Becoming Holyfield (20 page)

The doc said I could. Lane came over to my corner and told us that he was going to deduct two points from Mike and let us keep fighting. Then he went over to Mike's corner and told him the same thing. Mike started to protest, and Lane—well, you have to understand Lane's knack for quickly getting to the heart of the matter. He spat out a profanity, cutting Mike off instantly. “Two points deducted, and if you do it again, you're disqualified!”

Lane called us to the middle, and he looked angry. After he got us going again, we tried to get back into our rhythms. It seemed to be working, but thirteen seconds into the restart we fell headlong into the Twilight Zone. Mike grabbed hold of me, pulled me in close and clamped his teeth down on my other ear.

The pain was blinding, but I was so shocked that he would do that again that it took about two seconds for it to sink in. I jumped away but this time I wasn't going to hop around and take a chance on having the fight stopped. I was going to knock Tyson out right now. As I launched myself directly at him, he was standing there beckoning to me with both hands and yelling “Come on!” I realized at that moment that he was out of control, and I grabbed hold of myself, hard. This was no time to get angry and emotional. That's exactly what he wanted me to do, forget my technique and my training and just stand there swapping punches with him. That would take me completely out of my game. There was only one course of action open to me, and that was to resist the temptation to land the big haymaker and do what I do best: box, not brawl.

It took me less than two seconds to get completely refocused. I was fighting to keep my world title and none of Mike's antics were going to stop me from doing it. Let everybody else sort it out later—I had a fight to worry about. I got back into position and started throwing jabs. Mike tried to draw me inside but I wasn't buying it. My ear hurt like blazes but I avoided the temptation to swipe at it. There were only a few seconds left in the round anyway and soon we were back in our corners.

Lane thought he'd seen Mike bite me again but wasn't sure. “He bit him again!” the same guy from before started screeching, even as my corner men worked on both my bleeding ears. Lane came over to see for himself, and that was it. He went over to Mike's corner and informed them that he was stopping the fight and disqualifying Tyson.

The ring began filling with people: my guys, Mike's guys, fight officials, wives, uncles, who knew what all, plus a truckload of security people. I didn't think anything of it but couldn't see much from my sitting position. Then I realized that half the people in the ring were fighting each other, and when I stood up, I saw the reason why.

Mike had come completely unglued. He was clawing and fighting his way across the ring to get at me, throwing wild punches at anything in front of him. His own people were trying to hold him back, but he still managed to deck a security guard. Then fights began breaking out in the seats just outside the ring, and more security guards started swarming in that direction. When the irate audience started throwing junk into the ring to protest what had happened, the security people decided to clear it out as fast as possible, starting with me, because Mike was still flailing around and nobody knew when he was going to stop. Eventually, a whole platoon of security guards backed him into his corner and kept him surrounded.

Down in my locker room there were several dozen people in various states of panic, fear and outrage. The first thing I did was wave them all to silence and lead a quiet prayer, in which I forgave Mike. I figured that if I could find it in my heart to do that it might have a calming effect on the others, and it did. Then someone came in and held up a plastic bag. “Got a piece of his ear in it,” he said as he handed it to Tim Hallmark. Seems that Mike had spat it out onto the canvas. Tim buried the bag in some ice and then I was hustled upstairs to a waiting ambulance.

The security people were clearing the stadium, and a surging mob now surrounded the hotel. There were numerous reports of shots being fired but I didn't hear any while waiting for the ambulance to pull up and take me to the hospital to get my ears looked after.

“How're you doing, Holy?” Tim asked me before they closed the doors.

I smiled at him. “Still the champ, ain't I?”

And that, my friends, was the weird part.

T
here was a whole lot more going on during the time of the Tyson fights than just the Tyson fights. The highest highs of my life were taking place at the same time as the lowest lows.

It actually started when I fought Michael Moorer on April 22, 1994. Michael was a good fighter who'd exasperated several trainers into leaving his camp. It takes a tremendous amount of motivation to do the work necessary to be a champion boxer, and if you have doubts about how much you want it, you can't possibly push yourself hard enough to do what's necessary. That's why champions seem so driven, in any sport. It's rare to see an athlete with so much talent that he doesn't have to work. You might think that Magic Johnson strolled onto a basketball court one day and took over the whole sport using his natural gifts, but that's almost an insult. He worked his tail off for years to get into the NBA, and when he got there, he worked even harder to become a champion, because he wanted it so bad. Nobody had to push him.

Based on what other people have told me, Michael didn't have that kind of motivation. Which was really too bad, because he had a lot of potential, at least on the physical side. He was very big, very strong, very fast and he could take a punch. Those are the things that got a lot of trainers interested in him early in his career. When he was able to get himself to a place where he could prepare properly, he was a terror in the ring. It was only later, when they had to spend a lot of time cajoling and pushing him and sweet-talking him into working out, that they got fed up with the process and left. There were plenty of fighters out there who were aching to realize their potential, and Michael just didn't seem worth the trouble to them.

Then Teddy Atlas entered the picture. Teddy was the guy I told you about who'd been Mike Tyson's trainer until he'd gotten crosswise of Cus D'Amato. He'd been on the verge of training a world champion with Tyson, and it nagged at him to have missed that opportunity, so he was ripe for another one.

Teddy had a reputation as what fight trainers call a “psychology guy.” He was great at all the standard training stuff, but he was also terrific at sniffing out an individual fighter's mental side. What motivated him, what inspired him, what was missing in his psychic arsenal and what was needed to round him out. If a fighter needed some warm consolation now and then, Teddy knew just what to say to him. If he needed motivational pep talks or just required some private space, Teddy sensed that, too, and made sure it was provided.

I'll give you an example of how Teddy was able to climb inside a fighter's head. Remember when I told you that Mike Tyson had insisted on a change of referee for our rematch? The day before the fight several sportswriters called Teddy in New York to tell him about it and ask him what he thought. It only took Teddy a few seconds to absorb the news and interpret it. “Tyson's setting up an alibi,” he told the reporters. “An excuse for losing. And he's making sure everybody knows about it in advance.” To Teddy, it meant that Mike was taking a loser mentality into the bout, and it led him to make an amazing prediction, one he repeated the next night at a fight party at sportswriter Jack Newfield's. “If Tyson thinks he's losing,” Teddy told the partygoers, “he's gonna foul himself out on purpose.” When asked how, he said either by head-butting, hitting low or biting, which are the most common fouls. So “The Bite” might have stunned the world, but it didn't surprise Teddy one bit.

What Michael Moorer needed was someone who could smack him upside the head fourteen times a day yet still be there to soothe his fragile ego and constantly reinforce his self-worth. That's a pretty tall order, and it's what drove his previous trainers away, but Teddy thought he was up to the task. In addition to his uncanny insight into a fighter's mind, he wasn't afraid of Michael, and that helped a lot when he had to get tough, or even threatening.

I meant that last part literally. People who watched the HBO broadcast of our fight were shocked at how Teddy was treating Michael, and fight fans don't shock easily. He screamed at him and cursed at him. After the third round when he thought Michael wasn't being aggressive enough, he got right in his face and yelled, “Now you start doing what we trained to do! Otherwise, don't come back to this corner!” Later when the bell ended the eighth round, Michael came back to his corner only to find Teddy blocking his way. “You want me to fight?” Teddy said, and sat down on the stool while Michael just stood there. “You want me to trade places with you? Do you?” It went on like that the whole fight, Teddy hurling profanities and generally treating Michael like an overgrown fourth-grader. And you know what? That's exactly what Michael needed to hear. Whatever you might think of Teddy's tactics, he was reading his fighter like a book, and it worked. Teddy had an ocean of desire to win this fight, and he poured every last drop of it into Michael. Whether that made Michael want it, too, or just made him too scared to face Teddy at the end of every round, I can't say. I only saw all of this on the tapes later, because I was having problems of my own during the fight. All I know is that Michael fought the bout of his life that night, and was better than he'd ever been before. By the time it was over, he had taken away the two world championship belts I'd won in my rematch against Riddick Bowe. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I knew going into this fight that it was going to be a lot tougher than most people thought it would. I never made the mistake of taking any of my opponents for granted, but there were some I trained harder for than others. This wasn't going to be some easy-payday title defense. I was very aware of Michael Moorer's potential. I'd seen him fight and knew that he had all the physical gifts. Put that together with a savvy trainer like Teddy Atlas and a world championship on the line and it made for a potent combination.

About two weeks before the fight I hurt my shoulder in training. It wasn't a complete surprise. I knew I'd done something to it during my rematch with Riddick Bowe, but I didn't know what. In the weeks after the fight the shoulder nagged at me a bit, but I tried not to pay attention to it. Then in training it started getting worse.

I didn't want to go get it diagnosed because it might've resulted in the fight getting canceled. I tried to work around it but that only made it worse, so I laid off a little to see if time would help. It did, kind of, at least to the point where I thought I could deal with it. My camp was concerned, but over time they'd learned that I didn't like to be second-guessed once my mind was made up. I appreciated criticism and wanted people to sound off on their opinions, but once I made the decision, it was like a pro golfer picking a different club than the one his caddie suggested. Once he's made his decision, all the caddie can do by continuing to suggest something else is mess him up.

The first round was pretty tame, Michael and I kind of feeling each other out and not trying to do too much. I got the impression that he wasn't fighting instinctively and was a little uncomfortable, and then it occurred to me that he was probably following instructions from Teddy. That was good, because if I could switch gears before Michael had a chance to get back to his corner for new marching orders, it was possible he wouldn't be able to adjust in time on his own. Then, after he was in his corner, I'd switch gears again and confuse him even more.

Teddy knew I liked to stay on the outside, dancing and throwing jabs, so at the end of the second round I marched right into Michael and hurled a giant right hand at the side of his head. He wasn't able to get out of the way or block the punch, and I followed it up with a hard left and got ready for that sweet slap of leather and some Leaning Tower of Michael. Before the blow even landed I was already visualizing how I'd follow up. My right foot was forward now so I'd take a step with my left, hit him with a right hook, two quick jabs and another left. If I put my whole weight into it, I might even knock him out.

Boxers coat the sides of their head and their faces with Vaseline before a fight. That makes the glove slip a little when you get hit so that you have less chance of an impact cut opening up. But when a shot comes at a perfect right angle, like mine was coming at Michael, there's no slippage. That's a satisfy feeling, at least for the guy who threw the punch, and what would have made this one even more satisfying was that it put Michael down on the canvas.

I say “would have” because even though I knocked him down, I didn't get to savor the moment. Just as my left hand connected, I felt like someone had hit me in the shoulder with a machete. Pain shot up and down my arm, and it was like nothing else I'd ever felt in the ring, not even getting my ear bitten by Mike Tyson later. That would be just as acute, but it calmed down to a manageable level after a while. This didn't. Normally, adrenaline protects you from the full pain of getting hurt, and I don't usually show by my expression that I've been hurt, but I couldn't help it, it was so excruciating. I grimaced and hitched up my shoulder as I backed up to the neutral corner.

Tim Hallmark knew instantly that something bad had happened. He jumped forward, his mouth open and his eyes wide, and he stayed like that at the side of the ring for the rest of the round. I had a few seconds to myself while Michael took the eight count from ref Mills Lane, and then it was a matter of trying to survive. I didn't know what exactly was wrong, so I decided to test the shoulder out, despite how much it hurt. But when I tried to throw a punch, it looked like I was swatting a fly. It just plain didn't work. I could hold my hand up and move my arm a little, but pulling the trigger was out of the question. I did my best to stay out of Michael's way without my injury becoming obvious and managed to get through the last few seconds of the round.

Before the bell even finished sounding Tim was through the ropes and shouting at me. I couldn't hear what he was saying, so I leaned into him and whispered, “My arm's hurt!”

“I know!” he whispered back. “I think you separated your shoulder!”

As far as my trainer Don Turner was concerned, I might as well have broken my arm. “We got to stop the fight!” he said after I'd sat down.

I shook my head hard. “Don't do that!”

“You only got but one arm!” he insisted.

“Then I'll fight him with one arm!”

While that was going on Tim was massaging my shoulder. It hurt like all get out but it was hurting before anyway, and maybe rubbing it might do some good. It was better than doing nothing.

I had about forty seconds left to figure out how to deal with a double dilemma. On the one hand, I had to create a way to keep fighting with half my weapons gone. I couldn't hit Michael with my bad wing, and blocking punches wasn't going to be easy, either. I had no idea what would happen if he caught me a good one in the shoulder or the upper arm.

The second problem was trickier. I had to make sure no one found out how badly I'd been hurt. If the ref saw it, or if one of the judges or doctors or commissioners did and pointed it out to the ref between rounds, he'd stop the fight, and I didn't want that to happen. I still thought I could beat Michael, even with one hand, and my own thing is, I didn't want anyone else but me deciding that the fight should end. And it wasn't only the officials I had to worry about, there was my own corner, too. Those guys weren't flunkies, they were seasoned professionals, and not only that, they were my buddies. If they felt in their hearts that my health was at risk, they'd throw in the towel in a New York second. Yeah, they'd figure I might get bent out of shape about it, but no way would that stop them. How did I know that? Because I knew they loved me, and that they cared about me more than they cared about me getting angry with them. I never in my life thought I'd wish that someone would love me a little less, even for a few minutes!

So there I was, fighting Michael Moorer, fighting the ref and fighting this awful, terrible pain. Then when I went back to my corner, I had to fight my own guys so I could continue. Meanwhile, I wasn't sure if Michael had noticed anything on his own, but I knew it had probably taken Teddy Atlas all of ten seconds to figure out that something wasn't right. I kept trying to make adjustments, to anticipate what Michael was going to do and defend against it from my right side. For the most part it was working, but it was taking its toll. Boxing is tiring enough as it is, but nothing wears you out quicker than fighting pain or protecting an injury. Every once in a while I had to force myself to throw a left, even though it was agonizing, because if Lane saw me using only one hand, he'd know something was wrong and would stop the fight for sure.

As if all of that wasn't bad enough, a cut opened on my left eyelid in the fifth round. I hadn't brought a cut man to this fight, which was something unheard of. Don called them the biggest scam in boxing, and said “Save the twenty-five grand. I can take care of anything myself.” But before this fight was over I was to develop a whole new appreciation for the art of stopping bleeding. Don did his best but Michael kept going after the cut and reopening it, and I had blood dripping into my eye the whole night.

I don't know how many rounds were being scored my way, but it was pretty clear a decision was going to be risky. If I wanted to win this fight, I had to knock Michael out. Normally you set up a knockout punch with a lot of lefts and rights, hoping to stun or at least disorient the opponent long enough for you to find a good opening, but I couldn't do that. And no matter what else I did, I couldn't seem to generate an opportunity to land the big one. Just trying not to get knocked out myself was a full-time job. It went on and on and on, and my shoulder kept getting worse and worse. I could hear Pernell Whitaker, the WBC welterweight champion and my longtime friend from the 1984 Olympic team, yelling over and over from ringside, “Move to the right! Throw the right hand!” Moorer was left-handed and so was Pernell, so he knew what he was talking about. The next day Dave Anderson of the
New York Times
wrote, “Maybe if Evander Holyfield had listened to Whitaker yelling at ringside, he wouldn't have been hit with Michael Moorer's right jab so often.” I
had
been listening. But after fighting ten rounds with only my right hand, I just couldn't throw it anymore.