Mike Tyson didn’t just lose a trainer when Kevin Rooney walked out of his corner—he lost the map to the very style that made him a force of nature. Back when Tyson was a teenager, barely 16, Kevin Rooney took him under his wing. Not as a friend, not as a hype man—but as a craftsman. A purist. A disciple of Cus D’Amato’s peek-a-boo system, Rooney wasn’t there to babysit Mike. He was there to shape him. And shape him he did. For the next seven years, Tyson wasn’t just a heavyweight. He was a storm wearing gloves. People remember the knockouts—the explosive finishes, the way grown men crumbled like scaffolding. But what they forget, or never truly saw, was the artistry in early Tyson. He wasn’t just a puncher. He was a rhythm, a blur of movement, precision, and pressure. He would slip punches by millimeters, then rip through ribs and chins with frightening efficiency. His footwork, his upper body movement, his ability to weave and then explode—it was all orchestrated. A controlled demolition guided by Rooney. Rooney once said, “He punched fast and hard. That’s a difficult combination to deal with.” But it wasn’t just about speed or power. It was about timing, angles, anticipation. He threw punches in bunches, not just to overwhelm, but to disorient. And above all, he couldn’t be hit. Watch those early fights—opponents swinging at air, frustration mounting with every missed jab and grazing hook. Then came the storm behind the storm—Don King. And Robin Givens. Two names that altered Tyson’s life more than any opponent he ever faced in the ring. The structure vanished. The discipline eroded. The noise replaced the silence of sacrifice. Kevin was gone. So was Steve Lott. Cayton was pushed aside. Anyone who once said "no" to Tyson was no longer in the room. Instead of long nights watching fight film, there were longer nights in clubs. The early morning runs were replaced with hangovers. His body, once a machine built on repetition and structure, started to show the cost of indulgence. His style decayed with him. Gone was the peek-a-boo movement. Gone was the tireless rhythm. Gone were the layers of combinations and that sublime defense. What emerged was a man relying on single, concussive punches—still powerful, still dangerous, but no longer elusive. No longer unpredictable. Just a headhunter, walking forward, hoping the first shot landed clean. CompuBox numbers tell the story Tyson's eyes couldn't. With Rooney, he was landing 56% of power shots—staggering for a heavyweight. He was outlanding opponents by a mile. Against Berbick, he landed more power shots than Berbick threw total punches. That's dominance. After Rooney? The numbers dropped. The success rate dipped. He started missing. Started absorbing. Eddie Futch, the wise old soul of boxing, didn’t mince words. He once said, “Under Cus and Rooney, Tyson was ready to go all night. Under the parade of clowns Don King brought in? No defense, no combinations, no gas.” And what about the intangibles—the mind, the spirit? Mike changed there too. With Rooney, there was purpose. There was fear—fear of failure, fear of Cus’s legacy being wasted. After Rooney, that fear turned into recklessness. Into isolation. Into rage. Kevin Rooney wasn't just the guy on the mitts. He was the last tie Mike had to the discipline that turned a broken kid into the youngest heavyweight champion the sport has ever seen. He was the voice saying no when everyone else said yes. So, did Mike Tyson change his boxing style after Kevin Rooney? Yes. But that’s the surface. He changed as a fighter, and more devastatingly, as a man. And that… that’s the real story. #MikeTyson #KevinRooney #BoxingHistory #TysonPrime #HeavyweightLegend #DonKing #BoxingStories #WhatWentWrong #PeekabooStyle #TysonLegacy