After rising with the sun, Tyson inhaled the aroma of breakfast wafting through the small apartment, courtesy of Kus, his devoted friend and confidant. The morning was already buzzing with lively chatter, laughter, and a hint of mischief in the air. They hadn't wasted time — four of them were huddled around the dining table, ready to dive into their day.
"We really ought to do something about that hair," Jimi joked, flicking crumbs from his plate. "I mean, come on. He looks like he just lost a battle with a lawnmower."
Tyson shot him a helpless look. There was truth in Jimi's jest. As much as Tyson loved the ring, he couldn't ignore the mounting pressure to present himself as a polished contender, not just in skill but in style. Hair was the most telling marker of a man's demeanor, and right now, his was in dire need of a revival.
Bill leaned in, a spark of inspiration lighting up his eyes. "How about we leave a little design in it? A tiger maybe? Or a lion? You know, something fierce!"
Tyson raised an eyebrow, a mix of amusement and disbelief washing over him. Bill was a character, and among their circle, he was also the wild card when it came to thinking outside the box. Fashion wasn't exactly his strongest suit, but he had enough goofy ideas to make a circus worthwhile. "Right, because nothing screams 'fearsome boxer' like a lion's mane on my head."
"C'mon, man, Jack Dempsey would've rocked it," Tyson quipped, but he couldn't help but chuckle. "I'm thinking more along the lines of a classic bowl cut, anyway."
As the banter rolled on, Jimi and Bill dashed out to discuss potential advertisement deals with some sponsors, leaving Tyson and Kus to make their way to the Athlete Management Committee to apply for Tyson's professional boxing license.
Tyson leaped behind the wheel of his gleaming Cadillac, feeling the luxurious leather envelop him as he peeled away, feeling a swell of pride mixed with anxiety. Applying for a boxing license wasn't rocket science, but the stakes felt immensely high. They arrived at the office and, aided by Kus's experience, navigated the necessary paperwork, submitted Tyson's impressive footage, and waited for the tests.
After a couple of hours and the completion of various evaluations, it was done. They were told to expect news within one to two weeks. Driving home, the weight of anticipation settled across Tyson's shoulders like a heavy blanket.
The next day, he buried himself in training, determined to become a better version of himself rather than getting caught up in the parade of unanswered questions. He knew he wasn't just fighting for a title anymore; he was battling for his identity.
Three days later, as he pounded the punching bag, focused and methodical, Jimi and Bill strutted into the training hall, faces lit with what Tyson sensed could be trouble.
"Mike, you're not going to believe this!" Jimmy thrust a stack of papers toward him. "We scored some advertisements and a sponsoring opportunity for a fight! You up for meeting the guy tomorrow?"
"What kind of sponsor?" Tyson asked, his brow knitting together out of instinct.
"An underwear brand," Jimmy replied, the words spilling from him like confetti.
Tyson felt as if the floor had dropped out from under him. "Wait a second. Are you kidding me? You've got me going toe-to-toe in a fight sponsored by some underwear company? Next thing, I'll be dodging jockstraps instead of punches. When I win, are they going to have scantily clad models in the ring calling me 'sexy Mike'?"
Bill coughed, half-laughing, half-wincing. "It's just a stepping stone, Mike. You're not exactly swimming with sharks yet. Right now, you can only attract certain sponsors, and this is it. Plus, we have a great opponent lined up — a real hothead, just your style."
Without skipping a beat, Kus chimed in, laying the practicality on thick. "Listen, Tyson, this isn't about endorsement. It's just a gig — fight hard, say some flashy things afterward, then cash out. Easy as pie."
Tyson sighed, feeling a mix of resigned acceptance and low-grade frustration. It had struck him before; regardless of having been a national champion, the professional world of boxing was a gritty underbelly full of challenges that felt alien and unyielding. The game chose the fighter, not the other way around.
"Fine, I'll do it," Tyson huffed. "But I don't want to hear a word from sponsors tomorrow. That's your circus to manage."
With that settled, Jimmy and Bill quickly trotted off, grinning as if they'd just landed a royal flush. Tyson shook his head, muttering under his breath about the absurdity of the whole affair.
Kus clapped him on the back as they exited. "It's the rookie struggle, Tyson. Every fresh face goes through it. Just hang tight; soon you'll have your moments to shine."
Tyson absorbed the words, a mixture of hope and grit weaving through him as they left the gym that evening, the day already crowning more than it had offered.
Later, while gazing at the sleek design of his Cadillac, he caught sight of the advertisement stuck to the rear window that made him chuckle. "Gooden is Dr. K, but Mike Tyson is Dr. KO," it proclaimed, highlighting everything he was trying to become. Below, his name adorned with his monstrous nickname, screaming ferocity.
"Isn't it a beauty?" Kus remarked, his finger pointing at the slogan.
Tyson laughed—a genuine laugh; they were selling the package, and while it felt absurd, deep down, he knew all that mattered was the journey toward the ring. Opportunities were gathering, and soon, he'd be swinging for the stars.
Only a few days later, after navigating a dizzying series of paperwork, Tyson finally held his boxing license in hand, its significance weighing heavy on his heart. They returned home, victors of the bureaucratic battlefield.
Just then, not long after settling in, Jimmy and Bill rolled back in. "Mike, the fight's officially set," Jimmy said with a flourish. "Next month in the Bronx, but you'll need to show up for press on the fourth."
Was this really the business? Press conferences? Tyson bit his lip but nodded, understanding it was all part of the game. There was always a performance angle, even for a boxer.
"Isn't this a bit exaggerated for an underwear brand?" he half-asked, half-mused, imagining the spectacle.
Bill chuckled. "Well, they want eyes drawn to you, creating a buzz. It's all part of the show."
The conversation flowed naturally as they discussed the fight and the buildup. The lighter moments between the seriousness of the situation helped to ease Tyson's nerves. With each passing day, he was embracing the chaos that was now part of his life.
"Anyone else think we might find ourselves standing in front of a massive line of underwear?" he joked, eliciting laughter.
"Damn, I'll make sure you get the spot right in front! Who knows? Maybe it'll add some flair to your punch."
Tyson grinned, knowing the road ahead was winding, unpredictable, and a bit ridiculous. But it was his road, one punch, one partnership, and one opportunity at a time. The fabric of fate was tangled, a tapestry in which he was starting to find his place; all he needed now was the strength to navigate it with fierce determination.