Atlas (13 page)

 

E
LAINE AND
I
WENT TO
S
AN
F
RANCISCO ON OUR HONEYMOON
. We were supposed to be there nine days, but I cut it short after three days and went back to work the corner for Tyson and the kids in an amateur show. I regret that now, when I think about it, because the show got canceled, but also because of the way things developed later. At the time I thought I needed to be there. I thought my responsibility to Tyson and Cus and the rest of the kids was more important than my honeymoon. To Elaine's credit, she didn't complain. It was like something my father would have done, cutting short the honeymoon, just like he never went on vacation with us, or the way he got up from dinner parties in the middle because he had to be at the hospital. But Elaine was incredibly understanding. She knew who she was marrying going in, and for better or worse, she signed on anyway. Luckily for me.

E
LAINE AND
I
TOOK A GROUND-FLOOR APARTMENT IN
a two-family house outside of Catskill; the rent wasn't high, but it was more than I had been paying at Camille and Cus's. Money was obviously more of a concern with a baby on the way. The strange thing was that although I knew Tyson had an enormous future—I'd been training him for almost four years, and understood better than anyone what we had—how that would translate financially for me was still a hard thing to grasp. Cus told me I was training a future champion, and I trusted him. But I was naive when it came to money. I believed that if I moved through life with purpose, commitment, and direction, money would take care of itself.

A lot of people have talked and written about Cus's disregard for money, and how he was interested only in reclaiming young lives. He certainly helped many troubled kids, myself included. But a couple of things happened that made me begin to look at Cus in a different light. Ironically, it's Cus's own words—“You never know about people until they're tested”—that come to mind when I think about these things.

Cus had a number of people in local government whom he relied upon for favors. One friend had managed to help procure a twenty-five-thousand-dollar government grant for Cus through a political
connection he had in Washington. The proposal for the grant stated that part of the funds were needed to pay one full-time trainer for the gym—namely, me.

Even though I never saw a dime of the twenty-five thousand dollars, at the end of the year Don Shanager asked me if I could sign the proper tax papers, to show that I had received a salary. Shanager assured me that I wouldn't be liable for any taxes, and I wound up signing the thing, though it made me uncomfortable.

What Cus actually did with the money, I can't say. He might have spent a couple of thousand on equipment for the gym, but the rest is anybody's guess. What I heard was that he used the money to reward the people in Catskill who were helping him keep quiet Tyson's run-ins with the authorities; in other words, it was hush money. I also know that one night Camille opened Cus's door unannounced (I've already mentioned how paranoid he was about anyone going into his room) and found Cus in there with one of his local cronies and ten thousand dollars spread out on the bed. He went crazy, scooping up the money frantically while screaming at her for entering his lair.

The other thing that occurred that really disturbed me had to do with a kid named Russell D'Amico, whom Cus basically ran out of the house. Russell was a fifteen-year-old who was terribly screwed up and had gotten into trouble with the law a number of times. Cus had no use for him because he didn't have any talent as a boxer. We had other kids who were never going to amount to anything as fighters, but Cus didn't run them off. It was just that Russell had the double whammy of being untalented
and
rubbing Cus the wrong way.

I didn't care. The kid needed us. He was desperate. I told Cus, I pleaded with him, not to forsake this kid. I said, “Tyson pulls the same crap, but you let him slide because he's Tyson. If this kid could box, you'd let him slide.” It didn't matter what I said, Cus wouldn't listen. He kept calling Russell a liar to his face, giving him a terrible time, and Russell couldn't take it. He left the house, and not long after that he got arrested again. While he was in jail, he hanged himself with the drawstring from his hooded sweatshirt. I was extremely upset by it at the time, and even now, all this time later, I still think about it.

It was strange. I had been able to get from Cus the kind of encouragement and support that I had always wanted from my father, that my
father had always had difficulty expressing. But my father never had to tell me who he was. He expressed his character in his actions and deeds. Now, here was Cus, telling me one thing, but in his actions beginning to show me he was something else.

His handling of Tyson was what ultimately led to the biggest problems between us. Tyson had begun to grasp that his growing power inside a boxing ring gave him increasing power outside it. When we went to Denver the first year to fight for the National Junior Olympic title, the contrast between him and his peers was striking. During the weigh-in for a bout, we had to get on a line with all the other kids, all these fourteen-and fifteen-year-old heavyweights who looked their age, had acne, and had no real definition to their muscles. Suddenly we came in, and it was like Clint Eastwood coming down the freakin' walkway. The only thing missing was the music. Tyson was up to 210 pounds by then, and he knew the moves. He didn't smile, he didn't talk to anybody, he just walked in, knowing he was intimidating the shit out of these kids. You'd hear them whispering. “Did you see that guy?” “I'm not fighting him, am I? If I am, I'm getting the fuck out of here.”

Cus always liked to talk about imagination. How, if you let your mind run amok, it would destroy you. Here were these kids falling right into that trap. I remember a rumor that got started about Tyson that first year, that he was twenty years old and was Sonny Liston's nephew. Sonny Liston's nephew! It was remarkable. He was winning fights before he even stepped in the ring.

Something else was happening, too: attention and adulation. The first year in Colorado, we were taking buses to get to the arena; by the second year, with Tyson knocking everybody dead, it was, “Can we give you a ride?” It wasn't lost on him. For somebody who wasn't emotionally mature or grounded, acquiring that kind of power was dangerous.

In Catskill, more and more, he began to push the boundaries. There were incidents at school. He was assaulting kids, grabbing girls, disobeying and disrespecting teachers. Cus made deals with the school principal to keep Tyson out of trouble. “Listen,” he'd tell the principal, “this is a different kind of kid. This kid could make this school and this town famous. We've got to keep this quiet.”

At the gym and in the house, we had always instilled an atmosphere of discipline. It meant something to have a set of rules in place that was
consistent for everybody. It made for harmony and balance. After Tyson showed up, two sets of rules developed, one for him and one for everybody else. I didn't think that was healthy for Tyson or the rest of the kids. I think that Tyson, like all kids, wanted boundaries, wanted discipline. But Cus was cutting corners with him. He was in a race against the clock. To discipline Tyson, the only punishment that would have had a real impact would have been to deprive him of time in the ring, the way Bobby Stewart had at Tryon. Cus couldn't afford to lose that time, though. Not if Tyson was going to become the youngest heavyweight champion ever. If Tyson didn't become the youngest heavyweight champ ever, Cus might not be alive to see it. So he indulged Tyson—he forgave and covered up his indiscretions—even though it was really himself he was indulging.

The more Cus let Tyson get away with, the further Tyson pushed, and the more out of control he got. If Cus had been younger, maybe he would have done things differently. Old age can make people fearful. Cus was afraid that he would lose Tyson, either by dying or by having him taken away. If the authorities in Albany found out about Tyson's troubles, the jig was up. So Cus worked the locals, and made sure they kept their mouths shut. The only information that made its way upstate came from Cus: Tyson was doing great in school and knocking guys out. All these years of Cus talking about discipline and purity and honesty, and the importance of being a professional, and all of a sudden it was, “Oh, wait, I didn't mean that.” Or, “I only mean it when it's convenient.”

I had become dangerous to Cus because I had actually bought into what he had been preaching. When Tyson got in trouble for throwing containers of milk at the wall in the school cafeteria, it was just the latest in a string of incidents. I'm not saying I'm a saint. I stood by and watched him get away with stuff. At a certain point, though, I reached my limit. I decided to suspend Tyson from the gym until he shaped up and improved his behavior. Maybe it was too late, and I was just trying to make myself feel better. Maybe it wouldn't have done any good anyway. Tyson certainly didn't submit to it. He went straight to Cus, who not only didn't back me up but brought Tyson to the gym himself, the next morning, and let Rooney train him.

For the four years I had been Tyson's trainer, I had given him a mixture of support, guidance, and discipline. Now, Cus—whether I was right or
wrong—was undermining me. A six-year partnership between the two of us based on loyalty and trust and the dream of developing a gym and championship fighters was going out the window. Rooney, my childhood friend, took Cus's side. He thought I was the one being disloyal.

However you looked at it, it was obviously an untenable situation. Cus and Rooney were working with Tyson in the morning, and I was working with the other kids later on. Something had to give. Or someone. You'd think there would have been some other way to resolve things. You wouldn't think it all had to blow up. But that's what happened. And Tyson was at the center of it.

After a couple of weeks of living with this tension, I came home one night, and Elaine and her sisters were sitting in the kitchen, crying. Elaine said, “Don't say nothing to Teddy.” Of course, I heard her. There was no way they were going to keep it from me after that.

“Don't say nothing about what?”

Elaine was more than six months pregnant. She didn't want to see me get upset. She was worried about the baby.

“Say nothing about what?” I looked from her to her sisters.

Nobody would say anything at first, but then one of Elaine's sisters reluctantly revealed that Tyson had done something to their eleven-year-old sister, Susie. I didn't go crazy right away, which for someone who knew me might have been scarier than if I had. Very calmly, I pushed for details. Tyson had grabbed Susie. Put his hands on her. Told her what he wanted to do to her.

I knew it wasn't a random thing. Tyson with his street instincts knew exactly what he was doing and what would happen. It was a game and he was playing it hard and mean. He understood power and weakness as only someone who had spent part of his childhood hiding between walls could. I had been the only one at the gym demanding that he abide by the rules of society. Now he was throwing that back in my face, saying, “Fuck you, we'll see who wins that battle.”

I looked around the kitchen at Elaine and her sisters. They were all crying, except for Elaine, who was furious. The idea that one of my kids had done this was nearly unfathomable. Without saying anything, I headed for the door. Elaine ran after me. “Teddy, don't.” I shrugged her off and kept going.

This was what had come of Cus taking Tyson's side. This was the
ultimate move on Tyson's part to show that he had no respect for boundaries, authority, anything. He was finishing it off because of where Cus had let him go. At that moment, I hated Cus every bit as much as I hated Tyson. I had trusted Cus. We were partners. I felt very emotional, but in an ice-cold way. I knew that if I allowed this, next time Tyson would take it further. He would rape her. Or someone else.

I drove into town, to a place called Asti's, a disco owned by a friend of mine named Bobby Cargioli. He had an apartment upstairs, where I knew he kept a gun. I parked in the lot and went up the wooden stairs by the side of the building. Bobby was standing in the door of the club. He saw me. He walked a few steps closer. “Teddy? What's going on?”

“I came to get your gun. Are you giving it to me or am I taking it?”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. What are you talking about?”

I ignored him and kept going. The door to his apartment was open. I went straight for the bedroom. That's where he kept the gun, under his mattress. It was a .38 revolver. I flipped the chamber open, saw it was loaded, flipped it back, and stuck the barrel in my pants. Bobby appeared in the doorway.

“I don't want nothing to happen, you understand….”

“It's too late for that.”

“Where are you going to go with that?”

“Nothing's gonna come back to you,” I said. “If that's what you're worried about.” I walked past him and out the door.

I drove to the gym, but Tyson wasn't there. The kids were starting to loosen up, skipping rope, shadowboxing, working the bags. I went up to Kevin Young.

“You seen Tyson?”

“He's probably home.” Kevin picked up on the edge in my voice. “There a problem?”

“No.”

“You want me to call and ask him to come out? He's always looking to get out. I'll call and ask him.” Kevin was a tough kid, as loyal as they come. He was like Joe the Blade that way.

“No, Kev,” I said. “You just stay here and loosen up and run things for me tonight.”

I walked down the stairs and outside and saw a cab pulling up. I stepped back into the shadow of the building. It was Tyson. I crouched
down and waited. He walked up to the door of the building. I sprang out of the darkness and grabbed him by the neck of his shirt. I put the gun to his head.

“You piece of fucking shit!” I pulled him into an alcove between the gym and the next building. “You think you're gonna do that to my family? After the way I've treated you? I will fucking kill you! That's my family! My family! You understand, you fucking piece of shit?” I was looking at him, staring straight into his eyes. If he didn't show me that he knew how serious I was, then I was going to kill him. “Make no mistake. If you ever put your hands on my family again, you'll be dead. There'll be no talking. No warning. You'll never know. You'll just be dead.”

I was looking for a sign of understanding and I wasn't getting it. There was still a smugness about him. I stuck the gun in his ear and cocked the trigger. I said, “Are we clear? Do you see the reality of this?” He gave me a nod. Jerking the gun barrel up in the air at the last moment, I pulled the trigger. He fell to the ground, holding his ear. “Are we absolutely clear now? I will not let you do this to my family. I will not live this way, and I will not let you do this.” He got to his feet. When I looked in his eyes this time, the understanding was there. I watched him stagger away. “You better not forget,” I said.