CHAMPION OF LITERATURE

Jeff Powell shows how wrong it is to believe that Mike Tyson's love of books and ideas only began in prison THE carpark at Caesar's Palace, Las Vegas — as opposed to the chariot rank at Caesar's palace, Ancient Rome — is not so much a forum as a coliseum. It is here that the casino-masters erect that contra- diction in terms, a square ring, within tiers of temporary seating from which 16,000 high-rollers and low-lifers can indulge their bloodlust.

When I chanced upon the planet's most dangerous unarmed man, Michael Gerard Tyson, in this setting, it raised no problem of identification in itself. It was the conver- sation which defied recognition.

Tyson was standing alone, in the full glare of the desert sun. His minions kept to the shadows, true to habit, though there were more of them than at the previous fight and plenty more than had circled around the fight before that.

So I tentatively asked whether he had too many hangers on. He replied, `Lithen' — I shall not reproduce that speech affec- tation too often for fear of becoming per- sonal focus of its whispered menace — `you're English, so you read Shakespeare, right?' Well, right when I was at school and right now and again since then, if that's all right.

`Okay, so this is Caesar's Palace, so you tell me who was the most important man to Emperor Julius in his whole life.' This may not be as easy as you think.

Could it be Cassius (the one before Clay)? Does he mean Brutus (in deference to his own reputation as assassin)? Or is he thinking of Charlton Heston in Ben Hur (or even Ben himself)?

`No, no, no. Julius kept a man whose job it was to sidle up to him every hour on the hour and whisper in his ear that although all those Romans out there on the steps believed he was a god he'd better never for- get that he was really only a man.' Pause. `Now I gotta have someone to do that.'

As put-downs go it was as conclusive as the rendering horizontal of any of his opponents — as well as many of his women if you trust that dubious rape con- viction — except that this one was accom- plished with a higher degree of sophistication and accompanied by' a knockout smile. On reflection, it was neither more nor less than I should have expected. This was not my first glimpse into the bright mys- tery, as opposed to the brute mastery, of the man who is threatening to despatch dear old Frank Bruno into retirement and beyond during the dark satellite hours of Saturday night.

I had accompanied him around Tokyo on an exploration of the martial and the mystic arts, the tradition of samurai and the rites of ninja, not to mention the ritual delights of the geisha. So I ought to have been prepared for the verbal sparring in the carpark. But it is important for it to be noted that Tyson buried me with Caesar long before he took up residence at the Indiana Youth Centre for his three-year degree course in Corrective Detention and Institutional Learning.

Until his incarceration was followed by tales of studious reading, there had been a tendency among my fellow Tyson-watchers to suspect the Julius anecdote, if not in sub- stance then in detail. Such is prejudice. Most, excusably, relied upon their precon- ceptions as to the intelligence quotient of a man of violence who seemed content to use the alias Godzilla if it helped the electrified (for want of electrocuted) Don King sell a few thousand tickets or a few million dol- lars' worth of pay-per-view television sub- scriptions.

One, shamefully, went so far as to ques- tion whether William Shakespeare could even be spelt correctly by a human being whom he had the effrontery to describe as coming from 'several rungs down the evolu- tionary ladder'. That insulting redneck took to frothing in his vintage claret and flus- tered disbelief when reliable word came

`They don't do group therapy.'

from inside in Indiana that Tyson was devouring the works of Homer and Heming- way, Machiavelli and Martin Luther King as voraciously as he has always consumed part- ners of both the sparring and sexual persua- sions.

On leaving prison, those awesome biceps were still fuller, rounder and firmer than Miss Pamela Anderson's silicone implants but the tattoos were not of the rosy sailor variety. On his right, Chairman Mao; he of the long march to rally the world's largest population. On his left, Arthur Ashe; he of the Wimbledon singles title and this role- model quote: 'The greatest burden in my life is not having Aids, it is being born black.'

Left of centre is Tyson's politics, if ever this fighting champion of the black people were to set his sights on the White House. Lithen — that is, listen — to this: 'I admire Mao's determination to overcome and if I was going into politics I would tend towards socialism. But I'm nothing. Not Republican and not Democrat. Because politics is noth- ing but a sham. Politicians are in it for the business, not with their hearts. Arthur Ashe might have made a good politician except that he was too honest. Politicians can't afford to do the right thing. They are empowered by their own corruption.'

How about that, ye doubters? Which rung on the homo-sapiens ladder? Mr Tyson ventured those perceptions as we broke bread one evening between the Mus- lim convert's breakfast he shared with Muhammad Ali on the surreal morning of his release from prison and the dog's din- ner he was about to make of Irish Peter McNeeley in the unreal fight which turned him back from convict No. 922335 into a celebrity with an eight-figure bank account.

On the subject of political animals, he also dwelt on Napoleon, crediting the Rus- sians and their winter for softening up the Old Guard for the Duke of Wellington's knockout blow, then pointing out that the design on the button of the Versace waist- coat he was wearing at the time had been copied from Bonaparte's uniform.

He is still only 29 but it all sounds a far cry — or, as he puts it so disarmingly, the squeal like a young girl's which large men frequently emit when he hits them to the body — from the angry New Yorker who once threatened to punch an opponent's nose-bone into his brain. That is what he calls dislocation, not some vague social embarrassment. And he knows that if he is to continue wearing the emperor's clothes then he must re-generate all the old malice.

That is why, as he contemplates relieving one of our favourite Englishmen of the WBC heavyweight title, Mike Tyson talks not of politics and kings but says: 'I methed him up once before and I'm gonna meth him up again.' This is the month of March, Lord Bruno. Beware the lisp of death.

The author is chief sports feature writer of the Daily Mail.