Columnist Dean Juipe: Tyson’s saga may explain his appeal

Dean Juipe

Friday, Oct. 22, 1999 | 9:48 a.m.

Dean Juipe's column appears Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. His boxing notebook appears Thursday. Reach him at juipe@vegas.com or 259-4084.

This particular incarnation of Mike Tyson remains a work in progress.

In some respects, at least as it pertains to the fanciful pursuit of sexual titillation, he seems hedonistic as ever, with a pilgrim's devotion to topless bars. It's said Cheetah's on Western Avenue is his favorite haunt when he's in Las Vegas, cheesy and as libido-inspiring as it is.

Beyond that minor curiosity, Tyson the man and Tyson the professional prize fighter may forever appear to be at odds. Who he is and what he wants to be habitually cross paths, leaving the former heavyweight champion occasionally lamenting his existence or striving with some futility to separate one from the other.

That said, there have been signs in recent weeks that he has rectified at least some of the inner turmoil that has routinely taunted him for so many years. While there definitely are remaining conflicts, they may be less visible or farther from the surface than they once were.

As he prepares to fight Orlin Norris Saturday at the MGM Grand Garden, Tyson seems relatively at ease. He's still shrouded in a certain cloak of secrecy, one more or less dictated by his never-ending succession of handlers, yet on those instances when he has opened up to the public or the media he tends to leave a favorable impression.

A little less smug and a little more inclined to smile than he once was, Tyson comes across as introspective to a fault yet occasionally charming. It's obvious he still has his demons, but, at the age of 33 and after two stints in prison, perhaps their influence is diminishing.

More people than not want to like Tyson, and it has always been that way. By nature of his horrid childhood, he evokes a sympathetic response with those who believe or learned long ago that the apple never falls far from the tree.

How, they've reasoned, could he have been any different, given the circumstances of his upbringing and the violent nature of his profession? The little tough kid from Brooklyn with the funny tinge to his voice was never a candidate for the choir or a threat for the Nobel peace prize.

Without boxing, he would have been a street punk doomed to a life of failure and inevitably destined for lengthy incarceration.

And then, by virtue of his fistic talents, he's thrust into the role of superstar, with microphones in his face and not so subtle demands for his time, energy and commentary. With very little education and with only his instincts to guide him (particularly after the death of mentor Cus D'Amato), Tyson was forced into a celebrity that he never welcomed nor could have anticipated.

As a result -- and with his emotions frightfully exposed -- Tyson still finds it easy to say and do things that offend the mainstream while jogging his need for excitement. It's a curiosity he has always enjoyed and one he deliberately utilizes in an attempt to keep the masses off guard.

When he says he may bite Norris, as he painstakingly did to Evander Holyfield, he does it to gauge reactions.

Pro and amateur psychologists alike have examined him, made their assessments and filed their briefs. Yet he defies absolute characterization.

After so many years, it's apparent he had no choice in the matter. And that, oddly enough, is part of his appeal.