I watched a documentary last night called "Chasing Tyson." It followed the swirling rivalry between Tyson and the man who defeated him, Evander Holyfield; the documentary followed the two boxers as they orbited one another and then examined the collision when it finally happened. I watched the events that were almost as old as me with a fairly clean perspective. I'll admit: I had never seen Tyson box. All I knew was that he has a cameo in Wedding Crashers. Oh, and that he had bitten off someone's ear. I had a vague memory of my father calling him a nutjob while listened to some radio personality giving their take on the whole thing. What struck me most of all, though, was that I had never, not once, heard the name Evander Holyfield.
Footage of a fight that happened almost twenty years ago had me chewing my nails to the bed, like the ending wasn't written already. I couldn't help but wonder: who was this Holyfield guy? When he spoke in his interviews, he was reserved and polite. A cordial sort of tame. Tyson couldn't decide whether to grin or snarl; he snapped his answers at reporters. He waxed philosophical about light and shadows, saying that Holyfield didn't have his darkness and should be grateful for that. Holyfield said things like, "I am the champion. I have the belt," like he was trying to make himself believe it. Athleticism and achievement shrunk before celebrity and personality. In terms of what was remembered, the things it had taken to be the only man ever to regain the Heavyweight title four times didn't equal whatever demons drove Tyson to sink his teeth into both ears. If you need proof, just say the two names to anybody on the street and see which they recognize: Holyfield, or Tyson.
I guess it kind of reminded me of the Rousey-Holm fight. Sure, Evander was the better fighter. He proved everyone wrong. But was that enough? Even as a combat sports enthusiast, I'd never even heard of him. This was a guy who'd made the right choices, struggled and fought and beaten the odds. But all that's besides the point. It's Tyson whose name I know, who I see in movies, whose name is connected to the word "boxer" in my brain. Tyson bought Park Place in terms of mental real estate, and Holyfield never even carried the right currency.
It made me wonder: what do we, collectively, value? What is really important: the fighter, or the entertainer? It also makes me question: what am I actually doing this for: is it fighting that I love, or an invisible whisper, a glorious thread that sews the best stories together. It was newspapers then, and now I see it stitching up the blogs as they feast equally on the achievement of a dream and the descent into failure. As a fighter, it seems like you have a choice: are you a meteor or a kerosene lamp, are you searing white hot for a second or are you stable, dependable, do you operate on an even keel? Do you go off the rails every time fight camp ends, or do your feet stay planted on the ground?
Which is the better choice? I can't make that call. All I know is which name I remember even as the years drag. All I know is what hasn't been erased.
