Give me your wallet now.

Mike Tyson looked at the knife, then at the two men blocking his path in the dark parking garage.

You sure about this? He asked calmly.

The man with the knife stepped closer, his hand shaking slightly, but his voice trying to sound confident.

I said, “Give me your fucking wallet.”

” Mike didn’t move, didn’t reach for his pocket, just stood there, car keys still in his hand, looking at them with an expression that was hard to read in the dim light.

“Last chance,” the man said.

“Wallet, phone, watch, everything.

” “Mike sighed.

You’re making a mistake.

” “No,” the second man said from behind his partner.

“You’re making the mistake.

Just give us what we want and nobody gets hurt.

” What happened in the next 10 seconds left one man on the ground gasping for air, the other running for his life, and Mike Tyson calmly getting into his car like nothing had happened.

The parking garage was nearly empty, the kind of concrete structure attached to upscale restaurants and event venues in Manhattan.

It was around 11 p.m.

on a weekend night in late 2024.

Mike Tyson, now in his late 50s, had just finished a business dinner at a restaurant on the second floor.

The dinner had gone well.

Discussions about a potential documentary project, some laughs, good food.

He’d said his goodbyes to his associates in the restaurant and headed down to the garage alone.

Mike was dressed casually, but nicely, dark jeans, a button-down shirt, a leather jacket.

He had his car keys in one hand, his phone in the other, checking messages as he walked.

His car was parked on the lower level in a section that was poorly lit and relatively isolated.

Most people parked closer to the elevators, but Mike had arrived early and taken one of the first spots he’d seen.

As he walked through the garage, his footsteps echoing slightly off the concrete, Mike had that awareness that comes from years of being in the public eye, and years of understanding that not every situation is safe.

He noticed things, the lack of other people, the shadows between cars, the fact that the security cameras in this section seemed to be pointed the wrong way.

Two men had been in the garage for about 20 minutes, watching cars come and go, looking for an opportunity.

They were in their 20s and early 30s.

The one with the knife was white, maybe 32, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans.

His partner was Latino, younger, maybe 26, also in dark clothes.

They weren’t professional criminals, just desperate guys who decided that robbing someone in a parking garage was easier than getting a job.

They’d watched Mike walk from the elevator toward his car.

They saw a well-dressed older man alone, distracted by his phone, wearing expensive looking clothes and what appeared to be a nice watch, an easy target.

They didn’t recognize him.

They had no idea who Mike Tyson was.

To them, he was just another rich guy in Manhattan who wouldn’t put up a fight.

They let him get about halfway to his car, then moved to intercept, positioning themselves between Mike and his vehicle.

The man with the knife had the weapon in his jacket pocket, ready to pull it out for intimidation.

Mike noticed them moving before they reached him.

He saw the positioning, one in front, one slightly behind, into the side classic mugging formation.

He stopped walking, standing about 10 ft from them, and waited.

help you with something?” Mike asked, his voice neutral.

The man with the knife pulled it out.

A folding knife, maybe a 4-in blade, the kind you buy at a hardware store.

He didn’t point it directly at Mike yet, just held it visibly at his side.

“Yeah, you can help us,” he said.

“We need some money.

Give us your wallet.

” Mike looked at the knife, then at the two men.

His expression didn’t show fear, didn’t show anger, just a kind of tired resignation like this was something that happened more often than it should.

“You don’t want to do this,” Mike said.

“We’re doing it,” the second man said, trying to sound tough.

“Wallet, phone, watch, hand them over, and we walk away.

” “Simple.

” “Nothing simple,” Mike replied.

“You’re making choices right now that you’re going to regret.

” The man with the knife stepped closer, getting within about 6 f feet of Mike.

“Stop talking and give me your [ __ ] I’m not playing.

” “Neither am I,” Mike said quietly.

The knife came up, pointed at Mike now.

“Give me your wallet now.

” Mike looked at the knife, then at the two men blocking his path in the dark parking garage.

“You sure about this?” he asked calmly.

The man with the knife stepped closer, his hand shaking slightly, but his voice trying to sound confident.

I said, “Give me your [ __ ] wallet.

” The second man, sensing his partner might be losing control of the situation, added pressure.

“Man, just do what he says.

We don’t want to hurt you, but we will.

” Mike set his phone in his jacket pocket slowly, keeping his movements visible and non-threatening.

The two men watched, thinking he was about to comply, about to reach for his wallet.

“Last chance,” the man with the knife said, stepping even closer, now about 4 ft away.

“Wallet, phone, watch, everything.

” “You’re making a mistake,” Mike repeated.

“No, old man,” the knife holder said.

“You’re making the mistake if you don’t.

” Mike moved.

It was fast, faster than either man expected from someone his age.

His right foot came up in a precise, controlled front kick that connected with the knife holder’s wrist.

The kick wasn’t wild or desperate.

It was technical, the kind of movement that comes from decades of training in combat sports.

The impact sent the knife flying from the man’s hand.

It clattered across the concrete garage floor, spinning and sliding until it stopped about 15 ft away under a parked car.

The knife holder stood there for a moment, shocked, looking at his empty hand, trying to process what had just happened.

Mike didn’t give him time to recover.

His second kick came immediately after the first, a powerful front kick to the man’s groin.

Not fancy, not complicated, just brutally effective.

The kind of kick that ends confrontations.

The man doubled over instantly, a strangled sound escaping his throat, and collapsed to his knees before falling sideways onto the concrete.

He curled into a fetal position, gasping, unable to speak or move.

The entire sequence, knife kick, groin kick, man on the ground, took maybe 3 seconds.

The second man stood frozen, watching his partner writhing on the ground.

For a moment, he couldn’t process it.

They were supposed to be robbing this guy.

They had a knife.

They had the advantage.

And now his partner was on the ground in agony, and the knife was gone.

Mike turned to look at him.

You want to help your friend or you want to try something stupid? The second man’s survival instincts finally kicked in.

This wasn’t an easy target.

This wasn’t some scared businessman.

This was someone who knew exactly what he was doing who just disarmed a knife and dropped a man in seconds.

I We didn’t.

The second man stammered, backing up.

Mike took a step forward.

You didn’t what? Didn’t mean to try to rob me.

Didn’t mean to threaten me with a weapon.

We’re sorry, man.

We’re leaving.

We’re just.

Help your friend, Mike said, gesturing to the man still curled up on the ground.

Get him out of here.

The second man rushed to his partner who was still gasping and groaning.

Come on, man.

We got to go.

Get up.

We got to go.

He tried to help his partner to his feet, but the man could barely stand.

The second man ended up half carrying, half dragging him, supporting his weight as they stumbled toward the garage exit.

Go.

The injured managed to gasp.

Just go.

They moved as fast as they could, which wasn’t very fast given the injury, heading toward the exit ramp.

The second man kept glancing back at Mike, terrified that he might follow, but Mike just stood there watching them leave.

Before we continue, drop your thoughts in the comments below.

Was Mike right to defend himself, or should he have just given them what they wanted? Now, back to the story.

Mike walked over to where the knife had slid under the parked car.

He bent down, picked it up carefully by the blade, and looked at it for a moment.

A cheap folding knife, the kind that cost maybe $15.

The kind desperate people use because they can’t afford anything better.

He walked to a nearby trash recepticle and dropped the knife into it, then returned to his car.

As he unlocked his door and got in, he could still see the two men in the distance, one supporting the other, making their way toward the street.

They were moving urgently but struggling, the injured man still in obvious pain.

Mike sat in his car for a moment, engine off, just processing what had happened.

Another confrontation, another situation where someone had made assumptions about him based on age or appearance, thinking he’d be easy prey.

He pulled out his phone and briefly considered calling the police.

Two men had tried to rob him at knife point.

That was a serious crime.

He had every right to report it.

But he didn’t.

He knew what would happen.

Police report, possible media attention, the story getting out becoming a thing.

Mike Tyson fights off muggers in parking garage.

Headlines, interviews, the whole circus.

He was tired of being a story.

Sometimes it was better to just let things end quietly.

Mike started his car and drove toward the exit.

As he passed the area where the two men had been, he saw they’d made it to the street level and were limping away into the night.

The injured man still being supported by his partner.

Those two men would probably never know who they tried to rob.

They’d tell the story.

We tried to mug this guy and he kicked the knife out of my hand and dropped me in seconds.

But they wouldn’t have a name to attach to it.

Just some older guy who’d surprise them with skills they didn’t expect.

Or maybe eventually they’d figure it out.

Maybe they’d see Mike on TV or in a video and recognition would dawn.

That was him.

That was Mike Tyson.

We tried to rob Mike Tyson.

And if that realization ever came, they’d probably feel a mix of terror and gratitude.

Terror at how badly it could have gone.

Gratitude that Mike had shown restraint.

Mike drove home, the incident already fatting into the background of his mind.

It wasn’t the first time someone had tried something like this, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

Being famous, being recognizable meant dealing with all kinds of attention, including the dangerous kind.

Those two men thought they’d picked a well-dressed older guy who wouldn’t fight back.

Instead, they picked someone with decades of combat training who knew exactly how to end a threat efficiently and quickly.

They ran into the night, one limping badly, probably never knowing whose path they’d crossed.

And Mike Tyson went home, added another story to his collection of times when someone made the wrong choice, and moved on with his evening like nothing had happened.

Because for Mike at this point in his life, that’s what it was.

Just another night, just another situation handled, just another reminder that some lessons are learned the hard way by people who refuse to see them coming.

They thought they’d chosen an easy target.

They were wrong and they learned it in 10 seconds.