Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth Page #2

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That was some real good sh*t,

right? Especially from Brownsville.

Don't be talking like y'all are

some fly niggas all your life.

You know, it's like

going to Paris.

But anyway, right...

to our sad surprise,

five minutes later,

he'd go around the block,

he drops us back off.

Five dollars richer,

of course.

I don't know why we thought

each year would be different.

You know, I really don't know

much about my mother.

I remember her drinking

a lot and always angry

and fighting.

I knew she had dreams

of becoming a schoolteacher.

But then

she met my father...

well, the man I was told

was my father.

The fast-talking,

cool-dressing pimp

who I always credited with changing

the path of my mother's life.

And before long, she was

caught up in the street life.

But she paid

the heavy toll

because at heart she really

wasn't that girl at all.

So she drank

to cover up the pain.

And I suppose my addictions

started here with her.

See, I was born

with the addictive gene

and it still haunts me

to this day.

Ready to creep up on me

in my darkest night.

Ready to rob me

of my brightest day.

You know, this is the only picture

I have of my mother, Lorna May.

But it's a good one.

She seemed like she must

have been happy that day.

I wish I knew

more about her.

I know when

she took this picture,

she never imagined her boy

would make it out of Brownsville

unless I did it in some

handcuffs or a wooden box.

You know, I didn't come

from a place where memories

are cherished and displayed

proudly in a photo album.

I came from the gutter.

A place where dreams

are broken

and memories

are best forgotten.

Welcome to Brownsville.

Our motto is

"never run and never will. "

As a matter of fact,

right here is my block.

178 Amboy Street.

- Anybody know where that's at?

- ( cheering )

My memories are

of this place right, well...

well, not this place. I don't

remember it looking like this.

I remember broken windows,

graffiti,

dog sh*t on the sidewalk.

"A tree grows

in Brooklyn," my ass.

Spike...

Spike shot this sh*t

a few weeks before

our Broadway run.

But now there's white people

in the neighborhood,

as you know,

the Whole Foods.

And you know, once those

white people move in,

there goes

the neighborhood.

They will lock

your ass up.

At that time leaving

Bed-Stuy, "do or die,"

moving to Brownsville,

"never ran, never will,"

it was equivalent

to being born in hell

and then the devil

took you and moved you

into his toilet where he

could sh*t on you real good.

And that's what he did

to me and my family.

I can still see myself

and my friends

roaming the streets at all

hours of the day and night.

And I hung out

with a tough crew of kids.

But my street friends

were my family, of course.

And we all knew no one

was gonna give us anything.

We knew if we wanted anything,

we had to take it.

And that's

what we did a lot.

I'm 10 years old

right here.

I remember I scored a couple of

hundred bucks on a robbing spree.

I used to be a good

pickpocket back then.

I bought that new jacket,

this bomber jacket,

and I took this photo

at Woolworth's in a photo booth.

You remember Woolworth's?

Pitkin Avenue?

Woolworth's?

After taking this picture,

I caught the 14 bus

off Pitkin Avenue.

I went to Utica

Roller Skating Rink

to meet up with some

friends of mine.

Since we didn't

have nothing,

we took pride

in looking good.

Our clothes played a great role in

our identity and our self-esteem.

You weren't sh*t unless you

had some shell-toe Adidas

or straight-legged

jeans from Lee,

a Kangol hat and those big

stupid Star Wars ski goggles

even though

we couldn't ski.

Day of robbing spree would

also include keeping our eyes

on the other little kids in the neighborhood

that were robbing and stealing, too.

They were

always easy scores

and they could never

go back to the cops.

The worst thing that can happen

there is you'd have to fight

their big brother

or one of their friends.

But it's still easier

than getting locked up.

Man, we were like

a pack of wild wolves.

God forbid if you came

to our neighborhood

and we didn't know you.

We might have killed you.

And we could always

be found on a corner

unless we was hiding

from the cops.

We'd be there talking sh*t,

smoking weed,

gambling, drinking.

Night Train, Brass Monkey,

Olde English 800.

You name it, we drank it.

The cheaper the better.

That's real talk.

We'd sit around laughing

about our robbing spree,

splitting money and laughing

about almost getting caught.

It was always funny until you

were the one that got caught.

Sh*t, by the time

I was 12 years old,

I was arrested

over 38 times.

You know how it is.

The juvenile detention center

was like "Cheers. "

There, everybody

knew my name.

No, really.

No sh*t.

The whole of Brownsville

was locked up with me.

It was like one big

family reunion.

No, like a summer camp.

No, even better than that.

'Cause we got three hots

and a cot.

For most of us,

that was royal treatment.

But, you know,

when I wasn't locked up,

which wasn't too often,

only thing I enjoyed more

than stealing was my pigeons.

My first fight started

with one of my pigeons.

You know, Gary the bully

stole one of my pigeons

that I stole,

you know.

And I'm like 10

at the time.

"Give me my bird back. Please,

please, give me my bird back. "

"Shut the f*** up, nigga.

You dumb fat f***.

You want this motherfucking

bird? F*** you. "

And he snapped my bird... the

f***er, he snapped my bird's neck

and threw the blood on me

and hit me with the bird.

Then my rage let loose and I beat

Gary the bully's motherfucking ass.

- ( laughs )

- ( cheering )

It was love

at first fight.

It wouldn't be long before

I got a reputation

for being the good street

fighter in the neighborhood.

Older kids would bring other

kids from other neighborhoods

who were supposed to be

good street fighters

to come to my block

to fight me.

Well, actually, they had to come

to my block 'cause I was only 10.

My mother wouldn't

let me leave the block.

Anyway, we would go into

alleyways or abandoned buildings

and the older guys would bet

money on us, of course.

And they couldn't believe

I was a fat kid with glasses

and I was kicking these

kids' asses,

punching 'em, slamming 'em,

biting 'em, too, back then.

( cheering )

Oh, yeah, you know

you got to...

you know you got to bite the

motherfuckers to get them off your ass.

They might have you in

the headlock too tight,

right, and you got

that leg... arr-rr!

I was already a legend in the

making, at least in my mind.

I used my newfound talent

as an asset

to my new crime enterprise,

of course, right?

But I guess it wasn't

a good venture

because I got caught

and finally sent away.

Although I had a reputation

for being a good street fighter,

I still never thought about

being a boxer or prizefighter.

I just wanted to be remembered

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