The New Yorker + Sportswriting = Great, in my book.
Tyson was everyone’s freak show, a grotesque and guilty entertainment at once violent, unpredictable, haunted, thrilling—but truly dangerous only to himself, to his opponent, and to those who, like Desiree Washington, the beauty queen, ended up testifying in court. People paid to see Mike Tyson, one ex-wife suggested, in the same spirit in which they went to horror movies or rode the roller coaster.
That was the Tyson that all had come to see in Washington. But he was no Kid Dynamite now. Before the fight, Tyson told McBride that he would “gut him like a fish,” but he said it gently and without conviction. All the indulgences are, for the most part, sold off, a memory. He lives now in a brick ranch house in a middle-class neighborhood in Scottsdale, Arizona, with a girlfriend and their two children. He refuses to be a monster. “I don’t want to be that guy anymore,” he said a few days before the fight.
cf. Roger Angell.