![]() ![]() Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone/Getty Imagesīut even by those standards, this moment was different. You would recognize the voice, the same one that comically menaced Zach Galifianakis in the first Hangover movie, only with fewer miles on it. “Everything in my life was too good to be true, wasn’t it?” said Tyson. There were three of us in the room: Tyson, trainer Kevin Rooney and me. ![]() Mike Tyson, the 21-year-old heavyweight champion of the world, sat naked on a metal folding chair, fuming, desperate and angry, choking back tears. It was a primitive space, as if created for a 1930s boxing movie, which, in a sense, it was. A small, sand-filled balloon no bigger than a ping pong ball hung on a string from the exposed plumbing fighters would swing it like a pendulum and dodge it with head movement to improve defensive skills. There were high ceilings and dark walls, dust gathered along the baseboards and prehistoric cobwebs stretched across the corners. The ride ended here, in a musty room adjacent to the second-floor boxing gym over the police station on Main Street. ![]()
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