Free Iron Mike

Tyson shouldn't be held back by shady boxing commissions

Ladeeez and gentlemen, in this corner of your mind, wearing the baggy black trunks with bad memories, hailing from desperate straits, weighing in at the end of the line, the former disastrous champeeen of da world, Iron ... Mike ... Tysonnnnn.

Yes, you -- you may have the lamentable Mr. Tyson over to your very own house to fight Lennox Lewis for the heavyweight title. Why not, say, as amusement for your child's birthday party? The promoters, which are, essentially, pay television outlets, that are somehow, inevitably, tied to Don King, desperately need a place -- any place -- to hold the fight, so they can televise it at exorbitant prices.

All you need is your state boxing commission to authorize the match. Ah, state boxing commissions. No other such grand, august, deliberative bodies have been assembled since the Lite Beer All-Stars profoundly argued tastes great/less filling ... or, perhaps, since the witches from Macbeth gathered about their cauldron. And so far, various state commissions have solemnly ruled that Mr. Tyson must not darken their arena doors -- most famously in Las Vegas, where, as I understand it, the boxing commissioners decided to ban Tyson by force of this argument: You say Nevada, I say Nevaada. Nevada, Navaada, tomato, tomaato -- let's call the whole thing off." If I am not mistaken, the last person not permitted to work in Las Vegas was Bugsy Siegel.

Presently, though, the boxing commission in the District of Columbia -- which is actually a Boxing and Wrestling Commission (wrestling having been annexed to the title in an effort to add some class to the enterprise) -- has agreed to host Tyson-Lewis on June 8th. Would that Congress be so wise and forgiving?

To be sure, our Mr. Tyson is not without his peccadillos. He is easily riled, he is not at all a gentleman in the company of ladies, he's crabby when delayed in vehicular traffic, and, when nettled, he tends to bite the body parts of other folk. So far as we know, though, he only gnaws on colleagues. If Mr. Lewis, who has already been in an ugly melee with Iron Mike, still wants to get into the ring with him, then this is simply a matter between consenting adults, plying their legal -- however nasty -- pugilistic trade.

Look, there is hardly an American sports team that does not harbor scoundrels who have committed various and sundry crimes against society and good taste. Were we to have Comstockian baseball, football, basketball and hockey commissions judging the morality of their athletes as finely as boxing commissions, there would hardly be a game left which Las Vegas could set a betting line on.

Free Iron Mike!

Yes, may Washington accept him and Lennox Lewis into its capital bosom, so that all voyeurs may enjoy late-night bloodletting on June 8th.

Of course, for the residents of the District and surrounding suburbs: Drive carefully, and lock up your wives and daughters.

Sports Illustrated senior contributing writer Frank Deford is a regular contributor to CNNSI.com and appears each Wednesday on National Public Radio's Morning Edition. His new novel, The Other Adonis (Sourcebooks Landmark), is available now at bookstores everywhere.

The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer.

 

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