Tyson and Lewis look to square the circus

As Memphis preens itself, can boxing win the fight of the century?

Heavyweight boxing moved beyond the realm of conventional fiction during the reign of Muhammad Ali. During George Foreman's Michelin-man comeback it went beyond satire. It now hovers somewhere between broad farce and gothic horror.

Tonight by the banks of the mighty Mississippi the fight of the century will take place. It is the umpteenth fight of the century of my lifetime, though in this case the description is probably accurate because the century is very young and the fight game is threadbare.

Informed opinion is now coalescing around the view that Lennox Lewis will strike a blow for big, quiet, soulful men everywhere and give Mike Tyson a beating. If that is right, this may remain the fight of the century because it would be hard to see where boxing's next payday on this scale might come from.

Pugs, slugs and mugs

The next leading contenders in the heavyweight division are the Klitschko brothers from Ukraine, Vladimir and Vitali, and until this paragraph began there probably was not one reader in a thousand who would have known whether they were circus acrobats or reserve full-backs for Derby County.

It is difficult enough to sell tickets even for this fight. The mayor of Memphis is preening himself at having secured the biggest sporting event in the city's history. The theory is that Tennessee, and the riverboat casinos just over the state line in Mississippi, can now clean up the big fight market previously dominated by Las Vegas and Atlantic City.

That could prove true if Tyson confines himself to those parts of his and his opponent's anatomy traditionally used in boxing and manages to become champion again. He is considered too disgusting even for the state of Nevada, which banned him after he bit Evander Holyfield, and Atlantic City is dominated by the promoter Don King, with whom he has fallen out.

Memphis has been delighted to welcome the customary parade of pugs, slugs and mugs for this fiesta but it may have jumped aboard a bandwagon that has stopped rolling. There was a desperate edge to the voices of the touts who were hanging around the weigh-in and an imploring tone to the ads offering tickets in the classified section of the paper.

Many Americans have turned away in disgust from the only contemporary boxer of whom they have heard but notoriety is better for business than amiable obscurity. Poor Lewis has apparently dropped a bundle on his own investment in tickets for the British market, omitting to notice the clash with another sporting event taking place, according to distant rumours, in the Far East. He might as well be the world marbles champion for all the recognition he gets in Britain. Though there are plenty of seats to be sold, the organisers have still been obliged to steer clear of their best promotional ploy - putting the men together in front of the cameras before the fight - for fear that Tyson might go berserk, as he did at their joint press conference in January.

Even Thursday's weigh-in had to be conducted with an unprecedented three-hour cordon sanitaire between the two men's appearances. The Tyson camp blamed Lewis for this and Lewis's trainer Emanuel Steward attributed it to "the powers that be", a vague concept in a sport that is now almost anarchic.

That was, however, assumed to mean HBO, the TV company, rather than IBO, WBC, IBF or any of the other sets of initials who proclaim their own champions. The one universal rule in boxing is the golden rule: he who has the gold makes the rules.

At midday Lewis appeared, stripped off briefly to his shorts, then changed back into his custard-and-powder-blue joggers and was gone. At 3pm Tyson arrived, and was gone even quicker, after a quick flash of the unfortunate leer that is his version of a grin and a flex of his biceps like Popeye.

The plan is that they will be kept apart right up to the first bell, without even a chivalrous touch of the gloves beforehand. Perhaps Colin Powell could take a break from keeping other warring factions apart and persuade them not to touch each other during the contest either.

It says something about the shambolic state of the sport that Tyson's co-trainer Ronnie Shields was able to say after the weigh-in that he thought his man was six to eight pounds lighter than the official figure, which fitted with the perceptions of several experienced observers. Even my bathroom scales are more accurate than that. Can boxing get nothing right?

Since Tyson's weight is in doubt and since the media have not been allowed to watch him in even half-serious training, it is difficult to assess his fitness for the contest, let alone his state of mind. That does, however, seem to have wandered in some unexpected directions.

On Wednesday he charmed a group of underprivileged children and subsequently, in one of his rare public statements this week, announced: "We are here to be subservient to the higher class. There is no way the higher class of people will let the subservient be involved with their class."

Consider that, and consider also his confrontation with Peter Tatchell, the British gay activist who, following well-publicised escapades with Robert Mugabe and the Archbishop of Canterbury George Carey, came here to take his chances with Tyson, whose public discourse - unlike the archbishop's - is usually spattered with disparaging references to "faggots".

Tatchell and a small group of comrades discovered his secret gym and picketed it with signs reading "Mike Tyson: Stop Your Homophobia". Tyson came over, hugged one of the protesters and said: "I oppose all discrimination against gay people." Tatchell, charmed and disarmed, picketed the weigh-in too. This time he had a new sign: "Thanks, Mike, For Saying Gay Is OK."

"No other major sports star has said what he's said. You've got to give the man some credit," said Tatchell. What with all Tyson's talk about reading Machiavelli, it begins to look as though he might be preparing to give up boxing and run for office, though the Che Guevara tattoo that has appeared under his left breast might be damaging even to a pro-gay rights class warrior.

Tyson's camp have not quite got the news yet. Stacey McKinley, his other trainer, was happily blathering after the weigh-in that Lewis was "a coward champion", adding: "We're going to knock him out and throw him in the Mississippi River."

Even Steward, Lewis's mentor, who enjoys discussing the prospects at length in sensible, technical terms, threw in a mysterious story about the two men meeting in the street - he would not say where or when - and Tyson backing away. He kept referring to the most feared figure in world sport as "the little man".

From Steward's perspective this is a fair description. According to the dodgy scales, Lewis, with his massive shoulders, is a good stone heavier than Tyson as well as nearly six inches taller. But there is something compelling about the little man. No one really has the faintest idea whether he will fight like a champ tonight, eat raw leg of Lewis for dinner or wander off arm in arm with Tatchell. Even if the referee has to stop the contest because of the uproar caused by a confirmed ringside sighting of Elvis, it would seem normal enough at a Tyson fight.

McKinley was in full flow about him: "If it wasn't for Mike Tyson, there wouldn't be no boxing. These other guys don't want to fight. This guy's going to give 100% of his body. People pay to get entertainment and Mike's going to fight entertainingly with everything he's got. He's the biggest fighting entertainer in the world."

The terrifying thought for boxing, no matter what the result, is that he is dangerously close to the truth.

Tale of the tape

Lewis Tyson

born: 2.9.65. 30.6.66.

age: 36 35

height: 6ft 5in 5ft 11in

weight: 17st 11lb 16st 10lb

reach: 84in 78in

neck: 18in 20in

chest: 44in/46in 42in/44in

waist: 34in 34in

biceps: 17in 17in

forearm: 15in 14in

fist: 12in 12in

thigh: 26in 26in

w/l/d: 39/2/1 49/3/2

KOs: 30 43

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