"Yes, Mr. Kus, I will," Tyson replied, his expression resolute.
"Mike, I'm not a creator. My role is to uncover the potential within you and stoke that spark into an inferno. You have the power to dominate; now unleash it."
Tyson absorbed these words, falling into deep contemplation.
For the past few years, he had embraced a calm demeanor, keeping his emotions in check—even in his last two matches, he had displayed little in the way of emotional fluctuations. This restraint had been his way of maintaining focus.
He recalled Coase's teachings on harnessing anger and fear to amplify power, rather than simply suppressing those feelings. If left unacknowledged, potential could wither away.
It was clear that Kus understood this, hence the evening's guidance.
However, mastering emotions was infinitely more challenging than trying to silence them.
"I see what you mean, Mr. Kus. I will unleash the beast within me, yet channel it with control, just as a trainer does."
Upon hearing Tyson's commitment, Kus brightened and began to inquire about the day's match.
Tyson recounted the events of the game.
Once he finished, Kus's enthusiasm poured forth, showering him with praise like a rushing river.
Kus's contradictions were endearing; his anger could be bewildering, but it dissipated just as quickly. Soon after, he would turn to admiration and acknowledgment.
By the time Tyson returned to his room, it was already 11:30 PM.
---
At 5:00 AM, Tyson woke as usual.
His body had adopted a reliable rhythm; his eyes opened at this time every morning, and he energetically prepared to run.
True to routine, he ran 5 kilometers along the Hudson River before stopping to do some air punches and fitness exercises.
After returning home, he found Kus already bustling about, preparing for the day.
Carmel, having turned in early the previous evening, was present and greeted Tyson.
"Oh, Mike, I fell asleep so early last night—I didn't realize you were back!"
Carmel busied herself with housework while chatting with Tyson.
Tyson joined her, helping to tidy up.
After breakfast, he continued lending a hand with the chores—not from a fondness for cleaning, but inspired by Kus's words: "Those who aspire to greatness must embrace what they dislike with the enthusiasm of doing what they love."
Once he finished assisting Carmel, Tyson headed to the training hall.
---
In the afternoon, the pair drove directly to Nelson.
Nielsen greeted them with enthusiasm and guided them to his office for a brief respite.
As the time approached, Nielsen led them to a stadium.
Nestled at the end of a street, it wasn't immediately noticeable.
At the entrance stood two imposing guards in suits.
Inside, the atmosphere buzzed with energy, resembling a lively boxing match.
In the center of the venue was a boxing ring surrounded by seating, resembling a small yet spirited arena.
The stands were filled with a crowd of two to three hundred people, all eyes on the ongoing match.
"This is Terrence Stadium," Nielsen explained. "There will be four matches starting at 5 PM, and it looks like we arrived just in time for the first fight."
As he guided them through the audience towards the backstage area, he continued his description.
Backstage, numerous open rooms housed boxers resting or prepping for their turns.
"Teddy, can you take a break in the lounge? I'll bring Tyson in to meet some folks," Nielsen said, gesturing to an empty room.
"Sure thing," Teddy replied, stepping inside.
The backstage area culminated in a spacious office.
Nielsen entered, where three well-dressed individuals sat conversing.
"Hey, Nielsen! Long time no see!" a middle-aged man with a beard said, his tone friendly.
This was Mickey, a businessman working in loans.
Nielsen shrugged, shaking his old friend's hand. "We dined together about a month back, remember? Or have you forgotten already, Mickey?"
Mickey chuckled, greeting the other two as Nielsen turned to introduce Tyson.
"This is the new fighter I found at my gym—Mike Tyson."
A man in the middle, looking to be around 50 and sporting glasses, scrutinized Tyson from head to toe.
This individual was the owner of the stadium, and the venue was named after him.
"Is this the fighter you mentioned over the phone?" Terence asked.
"Yes," Nielsen confirmed.
"Are you really considering matching him against heavyweight fighters?" Terence continued.
"Absolutely, Mr. Terence; I thought I made that clear in our conversation."
Terence raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't appear to be an experienced boxer."
Nielsen merely smiled, refraining from further explanation.
The third man, previously silent, stood up and circled Tyson, his gaze appraising as if inspecting merchandise.
This scrutiny unnerved Tyson.
Confronting the gaze, he said firmly, "Your scrutiny is making me uncomfortable, sir."
With a strange smile, the man—Leo, a boxing gym owner—dismissed Tyson's sentiment.
As a seasoned trainer, Leo could see that Tyson seemed unusually young and inexperienced. If he only knew Tyson was merely 16, his disdain would deepen.
Physically, Tyson might not meet conventional expectations for a fighter, and Leo's familiarity with Nielsen suggested he questioned Tyson's capabilities.
Leo, owner of a prominent boxing gym with seasoned fighters, was well aware of Nielsen's smaller operation and recent string of losses.
Nielsen could sense the tension in the air. "Mike, let's step outside for a moment."
With the office door closed, Nielsen's face twisted with anger. "That guy's a parasite; he shouldn't even be here."
"Do you want me to fight?" Tyson asked directly. "I'm here to prove myself and won't back down."
"Alright," Nielsen said, a fierce glint in his eyes. "Wait for me in the lounge; I'll be right back."
Tyson nodded, moving toward Teddy's room.
Nielsen inhaled deeply, finding his composure again before reopening the door to face the gathered men.
Leo, with a smirk, inquired, "So, did you reach an agreement? I wouldn't mind if you backed out of this—I'm not losing any sleep over it."
Nielsen remained steady, looking straight at him. "Why should we forfeit? Just because of your baseless doubts?"
Leo laughed. "Nielsen, this isn't a wise move. Your fighter doesn't look the part; he'll only lead you to another financial disaster."
Nielsen silenced him with a piercing gaze. "Let me be clear, Leo. I'm willing to wager $100,000 on this fight."
The room fell silent, and all eyes turned towards Nielsen in disbelief.
A $100,000 bet on a fight was no small matter.
Previously, their stakes rarely exceeded $10,000; now, Nielsen had raised the bar tenfold.
The audacity of this wager reflected a level of commitment that left a mark in the atmosphere, and it was more than just a financial risk—it was a declaration of faith.