Executive Boxer

Will Ferrell & Manny Pacquiao Sing "Imagine"

Tyson finally finds peace ... as boxing ambassador

Oct. 19, 2010 Copyright © Las Vegas Review-Journal  RON KANTOWSKI: Tyson finally finds peace ... as boxing ambassador Before Thursday, the last time I spoke with Mike Tyson was 2006. He was coming off a defeat to an Irish guy named Kevin. This might be acceptable, I remember writing, if it happens in an alley behind a tavern after a long night of drinking. But in my world, The Baddest Man on the Planet, which is what they called Tyson in his no-socks, no-boxing-robe prime, does not lose fights to Irish guys named Kevin. It was after a "workout" at the then-Aladdin during a regrettable endeavor called "Mike Tyson Training Camp" when the fighter, who must have weighed 300 pounds, would waddle around the ring and throw left hooks at imaginary opponents or whoever suggested he lower himself to such a demeaning level. Training camp? For what? A fight on the carnival circuit against a dancing bear? It was embarrassing, and Tyson was almost too embarrassed to talk about it. This was Mountain Rivera wrestling Haystacks Calhoun in the final scene of "Requiem for a Heavyweight." Where once you felt fear in Tyson's presence, now you felt remorse. Or pity, which is worse. "I'm not a fighter no more," Tyson whispered. "I don't even have a fighter's license. I don't have an ideology of a fighter." That's the thing about Tyson. For all his brutishness, for all his lack of formal education, he'd drop a word like "ideology" on you, to remind you there was something more going on inside that thick skull even if it got all twisted up by his upbringing, his sport and the sycophants who tried to make a buck off his innate ability to drop a man with one punch. Or, in the case of Michael Spinks, just by looking at him. Tyson was 40 then, and I remember thinking he'd be lucky to make 41. He got into drugs, got arrested again, tragically lost a child whom a lot of people probably didn't know he had, because whereas Mike Tyson had a lot of kids by a lot of women, people didn't keep track of that stuff, the important stuff, like they did his knockouts and how many sutures were required to close the wound on Evander Holyfield's ear. But now, he's an ambassador to China. Apparently, the government isn't comfortable with the loan agreement, and they're sending Iron Mike to renegotiate. Actually, he's only a "boxing ambassador" to China, for a group that wants to start a professional circuit there. Tyson seemed as nonplused by the assignment as the reporters at the news conference. "When I think of ambassadors, I think of living off government money and jetsetting with girlfriends," he said before urging us to ask more questions about what a boxing ambassador does, because he was just as curious as we were. Just another attempt to make a buck off his name? Perhaps. But my impression of the Chinese is that they are honorable people, and this time Mike might even get paid. And I will say this: He's trying to be an ambassador, at least in the way Warren Beatty was trying to be Leo Farnsworth in "Heaven Can Wait," when he went into a boardroom and described business strategy the way his character, a football quarterback, would. "Don't you people have altercations with the Japanese people from time to time? You get a Chinese guy to fight the evil Japanese guy. Just like in a kung fu movie," Tyson explained, and darn if I didn't nod my head. Tyson was engaging and hilarious. He was stealing the scene, like in "The Hangover." He seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself and this new lease on life, if that's what you would call landing a small part in a wildly successful movie -- he's already signed on for "The Hangover II" -- and an imminent boxing ambassadorship to China. "I took myself too serious as a fighter," Tyson said. "At this stage in my life, I'm making a living. I'm laughing, hopefully without making a joke of myself." It sort of reminds you of George Foreman's transformation from angry, sullen man into lovable TV star and pitchman, with the difference being that whereas Big George reinvented himself, Iron Mike seems willing to let others do it for him. Maybe it was only for a day, but it was good to see him laughing. Maybe it was just the lighting, but the tattoo over his eye didn't seem nearly as bizarre as it had before. Las Vegas Review-Journal columnist Ron Kantowski can be reached at rkantowski@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0352.

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Vitali Klitschko vs Shannon Briggs Full Fight

Alan Rudkin

The all-time doyen of British boxing writers, George Whiting, bestowed upon the waif from Merseyside the Dickensian description of an 'importunate urchin' when he made the first of his agonisingly close challenges for the world bantamweight title.

It was an appropriate label for a slip of a lad who grew up in Liverpool with the Beatles and who sported the flop-fronted hair-cut to match.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/article-1317642/Manny-Pacquiao-puts-Floyd-Mayweather-corner.html#ixzz11TJXqPjv

His third world title bid took him to California. Yet again, he dared to travel abroad to take on a genuinely world-class champion. The great Ruben Olivares proved to be a challenge too far and Rudkin was floored three times before being stopped in the second round.

As it sank in that the supreme prize would now be beyond him, he was widely acknowledged as the finest British boxer never to win a world title.

It was a distinction he reinforced in his last two fights before eye injury forced his retirement at just 30, the victories over Agustin Senin and Johnny Clark by which he reclaimed his European, British and Commonwealth championships.

That reputation was carried with him as he made a post-ring living as a publican in Liverpool. Fight fans flocked to his bar from all over Britain and that popularity helped him cope with the sadness of divorce and the premature death of one of his two sons.

He was active, also, in support of boxing charities and travelled to London for a ring reunion at Shoreditch Town Hall just four days before he was found lying in a street near his home at 3am.

Boxing's urchin of the Beatles era is dead at only

Read all about it: Rudkin reads the Daily Mail as strongman and pub landlord Butty Sugrue lifts the boxer's chair in his teeth.

Kevin Mitchell vs Michael Katsidis

Audley Harrison vs Michael Sprott - knockout round 12!!

On This Cold Night

On this cold night in the third autumn month,

A solitary old man, tranquil and leisurely.

Laying down late after the lamp’s burnt out,

Pleasantly he sleeps with the sound of rain.

As ash lay resting in the stove still warm from the fire,

Its fragrance increases the warmth of quilt and covers.

At dawn, clear but cold, he stirs not –

Frosted leaves at their crimson fullness.

- Bai juyi (772-846) 

Ali Slips More?

The sadness of seeing Ali like this

Ali's old trainer, Angelo Dundee, reopened his famous gym, and Ali attended

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By Wright Thompson
ESPN.com
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MIAMI BEACH, Fla. -- I went to see Muhammad Ali on Thursday night, and hours later I'm still struggling with the profound sadness of the evening. I'm not sure if other people felt it as strongly as I did, but I walked out of the 5th Street Gym in a daze.

Arriving at the party, I wasn't sure what I'd find. I'd heard he has good days and bad days. I know he loves children and still likes to laugh. Maybe he'd be feeling warm and nostalgic.

The occasion was a joyous one. Ali's old trainer, Angelo Dundee, was reopening his famous gym and Ali agreed to attend the celebration. I wanted to see him for lots of reasons. Part of it was a "bucket list" sort of deal. But I also wanted a glimpse of the old Ali. Does that person still exist? If you're in the room with him, can you still feel the spark?

Hundreds of people packed into the gym. We were all pouring sweat. Entire shirts, drenched. There was no air conditioning. Every so often, folks stepped out into the muggy Miami night to cool off. While they waited, people talked among themselves about wanting to see Ali. They talked about him like he was the Eiffel Tower or the Grand Canyon. He's an attraction. Something to see, not to be moved by the experience, but to check it off. I saw my own motives reflected in the people around me, and it made me feel guilty.

A few old friends and lots of boxing people came, but much of the crowd was there to worship in the church of celebrity. The altar was set: velvet rope outside with a guest list and VIP badges, a deejay inside, party girls in tight dresses and trendy shoes. A man dressed as a gaucho served meat. The bartenders looked dressed for the midnight shift at the Tropicana. The only thing missing was bottle service. The whole event felt like a South Beach club opening.

I slid out the door to get a break. On the street, I saw Bert Sugar, the famous old boxing writer. He wore a seersucker jacket and smoked a thick cigar. He looked at the new gym, and at the Wachovia bank next door, where the original stood until they knocked it down.

I asked Sugar if it made him sad to see Ali.

"No," he says.

He said seeing Ali makes him think about him how fast the world moves. Everyone from that time is old or gone. Nothing reminds him more of his vanished youth than seeing Ali struggle. When they were kings, indeed.

"We were young with Ali," he says.

Once, Ali could knock out George Foreman. Now? Every morning, Dundee's right-hand man Mark Grismer told me, he has to make a decision. His Parkinson's medicine controls the shakes and allows him to be in public, but he can't talk when he takes it. So he has to choose: shake or talk?

A few years ago, Sugar tells me, he asked Ali if he regretted boxing. Ali told him that if he didn't box, he'd have been a sign painter in Louisville. The pleasure was worth the pain.

"To become the most famous man in the world?" Sugar says, trailing off.

Back inside the party, it was really, really hot. Every man in the place had a wringing wet shirt. The crowd grew restless, aggressive. They wanted their dose of celebrity and they wanted it 10 minutes ago.

"Put your cameras away," one organizer yelled. "This is no joke!"

"If you have a phone or a camera," another yelled, "it's gone."

Some movement in the corner got the crowd's attention, and everyone rushed to the back. Another velvet rope cordoned off a wide, round table. Partygoers pressed against the rope, bunched up close.

"Let me see Ali so I can leave," a man said.

"I'm about ready to throw in the towel," another said. "I've seen him before."

An organizer screamed at the crowd.

"Ali is not coming unless everybody takes two steps back," he yelled.

"Is he actually here?" a guy asked.

The event folks were red-faced.

"He's not coming if you don't back up!"

"We're about to lose our guest of the evening. We're not gonna have our guest. I'm serious!"

It became apparent that Ali was in the building, and he wasn't coming out until there was more room. This went on and on, with organizers standing on chairs, screaming into the crowd. People stared at the back door, as if to will him to walk through it. No one moved. A woman got on the microphone.

"I know it's hot. I know everybody's a little bit cranky. Mr. Ali doesn't want to feel claustrophobic."

"You knock over the ropes," an organizer yelled, "he's not gonna come out."

Then, after a half-hour of bouncers pushing back the crowd, Ali arrived. He shuffled to his seat. His sister-in-law, Marilyn, and his manager, Bernie, helped. He sat down and drank a glass of water while Marilyn held a napkin under his mouth. It felt like a zoo. This wasn't a cocktail party for Ali. It was a public viewing.

Alexander Tamargo/Getty ImagesAngelo Dundee, far left, participates in the ribbon cutting ceremony.

"I saw the top of his head!" a woman gushed.

The crowd chanted: "Ali! Ali! Ali!"

A woman aimed a camera and Marilyn and Bernie pointed frantically. A guy took a picture and a bouncer snatched his phone and then physically pushed him toward the door.

"You gotta go," he said.

The event folks wanted to make sure everyone else got the message.

"There's the first example," they crowed.

Ali sat at the table. Marilyn slipped a pair of sunglasses on his face. Someone put a photo book about him on the table and Ali opened it up. It was a circus around him, and, in the middle of the madness, he gently lifted each page and turned, his long fingers delicate on the glossy paper. Soon, after 20 minutes, he'd be whisked into a waiting SUV, where Marilyn would strap him into the front seat.

But in the moment, people crowded around him for official photos, dozens of people, moving in and out, grinning, putting their arms around him like he was a mascot. He didn't acknowledge them, or look at the camera. They smiled and posed. He looked down at the book. I wondered what he was thinking, if he felt like a freak show at the carnival. I wondered if he remembered the old building next door, remembered the Beatles coming to visit him there, remembered the promise of those days. He looked sick, and I thought about how much he must love Angelo to fly down here for this.

His lips were pursed. He looked absent and lost, like a wax statue, and I found myself 15 feet away from the most famous man in the world, overcome with sadness. I hoped this was just a bad day, hoped tomorrow would be different. The groups of people came and went for their picture, one woman giving a fist pump and hollering "Yeah!" after the shutter clicked.

Ali just sat there, sunglasses hiding his famous eyes. He flipped the pages, slowly looking at photographs of the man he used to b