BOXING: The Aristocrat And The Caveman

What matters in these things is the paycheck. And for once a participant has suggested that there only be one paycheck, even though there are two participants.

A daring gesture.

It was an inspired attempt by Lennox Lewis, the preeminent pugilist of the day, to raise the stakes in his expected showdown with master of mayhem Mike Tyson.

Having trundled the zany aspirations of Samoan freak David Tua, Lewis has announced he’s ready to meet Tyson, despite the latter’s stated desire to eat Lewis’ children, if only Lennox had fathered any. In that respect he’s no Evander Holyfield.

In fact, he is the antithesis of Holyfield. In his day, when Holyfield gave an interview, you only wondered whether Evander, first, had properly understood the question, and second, had any idea where he was. His answers were delivered in the lovable idiom of puppydogs and babies. Then he would blink demonstratively and gaze at the floor. Your heart would be instantly won by this punch-drunk paramour of insensibility.

Lewis is pompous. You get the feeling that he thinks he’s much prettier than he is. He pays particular attention to his wardrobe and dreadlocks, and although such minor vanities are nothing unusual, they are magnified in a someone of Lewis’ stature. There is the near permanent upward tilt of his chin. His supercilious gaze rolls over the smooth bridge of his patrician nose—he looks down at us in disgust, the tramped and trodden, the sycophants and the syphilitic.

And Lewis speaks with that imperious Limey accent, littering the airwaves with the clattering cliches of his trade. He might be willing to eat Tyson’s children, but only if they were properly marinated.

He is a pseudo-aristocrat. But he is also a talented boxer of immense size and reach, making it virtually impossible for contenders to penetrate his system of defense which is inspired, much like Ali’s, by frantic attempts to protect his face.

Tyson, on the other hand, is simply mad. He has of late attempted to convince the media that he is only kidding when he goes berserk, that it is all a meticulously calculated act designed to attract attention. After all, he says, he sells tickets largely because of his personality. The other heavyweights, he rightly points out, are banal. Tyson may have gone too far in suggesting he could sell out Madison Square Garden by masturbating in a ring. But the general idea is sound—personality sells tickets.

That’s what makes the Lewis-Tyson fight so intriguing. A preening Narcissus versus a wild, undisciplined Dionysus. Lewis’ suggestion that there be a single purse, winner take all, is a great incentivizer for the two fighters. It may even produce a better fight, supposing that Tyson agrees. And why wouldn’t he? After all, he recently claimed that his sole interest in sport was hurting people. Given the opportunity to maim Lewis, he should leap at the chance.

If the fight ever came off, I think Lewis would play his standard game, dancing at a distance, tapping Tyson’s crude pate with his long reach, doing the calculus of ringside aesthetics in his head. Iron Mike would plod forward, making troglodytic lurches at Lewis’ civilized mug. Lewis would prance past Tyson’s aimless haphazardry, dreadlocks dancing annoyingly in the air, and leave the ring with a boring, passionless unanimous decision. Tyson would spit incoherent slurs in his corner. The crowd would moan and boo. Charlie Steiner would deliver his soporific recap. Al Bernstein would look mildly pleased, as he always does.

Or, if we were really lucky, Tyson would bite Lewis’ delicate nose in the second round and start a riot, which would culminate in a very strange looking Jim Gray asking an unidentified Tyson manager, clad in pimp attire, what had happened. The unnamed pimp would decline to answer, only pointing out that, once bitten, the sissified Lewis "jumped around like a little bitch."

Now that would be pugilism at its finest.