Conflict

Tyson's hands felt tight again, as if they were tightening a noose around his own ambitions. It had been a two-year silence, a blank period where the echoes of the boxing ring had faded into uncertainty. The National Golden Glove Championship had once been his crown jewel and now felt like just another distant memory. Winning that title had earned him a windfall of seventy grand, but like the last flickering flame of a match, the money had burned bright but burned out just as quickly. Half a year had passed since he'd spent it, and now he was back at square one, itching for action again.

What was left? What was left but to take his frustrations out on the sandbag that swung like a pendulum, mocking his inactivity? The days had bled into weeks, weeks into a year. Sparring had become a ghost in his training regimen. His fists hadn't tasted the sweat and sting of a real fight for too long.

He thought of Jimmy and Bill, the two big brokers who had tied their fortunes to his rise and fall. They had become both a lifeline and a burden, their voices tethered to the recklessness of pursuing success in a sport that could chew you up and spit you out if you weren't careful. Fates intertwined, or perhaps it was just a cruel twist of chance. Either way, Tyson knew he had to give them something to hang onto.

With resolve swelling within him, he called the training hall, breathless with anticipation. "I need ten sparring partners," he said. The laughter from Bill was almost audible, tinged with disbelief. "Oh my God, ten? You must be joking, Mike!"

But was he? Each voice that echoed back to him on the other end of the line carried a weight—like the weight of expectation that bore down on a champion's shoulders. Who in their right mind asked for ten sparring partners unless they were either delusional or possessed of a strength that could rip the air itself? It wasn't quite a joke or a whim; it was something primal, the urge to reclaim the title and the glory that came with it.

An hour later, Tyson was training with Teddy, his coach and friend. They had a bond that had grown over five years of grueling workouts and moments of sheer triumph. Teddy had married Celina the year before, and there was always a lightness in his voice when he spoke of her. Tyson, wishing to help, had lent him ten grand for the wedding—more money that had vanished along with those fleeting moments of joy. Teddy was chipping away at paying it back; a slow and steady pace that Tyson admired.

A day passed, and the impossible happened. Jimmy and Bill pulled through. They delivered ten sparring partners, each one a hulking mass of muscle that filled the gym with an oppressive seriousness. It was a feast of physicality; men with broad shoulders and waists thick as tree trunks. Tyson's heart raced with excitement as he surveyed his new challengers.

One man caught his eye—a mountain of a fighter standing at six-foot-three. He was solid, brawny, with a scruff of beard and a look of determination in his eyes. Tyson felt an uncanny familiarity resonating from him. He approached, curiosity lighting his usually fierce demeanor. "Brother, have we met?"

The man scrutinized Tyson, as if trying to unearth buried memories. Finally, he shook his head. "Nope, don't think so."

"My name's Mike Tyson," he said, extending his hand, a goodwill gesture for a new friendship forged in the fires of competition.

"Oliver McCall," the giant replied, shaking his hand firmly. Tyson felt the rush of memory. This was the man who had shaken up the boxing world, pushing Lennox Lewis off his perch back in '94. Oliver had been a relentless sparring partner in Tyson's early days; many had faltered, but he had endured, pushing through every round.

Tyson couldn't help but marvel at fate. Oliver had danced too close to the demons that plagued so many athletes and had fallen from grace, but here he was again, ready to fight alongside him.

The training began in earnest, the sound of gloves slapping against pads and bodies echoing through the hall. Tyson wore heavy protective gear, knowing that his sparring partners might not be prepared for the ferocity of his punches. A few rounds in, and the striking reality became clear: most of them couldn't stand against him. They crumbled like dust in the wind, leaving only three fighters willing to brave the storm, one of whom was Oliver.

"Bill, Jimmy," Tyson said, determination etched across his face like carved stone, "you're gonna have to find me more sparring partners tomorrow." The enthusiasm in his friends' faces was palpable. Tyson felt something shift inside him—an old flame reignited.

The days unfolded as planned, and Thursday morning arrived with the excitement of promise. Tyson slid into the outfit carefully curated for him: a sleeveless denim jacket covered in patches, beige tights, and scuffed light green sneakers adorned with flair. He tipped a cowboy hat low over his eyes, feeling like a shadow gradually finding its place in the spotlight.

Kus had a wild idea, suggesting they wrap bandages around Tyson's hands—a tactic to intimidate. "Get rid of those. You'll scare the living daylights out of everyone," he chuckled, half-joking.

Tyson, grinning at the banter, swapped his pants in record time, his heart pounding. It was like stepping back into a role that was woven into his very being.

As Teddy drove the Cadillac through the Bronx with the crew crammed inside, the anticipation crackled in the air like an impending storm. They neared the press conference location, an assortment of faces crowded around the makeshift stage, each one hungry for a glimpse of the fighters poised to meet.

Tyson stepped out of the car and onto the street. The applause erupted around him, solidifying his presence. Mercedes—a tall, weary-eyed man—stood beneath the glaring lights, evidently agitated by the mounting pressure. Tyson felt the warmth of the crowd and the electric pulse of the moment resonating through him.

"Here's his opponent, Mike Tyson!" the announcer shouted into the mic, but for a split second, there was only silence—a stark contrast to the mutual anticipation.

Then came the sudden screech of brakes, and Tyson turned to see a man, wild in spirit, striding towards the stage. The crowd recognized him immediately—the "Beast" was here. He stood fierce, muscular, arrogance draping over him like a heavy cloak. Mercedes, feeling the fierceness emanating from Tyson, cast a disdainful glance, perhaps questioning his own place in this tableau.

Then came the first shot of bravado: Mercedes flipped him a curse and a gesture—a poison-tipped barb that cut deeper than mere words. For Tyson, the world narrowed to a vibrating point. His anger surged, ignited by that one word—a word meant to belittle an entire race.

In an instant, Tyson lunged, grabbing Mercedes by the collar. The moment hung suspended in time, stopped by the flickering lens of countless cameras, as the spectacle of boxing morphed into something far darker.

Teddy intervened, his instincts sharp as he shoved between them, halting the impending chaos. A flurry of celebrities, summoned by the sponsors, speckled the scene. Tyson's rage simmered just beneath the surface, but he remained restrained—this was merely the beginning, he thought. Every fighter knows that the ring isn't just about fists; it's about minds clashing and souls colliding.

As the press looked on, Tyson's resolve sharpened. This was more than merely reclaiming a title; it was a return to the roots of who he was, and he would not back down. The clash was set, the beast had awakened, and this time, he would not face it alone.