It was supposed to have been a wide-screen look at boxing, circa 1986. That was the book that the publisher and its author had talked up before both parties went to contract.
But this man Tyson occupied stage so completely that he became the axis around which all prose in "Blood Season," originally published in 1989, eventually circled.
The hell with the Haglers and Hearns, forget the Camachos and Chavezes. It was Iron Mike people wanted to know about. Folks who couldn't distinguish a left hook from a fish hook--and who never raised the subject of boxing otherwise--would ask: "What's this kid Tyson really like?"
Ah, there was a question--a question to which there would prove to be no easy answer. For Tyson was a mixed bag, ever changeable in his moods. Hot, cold, somewhere in between. You never knew which Mike Tyson you'd be dealing with.
There were times he'd look at you with narrow-eyed distrust, and times he'd be open and accessible, kibbitzing about something as trivial (well, maybe not so trivial) as a fella's jump shot.