Behind the Mask Page 15

  When it comes to fight night there is nobody more confident about going through those ropes to meet any challenger than me, but I’m flesh and blood like everyone else and a few days out from the Wilder fight I had the thoughts that I have had so often before. The fight was looming large. There was a sense of no way back; it was now about winning or losing. Wilder may well have been the hardest puncher on the planet, but for me it wasn’t about getting knocked down or even knocked out, because that can happen in sparring and it doesn’t matter – that’s part of boxing. This was about my future, about my unbeaten record, about my pride as a fighting man, and finally, about leaving the ring with my brain intact. Admitting this sounds like weakness, but it’s the cold, hard truth of the life of every boxer.

  When it comes to handling the media during fight week, as well as your own expectations and fears, your self-belief and psychological toughness has to kick in. You have to remind yourself who you are and about the ability that you possess. In this department I do not believe I can be toppled by anyone, and this was something that hit home to my trainer Ben Davison more than ever during the final few days leading up to my clash with Wilder on 1 December 2018 at the Staples Center in Los Angeles.

  It was clear to Ben – and to me – that at the final media events Wilder was feeling the pressure of the biggest night of his career, when he’d be fighting against the lineal heavyweight champion of the world. He was seeking confidence by making statements that were not true, such as saying that I couldn’t handle the conditions at the Big Bear training camp and that I hadn’t genuinely beaten Wladimir Klitschko back in 2015, that I somehow didn’t deserve the decision. Wilder was experiencing the kind of pressure that he had never had to deal with before because I was by far his most dangerous opponent yet. I was totally confident that I could pull off the shock of the year but I was equally secure enough in my own skin that I could say that Wilder was unbelievably dangerous. As the fight got even nearer, these feelings eventually brought with them a sense of serenity – a calm assurance that eventually suffocated the moments of dread. The sickening feeling subsided and was suppressed by my complete belief that there was not a man on the planet who could handle what I could bring to the ring.

  Of course, there were always going to be concerns within my team because of the time I had spent out of the ring, and the fact that I had only boxed twice, against moderate opposition, in my comeback. So there was a bit of doubt about whether or not I could perform under the lights again against such a ferocious fighter as Wilder over twelve hard rounds, which was understandable. In the build-up, Wilder kept taunting me, saying that he was going to knock me out, and he believed it, but I wasn’t affected by him. As I said to him at one of the press conferences, ‘If you’re the man to knock me out then fair play to you, and I’ll shake your hand. But I’ve travelled the world many times and fought many different champions, and I’ve never been knocked out.’

  Paris got into Los Angeles four days before the fight and I was very happy to see her because we had been apart for eight weeks while I was in camp. We were then joined by some of my cousins, who flew in from Australia and whose visit added to the sense of the occasion. The fans were pouring in, too. With every day more and more arrived from the UK. By the time of the weigh-in, twenty-four hours before fight night, LA was buzzing.

  Just before that, and with three days to go before my date with destiny, my dad broke his vow of silence and called to wish me well for the fight. He said he knew my fighting spirit would see me through. It was a good moment for me. He hadn’t spoken to me over all the weeks of training because when my dad says he’ll do something, that is that. But he’s a father and he had to make the call. I can’t remember him changing his mind too often in the past once it was made up, but he did on that occasion, and it meant a lot.

  The weigh-in was to be held outdoors, at the front of the Los Angeles Convention Center, and I was going to make sure that I arrived in style. I was the heavyweight king and LA was going to know about it. From the moment I left the hotel I stood up through the sunroof of our long black car and roared to everyone who could see me for the next three miles that I was here to show everyone who was the number one boxer in the world.

  The Americans had not seen anything like it – here was this giant British heavyweight screaming from a car, and they were lapping it up. Other cars were blasting their horns and screaming, ‘Gypsy King! Gypsy King! Gypsy King!’ By the time I got to the weigh-in there were 6,000 fans chanting, ‘There’s only one Tyson Fury!’ Wilder was supposed to be the home fighter but I was the one getting all the cheers and backing. I had received good support when I fought Wladimir Klitschko in Germany, but this was even better; a lot of the Americans were behind me too. In the previous few days I had encountered many, many locals coming up to me saying, ‘Hey, Tyson, do the business, man.’ They knew me, but they didn’t know their fellow countryman Wilder. They had connected with my comeback story but they also remembered me from when I had been on HBO when I defeated Klitschko. Wilder had never been on such a stage.

  When we did get to the stage I soaked up the roars from my supporters and unloaded another verbal assault on Wilder, who stood on stage hiding behind his Bane-style mask. I weighed in at 256½ pounds and he was 214 pounds. The fight was on. I was less than twenty-four hours away from completing my journey back from the brink of suicide to WBC heavyweight champion of the world – and the number one in the division.

  That evening, as I was preparing to go to bed, I stepped out on to the balcony of my hotel room and looked up at the Hollywood Hills, contemplating how far I had travelled in such a short space of time. I also thought about the task that was awaiting me in the shape of Deontay Wilder, who had stopped every man he had ever faced. I didn’t believe God was going to allow that run to continue. During the last fortnight I had been receiving short inspirational verses from the Bible from a friend back in the UK, which bolstered my confidence in God. I had my final prayer on that balcony, praying to God that he wouldn’t allow me to falter on fight night. As I lifted my eyes up, I saw a beaming cross in the distance – it was the same kind of experience that my dad had had the night before I fought Klitschko. I was rocked back, and then within the blink of an eye I felt at peace. I’ve never had a better night’s rest than I had that night, and when I woke up on 1 December there wasn’t a shred of doubt in my mind that I was going to complete my mission.

  The same could not have been said about those around me. It’s not a criticism, just an observation, that I could feel some of their apprehension. When I spent time with Paris, although she didn’t say anything, I could feel that she was nervous, and why wouldn’t she be? She had heard all the doom-mongers insisting that I was going to be flattened, and she was aware of my dad’s real concerns about me taking the fight so soon in my comeback. Ben was a little on edge too, and he admitted to praying to God for a sign that all would be well. Like me, he saw a sign: just after he had prayed the sun broke through the clouds and hit the side of his face.

  As the hours counted down on the day of the fight, I was chilled out. I went for a walk and returned to my hotel to relax with the team until it was time to go to the arena. I arrived at the venue two hours before fight time and as usual one of my team, Asgar Tair, who has been part of my inner circle for years, had all of my gear laid out and the music playing. We were listening to some country music – Chris Stapleton’s ‘Tennessee Whiskey’ was one of the tracks he put on. It was hardly the usual kind of music that boxers listen to before a fight, and when the WBC commissioner came in he asked, ‘What’s going on in here?’ I made him laugh as I joined in a little singalong with the team. For me, the fight doesn’t really happen in my head until I’m about to go into the ring. Then I know what I have to do. I’m able to flick a switch and completely go into fight mode. But when I’m in that dressing room I’m not nervous, not at all. Waiting there for the Wilder fight I felt ready; I was just kicking back before the call to fight.


  . . .

  Back home in Manchester it was a different story for my dad. Having worried that I wouldn’t come home the same man I was when I left for LA, he had nevertheless booked the fight on BT Sport Box Office. But for some reason, when he tried to tune into the channel he couldn’t get it to come on. He was cracking up; no matter what he tried he couldn’t figure it out. Thankfully, he was saved at about 2.30 a.m. when he got a call from my mother’s brother Othea, who had rung to ask how he thought the fight would go. Othea told my dad to head round to his place so that they could watch it together, and he didn’t need telling twice. He jumped in the car and drove twenty-five miles so that he wouldn’t miss the first round. Little did my dad know that this was not going to be the end of the drama for him.

  Ben and I spoke briefly as we got close to fight time and I rested my hands on his shoulders. I told him that I would follow his instructions without question. Then my team, which consisted of my friend and chef for the training camp Tim Allcock, my brother Shane, my trainer Ben, Asgar and my training partner and friend Isaac Lowe, had a group prayer. Finally, there was the knock on the door. It was time. I could feel the tension rise in the dressing room and then I started up the chant of ‘We are Spartans!’ Shane shouted in my ear, ‘This is what you’ve been waiting for your whole life; you were born for pay-per-view in America; this is your time.’

  The tune went up for my ringwalk and I led the chants of ‘Fury’s on fire, Wilder is terrified, Fury’s on fire!’ As I walked into the arena, head held high, I embraced the atmosphere and sensed support from every corner. When I got to the ring I stepped over the ropes – most fighters duck underneath them but at 6 foot 9 they’re a lot easier to step over. Once in the centre, I stood there waiting for Wilder, reminding myself that God hadn’t brought me back to desert me at this moment; that was not how this story was going to play out. Wilder eventually paraded into the ring with his demon-like mask on. He claims to be somebody else, an alter ego, when he comes to fight. He calls on a spirit that is not the Spirit of God; not the God that I worship.

  The great announcer Jimmy Lennon Jr introduced us, bellowing, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Showtime!’, and that whipped the crowd into a frenzy. Wilder was introduced first and got a mixture of boos and cheers. Then my name was called out and it was clear who had the greater support. The roar went up for me and I screamed into the TV camera. It was a special feeling to be thousands of miles from home and yet have such passionate support.

  . . .

  The bell rang … and then we were fighting. Despite my best efforts to talk smack to Wilder and to throw him off guard, with every block I felt the full power of his punches through my gloves. Of course, leading up to the fight I had heard about Wilder’s power and his very high knockout percentage, but I still wasn’t sure quite how lethal he really was. Well, now I knew. I thought, ‘If that’s what it’s like to get hit by a jab, I don’t want that right hand of his to catch me!’ I had sparred with all of the top heavyweights, but I simply hadn’t believed all the hype about Wilder. After the first round I understood. Like Ali knew against Foreman after the first round of the Rumble in the Jungle, when Ali realised that he would have to rope-a dope Foreman because of the champion’s ferocious power.

  Still, at the end of the first round I raised my hands and jigged around in Wilder’s face, showing him that I was in control, that I was the man in this fight. I still had the courage to scream at him, ‘Is that all you’ve got, Bomb Squad? You ain’t nothing.’ I had hurt him badly with a right hand and he had buckled. When he went back to his corner he complained to the referee that it was an illegal back-of-the-head shot – and that would hurt – but it wasn’t. It was a clean shot to the temple. In contrast, when I returned to my corner, Ben was very happy with how it had gone. Things continued to go well in the second. I stuck to my boxing style of counter-punching and won the round. Only at the very end of the three minutes did Wilder catch me with a good right hand, but after the bell I just shrugged and shouted, ‘Ya dosser!’ Wilder may have had raw power in spades but I knew that I had the better boxing ability and the ringcraft to outfox any fighter. From there, I was able to settle down into the fight, utilising my superior skills to neutralise his attacks, slamming my jab into his face and whipping over right hands. I was defying the odds, doing my trademark slipping and sliding, and making believers out of all those in the arena and watching at home on TV who had thought that I was there to be blown away. By the sixth round I could see in Wilder’s eyes that he was struggling to cope with my style and I landed some of my best punches, ramming home lefts and rights.

  But I couldn’t become complacent or switch off for a moment because the danger was always there. Staying within range was going to be a serious mistake and I recall that after one round, I can’t remember which, Ben was telling me that although I had won it, he wasn’t happy because I was getting ‘a bit greedy’, and by that he meant that I was waiting too long trying to land some of my own big shots.

  For the next six rounds I continued to confound the critics, producing a performance for the ages. I grew and grew in confidence, and I could feel that Wilder was getting more and more desperate with every passing round. Despite a knockdown in the ninth, when Wilder tagged me behind the ear, I wasn’t hurt and I could feel that I was having the better of nearly every exchange. I knew I was on the cusp of one of the greatest comebacks in boxing history. At the end of the tenth round I roared, ‘Come on! I’m the Gypsy King, I will be victorious!’

  But the victory would have to wait for another day. Two rounds later, I was flat on my back. Wilder exploded a right hand and then caught me again with a left hook as I fell to the canvas. The referee was counting me out. Wilder had his back to me and was doing a victory dance, thinking it was surely all over. I was finished …

  . . .

  Five seconds later the comeback was alive, the darkness gave way to light as I rose to my feet. It was all meant to be, whatever has happened in my life. I was supposed to go down against Wilder; I was supposed to rise dramatically. Yes, Wilder caught me with a good shot, and fair play to him. He had every right to think that the fight was over and that the Gypsy King was done for. But when I looked back at the video footage after the fight, and saw the shock in Wilder’s eyes as I hauled myself up, ready to fight again, I knew it was divine intervention. Wilder couldn’t believe it; the world couldn’t believe it. Even the referee Jack Reiss, who said I opened my eyes around the count of five, couldn’t believe it.

  In the dressing room before the fight Jack had said, ‘If you get knocked down, I’ll ask you to move to the right and then move to the left to show me that you’re all right.’ So when I got back up after Wilder’s big right hand, I put both hands on Jack’s shoulders and said, ‘I’m OK.’ He asked me to move this way and that, and that’s what I did.

  The fight restarted and Wilder went in for the kill, catching me with another left hook, this time a harder shot than the one that had put me down. Miraculously, I stayed on my feet this time and then I hit Wilder a few times. Referee Reiss would later tell Ben that in all his time in boxing he had never seen anything like it. He said to Ben, ‘The man was out cold and then to somehow get back up and finish stronger than the other guy was just unbelievable.’

  I actually don’t remember getting hit for the knockdown. But after Wilder had floored me with that right hand in the final round, I knew instinctively that that moment represented everything that I stood for, and everything that I had been through over the past few years. I also knew that it was God’s will and decision for me to rise from the canvas at that moment. It was to demonstrate His power and to show people around the world who are struggling in life that there is a way out of the deepest pits of helplessness.

  Once I was back on my feet, relying on my fighting spirit and survival instincts, Ben was trying in vain to get his message across to me from the corner. He found himself being pinned down by three officials as he screamed and shou
ted, unable to get up to the ring to see if I was all right. He was naturally concerned about me as his fighter, and yet incredibly the officials were not giving him the opportunity to see how I was. It was mayhem in and outside the ring. The next thing Ben did see when his wrestling match with the officials ended was me putting my hands behind my back and taunting Wilder, which had him screaming, ‘Nooooo!’ Ben wanted me to hold on and to stay away from Wilder until the final bell, but instead I took Wilder on and made him miss, before I slammed him with a right hand and a left hook of my own.

  My boxing heart and confidence couldn’t even be dented by the heavy blows that had sprawled me out on my back just a minute earlier. I was now the one in the ring working hard, throwing punches. As the final bell rang I raised my hands in triumph before jogging across to jump on to the ropes to salute the fans who, as one, hailed me as the victor, and hailed one of the greatest comebacks that the sport of boxing has ever seen.