Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth Page #2

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that moved up north and

tried to live out her dreams

that never came to form.

I was the youngest

of three children.

My brother Rodney

and my sister Denise,

they were more

like my mother.

I always felt like the

odd guy, the black sheep.

Ooh, ooh, ooh.

And this guy right here,

this is my father

Curly Lee Kirkpatrick.

Wait a minute.

Now, if Curly Kirkpatrick

is supposed to be my father,

then who the f*** is this

dude on my birth certificate?

This is where the sh*t

gets really tricky, right?

So...

listen to this.

My mom said Curly's my dad,

but Percel f***ing Tyson

is on the birth certificate.

How did this happen?

No wonder I'm so f***ed up.

Here's the early proof.

I'm still not sure who the hell

my father really is.

Curly was the pimp.

You know, Percel was the humble

Jamaican cab driver.

A sucker.

I so desperately wanted to be

the son of the pimp

because in my neighborhood of

Brownsville, that carries weight.

So if Curly really wasn't

my father,

him and my mother

must have made some deal

that once a year

you come around

and show your manhood,

show fatherhood.

And this is what he'd do.

He'd come around.

He always had a nice

Cadillac, of course.

And he'd come around,

beep the horn.

Boop, boop.

"Oh, God, Daddy's downstairs.

Look at his car, Daddy. "

"Get down here,

you little motherfuckers!"

And so, of course, we'd get

in the car happy, excited,

thinking we're gonna go

to some exotic place

like Coney Island.

Or Bear Mountain.

But, you know, that was some good

sh*t when you're broke back in the day.

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.

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