“I’m always crying,” says Mike Tyson, in a voice so low and meek, I have to lean across his gigantic, L-shaped white leather sofa to hear it. “I should have done better than what I am. My addiction. What I did with my family. The way I dealt with my finances. The way I dealt with my relationships with other people. The way I dealt with myself.” He looks at me, eyes shining. “There’s a whole bunch of stuff … but I don’t let it ruin my life. It can’t ruin my life.”
It’s a bright spring morning in the mountains above Henderson, Nevada, but the mood inside Tyson’s 10,000 sq ft, dictator-grade mansion in the gated and heavily guarded Seven Hills community is positively