The Iron Legacy: Reincarnated as Mike Tyson's Son

Chapter 2: The Weight of the Gloves

Chapter 2: The Weight of the Gloves

The roar of the crowd still echoed in his ears, the ring lights now blinding in their intensity. His heart raced, but there was no time to enjoy the fleeting victory. The opponent had crumpled to the floor, barely conscious, but the real fight was just beginning. It wasn’t the physical battle in the ring that he had to worry about. It was the fight for control over his own life, his own identity.

The young man stood there for a moment, fists still clenched, staring at the fallen figure in the ring. His breath came in heavy, ragged gasps. His body felt alive with adrenaline, yet his mind was a battlefield of confusion. His reflection in the side of the ring was distorted, but still enough to remind him of who he was now. Or rather, who he was supposed to be.

Mike Tyson's son.

He could hear his father's voice in the back of his mind, a deep, commanding presence that never seemed to fade. "Get up, boy." The words rang in his head, louder than any crowd. They weren’t just a call to rise from the canvas of his opponent; they were a reminder that this life, his life, was tethered to a name that carried weight. A name that demanded respect, fear, and expectation.

He turned away from the ring, pacing to the side. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He hadn’t asked for this. He didn’t choose this. But he was in it now, for better or worse.

The locker room door swung open, and a familiar figure entered — an older man, tall and broad-shouldered, his face weathered with age and experience. His features were sharp, but his eyes held a softness that betrayed years of watching over the young fighter. It was Cus D’Amato, Mike Tyson's legendary trainer, a man who had shaped Tyson into the champion he was.

"Kid," Cus said, his voice steady but carrying the gravity of the moment. "You did well out there. But this? This is just the beginning."

The words stung more than they should have. "I didn’t ask for this," he replied, his voice rough, more to himself than to Cus. "I didn’t ask to be... him."

Cus eyed him closely, his expression unreadable. "You don’t have to be him. But you have to be something. That much, I can guarantee."

The young man shook his head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I don’t know who I am. This body, these hands—" He held them up, fists balled tight, trembling slightly with both anger and confusion. "I’m not him. I don’t want to be him."

Cus stepped closer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "You don’t have to wear the gloves to be a fighter, kid. You have a choice. But the choice doesn’t come without its price. You have your own destiny to carve out of this ring. But if you let the world tell you who to be, you’ll never find it."

The weight of those words settled heavily on his chest, sinking deep into his bones. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be — not yet. He had been reborn, yes, but reborn into the legacy of a legend. Mike Tyson’s son. The boxer who had shaken the world with his fists. The question lingered in his mind: Could he ever escape that shadow? Or was his life destined to be nothing more than a footnote in his father’s story?

He looked at Cus, feeling a mix of anger and doubt boiling inside him. "How do I even start?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly.

Cus smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. "By understanding that you’re not just Mike Tyson's son. You’re more than that. You’re you, and that’s what makes you dangerous."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t an answer, not really. But it was a lifeline, a thread he could hold onto as the storm of his identity raged inside him.

Just then, the door to the locker room creaked open again, this time revealing a tall, imposing figure that he instantly recognized. His father. Mike Tyson.

He was older now, his face lined with time and experience, but the aura of a champion still surrounded him. There was no mistaking the presence that Mike Tyson carried — the same presence that had terrified opponents and left fans in awe.

He stared at his son, his gaze penetrating, yet somehow unreadable. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The young man couldn’t look away. He had spent his entire life hearing about the legend of Mike Tyson, but this — this was the man himself, standing right before him.

"You did good," Tyson finally said, his voice low but carrying the weight of a man who had seen it all. "But you need to know something. This game? It doesn’t give you any favors. You either sink or you swim."

The words echoed in the young man’s mind, reverberating like the sound of a bell tolling in the distance.

"Yeah," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I get it."

But did he? Did he really understand what it meant to be Mike Tyson's son? Or was he simply pretending to fit into a life that wasn’t his own?

Tyson watched him for a moment longer before giving a nod of approval. "Get some rest, kid. You’ll need it."

With that, he turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing in the hallway. The young man stood there for a long time after, staring at the empty doorway, feeling a wave of loneliness wash over him. He could feel the pressure — the pressure to live up to his father's name, to be the man everyone expected him to be. But deep down, he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t outrun the truth.

Mike Tyson’s shadow would always loom over him. The only question was whether or not he would be able to stand in it without breaking.