COMMENTARY

By Tim Dahlberg

updated 7:18 p.m. ET Aug. 30, 2006

LAS VEGAS - Some crowded around the ring with cell phone cameras in hand. Others sat at a bar not 20 feet away drinking beer. Still others ignored it all and smoked cigarettes and played slot machines.

Mike Tyson used to put on displays. On this day, he was just on display.

Down the street, tourists watched lions and dolphins between breaks at the slot machines. In the Aladdin hotel, they didn’t need to move from their seats at the bar to see another curiosity in a makeshift ring.

The former baddest man on the planet has been reduced to this — just another freak show on the Las Vegas Strip.

The signs said he was in training, and that was enough to lure a few hundred people to the makeshift ring set up just outside the casino’s buffet restaurant. Training for what was a question better left unanswered.

Tyson once made $35 million for one fight and more than $300 million in his career before blowing it all. Now he’s a casino sideshow, trying to make a few bucks the only way he knows how in a sport he no longer can stand.

“I truly hate fighting,” Tyson said. “I’ve got a bad taste in my mouth.”

On this day, Tyson is contrite, seemingly embarrassed his life has been reduced to this. He says he’s uncomfortable going out in front of people masquerading as the fighter he once was when he knows it’s all really a charade.

But he owes his creditors millions, needs the money desperately and took up the casino on its offer to make some.

So he gets into the ring to throw a few punches at the mitts of trainer Jeff Fenech as tourists take pictures.

“I’m looking to make a buck like anyone else,” says Tyson.

There’s talk of a series of three-round exhibition fights to earn that buck. It’s a time-honored tradition in boxing, where no one gets hurt and the former champ who is down on his luck gets a small taste of the money he used to make.

Tyson is 40, but he’s an old 40. Look past the bizarre tattoo that stretches across the left side of his face, and there’s a weariness on his face that comes with years of hard fighting and even harder living.

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It’s been 20 years since Tyson became the youngest heavyweight champion ever by knocking out Trevor Berbick. I remember watching him that night and later seeing him walk around the Las Vegas Hilton with the WBC title belt wrapped proudly around his waist.

His world quickly became filled with riches, women and fame in such abundance that the one-time street tough from New York had no chance of handling it all. He went to prison for rape only to come out bigger than ever, but his new life spiraled out of control almost as quickly.

He doesn’t want anybody’s sympathy, isn’t even sure why they still care. They do, though, because they remember what he once was.

“I had a great life. I had 20 lives. No way should they be sympathetic to me,” Tyson said. “Unfortunately I’m not a wealthy person.”

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