"Mike, you were incredible out there!" Bill exclaimed, slapping the seat with palpable excitement.
Jimmy chimed in, "You've got that Dempsey energy, Mike! He was the first boxing champion to pull in a million dollars, and look at you—bringing flair back to the ring and elevating the sport. What a debut!"
Yet, Mike Tyson didn't share in their joy. He sat there, silent, his eyes fixed on the floor like he was caught in a moment that called for applause but instead, he could only feel a weight pressing against his chest.
When the praise continued to roll in, Tyson's expression remained unchanged. It wasn't until his trainer, Kus, broke his silence that Tyson finally registered the concern in the room.
"Mike," Kus began, his voice steady and authoritative like that of a seasoned mentor, "you need to raise your hands a little higher and sharpen your defense. You're in the heavyweight class—one misstep could mean disaster. Every boxer can unleash a punch that could turn the tide in an instant. Remember, this isn't a playground; it's a boxing ring. You need to stay focused and seize every opportunity to deliver that knockout blow and finish the fight."
Kus's words hit home. Tyson couldn't deny the truth in them. His defense was slipping, a flaw that likely stemmed from the grueling sparring sessions he'd been diving into day after day. Routine training was making him complacent, and even with lightning-fast punches and footwork, the brutal reality haunted him: one mistake could spell defeat.
"Yeah, I'll work on it," Tyson admitted begrudgingly, the weight of Kus's critique hanging in the air like a dense fog. He appreciated the praise when he won, the cheers that rang from his fans, but only Kus had the guts to really tell him what was wrong. Only he delineated the path that needed improvement.
"But that last punch you threw? Magnificent. I'm proud of you," Kus added, a rare glimmer of warmth in his steely gaze.
As dusk descended, Teddy guided the Cadillac back home. Jimmy gave Bill a quick nod before disappearing into the night with his car.
But Kus wasn't finished. He paused, turning back to Tyson. "Mike, you just scored your first professional victory. We ought to celebrate in style—maybe get you some gold teeth, like the old timers did. They loved commemorating a win that way."
Tyson shuddered at the thought, his instincts launching him backward. "You're nuts, Kus. Only criminals sport gold teeth. I'm not some relic from the past. I'm Mike Tyson, Iron Mike. No way I'm getting bling on my teeth—unless someone manages to knock them out first!"
Kus chuckled, unfazed. "No, really! It's all in good fun—a special way of marking your success."
"Not happening. You want to see me look like a clown?" Tyson felt his heart race, and soon he made a hasty retreat to his room, eager to escape from this stubborn trainer's outlandish suggestion.
Once inside, he switched gears, channeling his energy into a rigorous workout. Later, he filled the bathtub with steaming water, sprinkling in some bath salts that wafted an aroma of calm.
As he submerged himself, the fiery sensation on his skin cut through his thoughts, yet he found solace in it. Within moments, the initial sting faded, replaced with a feeling of relaxation that enveloped him like a comforting embrace. This ritual was his antidote to stress, a soothing balm he'd come to depend upon almost daily.
After washing off, he slipped into a restless sleep, though fatigue wrapped around him like a heavy blanket.
The next day came swiftly. Tyson plunged back into his training routine—sparring in the morning followed by a demanding fitness regimen that filled the afternoon hours.
At four p.m., Jimmy breezed into the training hall with an envelope in hand. "Mike, this is your appearance fee—five hundred bucks."
Originally, they'd negotiated a seven-hundred-dollar fee, but Jimmy and Bill had swiftly divided the spoils—taking a cut for themselves and for Kus—leaving Tyson fifty dollars short. But Tyson didn't think to argue; he knew the importance of sticking to the rules, developing good habits that would underpin his career.
"Hey Mike," Jimmy continued, "we're gearing up for a match in Albany soon. Just waiting on some final details."
He was taken aback by the rapid pace of events. They were executing this plan deftly and skillfully. All thanks to the way Jimmy had captured Tyson's fierce presence and fiery interactions, plastering it all over social media to catch the eyes of the sponsors.
"This is fresh, Mike. You're reframing boxing, shaking up traditional norms. The sponsors are excited," Jimmy noted, a spark of enthusiasm lighting his eyes.
"Have we found my opponent yet?" Tyson pressed, keen on moving forward.
"Not yet, but we need to choose wisely—someone to bolster your confidence, you know? What are your thoughts?"
Jimmy's tone suggested they intended to place Tyson against recognizable names, but ones without the clout to stand a chance against him—an approach designed to build Tyson's confidence.
Yet, for Tyson, this strategy seemed unnecessary. It felt patronizing. He was confident in his skills. "Jimmy," he replied, "I don't care who it is. I want to face the best, the ones with the real reputations. I need to challenge myself so I can rise to the challenge of the title belts as soon as possible."
Jimmy faltered, knowing it was a tall order, a risky gamble that could either propel Tyson into the limelight or leave him waiting for another shot. "We'll figure it out, Mike."
With that, Jimmy waved goodbye and sped off into the distance, leaving Tyson standing alone—an amalgam of anticipation and unease braided into his core.
As the day wore on, the training resumed. He leaned into the 'Willie' regimen—an arduous series of exercises he'd committed to for years. This program demanded unwavering dedication and precision. He'd traversed three recordings, each one an evolution of his craft.
The forth tape was where the real challenge lay, requiring him to master an intricate rhythm of odd-numbered left hooks and even-numbered rights, honing his ability to react and adapt almost instinctively.
He could feel his skills improving day by day—but this tape set a daunting pace, three to four readings per second, an intensity that tested his limits.
Tyson knew it demanded more than just speed; it required strategic thought mixed with split-second reactions. Feeling the sweat trail down his brow, he dug deeper. Every punch, every landing—he persisted, determined to perfect the art of boxing that he had not only loved but had become part of who he was.
In that sacred space between breath and movement, Tyson evolved, slowly becoming who he was destined to be.