This Week in Boxing History: Tyson Goes Bonkers, Sowing Mayhem Outside the Ropes

This week marked the 25^th anniversary of one of the most infamous fights in boxing history. On June 28, 1997, Mike Tyson was disqualified at the conclusion of the third round for “chomping” on both of Evander Holyfield’s ears. Iron Mike wasn’t the first boxer to go ballistic during a match and cause a riot, but no boxer ever imploded on such a big stage. Tyson-Holyfield II, contested before a full house at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, drew 1.95 million pay-per-view buys in the U.S. market alone, making it the largest audience in boxing history to that point in time.

The details of what happened inside the ring are well-documented; the aftermath less so. Before the night was over, portions of the MGM Grand were a battle zone. Fist fights erupted like brushfires. Two $100-minimum blackjack tables were overturned. $134,000 in casino chips disappeared and the gaming pit was shut down for two hours as a safety precaution.

It could have been a lot worse. Management had sealed off the escalator that would have taken people on the second level to the closest exit. Those leaving the arena were funneled into the corridor that led into the casino. They were wedged together like New York subway riders at rush hour and had there been anything that would have triggered a stampede, it would have been catastrophic. Later that evening, there was an incident in the casino where a champagne bottle exploded, simulating the sound of a gunshot, and several people were injured in the ensuing chaos.

This reporter was among those logjammed in that corridor. I’m told that there was bedlam back in the arena, but no one said a word as those of us anxious to leave progressed in baby steps toward a place that offered more breathing room.

Back in those days, I usually hung around the press room after a big fight, chewing the fat with those of my colleagues who weren’t busy filing their stories. But one could sense that bad things were going to happen before the night was over — a Tyson fight attracted a different element than, say, a De La Hoya fight — and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Eleven days after the fight, on Wednesday, July 9, the Nevada State Athletic Commission convened to determine what penalty to impose on Tyson. It was a public hearing in conformance with Nevada’s open meeting law and a meeting that would have normally been held in a boardroom was moved to a large auditorium in City Hall in an attempt to accommodate everyone that wanted to be there.

The press turned out in droves and that’s an understatement. The NSAC issued 175 media credentials. “This is a tougher ticket than the fight ticket,” quipped Athletic Commission Executive Director Marc Ratner. In his recently-published memoir, Ratner recalled that there were so many satellite trucks outside City Hall that it blocked the building.

Mike Tyson wasn’t obligated to be there and to the great dismay of the horde of reporters, he didn’t show up, nor did his charismatic promoter, Don King. Tyson was represented by the well-known mob attorney Oscar Goodman, the city’s future mayor, and Goodman’s law partner Marty Keach who did most of the talking. (Las Vegas was a lot smaller back then; Keach was my son’s Little League coach.)

The Commission slapped Tyson with the maximum fine that it could legally impose, $3 million (10 percent of his purse). That wasn’t merely the largest individual fine in boxing history, but the largest in any sport. (In Nevada, the previous record was the $35,000 fine assessed on Riddick Bowe’s manager Rock Newman for punching a photographer after the first Bowe-Holyfield fight.)

The Commission also suspended Tyson’s license for one year and mandated that he undergo a thorough psychiatric exam. This was performed at Massachusetts General Hospital. Predictably, the examiners concluded that Mike had psychological deficits including impulsivity exacerbated by low self-esteem.

The infamous “bite fight” had deep repercussions. The MGM Grand imposed an informal moratorium on boxing that lasted 566 days. Over at the Las Vegas Hilton, the bantamweight title unification fight between bitter Albuquerque rivals Johnny Tapia and Danny Romero, scheduled for July 18, was kicked out the door on the pretext that co-promoters Bob Arum and Cedric Kushner failed to provide evidence of insurance before the agreed-upon deadline. Arum, who went ballistic in his own way, calling upon fight fans to boycott all Hilton properties, was able to salvage the show by shifting it to the Thomas and Mack Center at UNLV where it played out before a well-mannered crowd.

It speaks volumes about how larger-than-life Tyson was in the mid-1990’s that news gathering teams from around the world would turn up at a hearing where there was no guarantee that he would even be there. Mike Tyson on his best and on his worst days was front-page news in the print editions (there was no other kind) of the leading U.S. newspapers; not just the tabloids. Perhaps another boxer of his stripe will come along some day, but for now he represents the last of the breed.

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