Teddy.
"Teddy, Mike will be fighting for his first time. Keep a close watch on him. Once the results are in, call me immediately, understood?"
"Understood, Mr. Kus."
With that, they waved goodbye to Kus and drove off into the streets.
This was Tyson's first encounter post-rebirth. While not overly nervous, a thrill ran through him.
After about 40 minutes, they arrived at their destination: a small gym in the Bronx.
Located on the second floor of a building, the window faced the subway line, the trains rushing by just a reach away.
As soon as they entered the gym, Tyson understood why it was labeled a smoker.
The place was filled with smoke. Spectators swirled in clouds, their faces obscured. This venue, known as the "smoke ghost," was a haven for mixed crowds.
Among the onlookers were gang members, dealers, and streetwise individuals. It was a chaotic blend; anyone could show up.
People placed bets on fighters and, should a boxer underperform, the crowd would vent their frustration on one another rather than the fighter directly—a harsh display of reality.
Teddy led Tyson to meet the gym owner, Nelson Cuevas.
Nelson was a fit man in his 40s, with a sturdy build that suggested he was committed to fitness.
"Mr. Nelson, this is Mike Tyson," Teddy introduced.
"Hello, Mr. Cuevas." Tyson extended his hand politely.
Nelson smiled as they shook. "Kus mentioned a young fighter coming to me, but I didn't expect someone this young."
"Mike just turned 16 this year," Teddy added.
Nelson eyed Tyson, noting his strong physique. "Have you fought in a real match before?" he asked.
Tyson shook his head. "No, this is my first."
This moment marked the unveiling of three years of honed skills.
Nelson's expression shifted. "Mike, let me be clear. We see injuries and even worse here every year. Do you comprehend the stakes?"
His message was blunt—it wasn't a casual match. Fighters were expected to be well-prepared, and negligence could lead to severe consequences.
"Yes, Mr. Cuevas, I understand. I'm ready," Tyson asserted, confidence radiating from him.
His rigorous training led to this moment. It wasn't just talk; it was time to prove himself.
"Alright, Tyson. If you're committed, then I'll support your choice."
Though Nelson consented to allow Tyson to fight, doubt lingered. Boxing required more than just physical strength; skill and experience were key.
At 16, Tyson was still in school, and his lack of experience would be a disadvantage against seasoned fighters.
'Kus's methods are outdated,' Nelson mused, recalling how long it had been since Kus had trained a successful fighter.
They discussed payment details. Each match would earn a base prize of $300, rising to $500 if Tyson won.
"Good luck, Tyson," Nelson said as he turned to leave.
Teddy observed quietly, then remarked, "Nelson doesn't seem too confident about you."
Tyson shrugged. "No one here will bet on a 16-year-old."
The gym was filled with fighters who had been through the grind—few would give a beginner much consideration.
The two settled in a spot to wait.
An hour passed before someone called for Tyson to step into the ring.
"Go, Mike," Teddy urged.
Tyson nodded, following the man to the boxing ring.
Once in the ring, he turned to face the crowd, a surge of energy igniting him.
The onlookers erupted in laughter and jeers.
"What's with this kid? Where did they find a punching bag?"
"Is this some kind of joke? A minor in the ring?"
"Who's crazy enough to bet on him?"
Their crude remarks poured in as Tyson faced an opponent.
Up against a tall, lean black man, approximately 21 years old, with a wild hairstyle, Tyson felt the height difference.
An observer casually tossed aside a cigarette, declaring loudly, "Look at that! That's a real fighter. I'm betting $1,000 on him."
Another followed suit, putting his money on the taller fighter.
Betting tables began to fill with eager spectators mostly backing the taller man. However, a few betters saw potential in Tyson.
It wasn't long before Teddy pushed through the crowd to place their bet.
"Can I place a wager?" Teddy inquired.
"Of course," the attendant replied.
Tyson quickly pulled out a $500 bill. "Bet it all on me."
The attendant collected the cash and issued a ticket.
"Bet placed: 'Canned Tomatoes to Win, $500 at 4.5 odds.'"
"Interesting title," Teddy mused.
The odds showcased just how low the crowd's faith was in Tyson—only one in six believed he had a chance.
Teddy gave Tyson an encouraging nod.
A moment later, a man wearing a referee's shirt climbed into the ring.
With little fanfare, the referee called both fighters forward and raised their hands, signaling the start.
"Explosive head, take him down!"
"My $2,000 is on you—not a moment of weakness!"
The crowd buzzed with energy.
Tyson steadied his breath, his focus sharpening. As soon as the referee's hand dropped, he advanced toward his opponent.
Knowing his reach and height could be leveraged against him, Tyson darted forward, testing his opponent with quick jabs.
His agility became apparent. He ducked, dodging jabs with ease.
Tyson closed the gap, unleashing a right hook followed by a left.
A powerful uppercut landed squarely on his opponent's liver.
Pain surged through the man, bending him over.
Before he could recover, Tyson connected with a left hook straight to his jaw.
The blow sent his opponent crashing to the canvas.
In an instant, the gym fell silent.
Baffled drug dealers and gang members stared, disbelief etched on their faces.
"What just happened?" a drunk shouted, hurling his bottle against the wall. "A canned tomato just crushed my $2,000 bet!"
Cheers erupted for those who had backed Tyson, while others lamented their losses, left in shock by the swift outcome.