I came across this earlier today in Page Six of the NY Post:
“That guy scares me,” Iron Mike told Page Six at the premiere of James Toback‘s documentary, “Tyson,” at Loews near Union Square. “I wouldn’t want to be in a room with that guy.”
Yeah, me either. I don’t know where you were when Iron Mike was kicking ass, but the self-proclaimed “baddest man on the planet” was, for that brief span of time, the baddest man on the planet — maybe with the exception of a handful of Russian mobsters. He had guys whupped on their way into the ring — I distinctly remember poor, shaken Marvis Frazier and Michael Spinks, looking like they’re ready to surrender well before getting KO’d in the first round. But what I also remember are my own sweaty palms and racing pulse — there was nothing like the raw animal fear you felt just watching it at home — or at a bar — as Tyson , sans robe, menace rolling off him like black fog, made his way into the ring. Then, boom, one, two, three rounds later, it’s all over…and the relief you feel, as if you’ve just pulled yourself out of a bad dream. Where can you go to get that these days, assuming you don’t have the benefit of an amply stocked medicine cabinet?