Mike Tyson’s story is of a journey from the bottom to the top, and back to the bottom. If you saw one of his later fights–like against Lennox Lewis–you would assume him to be overrated, if not a joke. If you had seen him in action on his way to becoming the youngest heavyweight champion in history, you would realize how far he fell.

In the days after Tyson’s one-round knockout of Carl “The Truth” Williams, many a casual sports consumer opined that nobody in the game could beat him. I pointed to a smart, skilled light-heavyweight named Evander Holyfield and told anybody who would listen, “If anybody could do it, he could.”

Unknown to most of us, or at least under-appreciated, Tyson’s personal life was a hot mess at the time and his self-destruction was already underway. In his first fight with Frank Bruno, careful observers noted the cracks appearing in his armor. He was no longer a well-oiled wrecking machine. More like a powerful-but-lazy brawler.

Tyson’s mentor/trainer/father figure, Cus D’Amato, had died. For a while his fighting discipline was maintained by trainer Kevin Rooney, but Tyson fired Rooney and replaced him with a posse of sycophants and Yes Men. His skills diminished and his motivation died. He was ripe for demolition when he arrived in Tokyo for his fateful match against a journeyman heavyweight motivated to give the performance of a lifetime.

It’s tragic that once all that talent was stripped off Tyson (by himself, mostly) there was just an ugly little person underneath. But honestly, that is the case with most celebrities. Our culture tends to worship people with Tier One talent, and/or beauty. But those things are gifts, not some outward manifestation of inner goodness.

Having followed Evander Holyfield from before he moved up to Heavyweight, I recognized him for an exceptional warrior. Even as a light-heavy, he never had the power to match Tyson (very few in history have ever had a punch like Iron Mike did), but he was smart, disciplined, had knockout power…plus miles and miles of heart.

The documentary portrays Holyfield as a disrespected hard luck fighter who struggled to emerge from under Tyson’s shadow. It’s an interesting perspective, new to me, because I recognized Evander’s potential from way back (serious fight fans had watched him since the Olympics).

Holyfield chased a title match against Tyson from when Iron Mike truly was “the baddest man on the planet.” It’s like a tragicomedy how, every time he got close to his goal, fate stepped in to deny him, time and time again.

After a long, winding path to get there, Holyfield finally got his shot. The Tyson he fought was not the fearsome juggernaut of the past, but neither was he the one-diminsional target who faced Lewis and Douglas.

Evander beat him soundly.

Then, in the infamous rematch, Tyson manifested his inner turmoil for the world to see in all its vile ugliness. Instead of channeling his anger into his fists, as Cus D’Amato had taught him, he took the coward’s way out in an unprecedented foul that ended the fight (he tried to bite Holyfield’s ear off).

Because the film maker slanted the history into such a hard luck narrative, I disagree with many assessments offered, and am disappointed that many facts are missing or touched on so briefly as to seem irrelevant.

To me, the tragic, hard luck aspect of the whole story is that, because of their performance during the downhill slides of their respective careers, history won’t remember what world-class fighters both of these men once were.

I’ve been at this point before–where I’m convinced the entertainment industry is incapable of producing any movie other than formulaic pap, recycled vehicles from decades past, chick-flicks (overt or disguised) or “social justice” agitprop. Then I stumble across something like My All-American, and am amazed that something worth watching can still slip through the cracks.

There are only so many plot variations to be utilized in a jock story, so, granted: one can argue that this film should be included in the “formulaic pap” comment I made above. In fact, you might note many similarities between this movie and Rudy and The Express (or, going back farther, to Brian’s Song, or, changing sports, The Natural). Nevertheless, this biopic should be celebrated by red pill masculists everywhere–especially those raising a son, yearning for something worth watching together.

My All-American tells the story of Freddy Steinmark, who was born to play football. Gifted with natural athletic ability, his father, while working two jobs to support the family, pushed Freddy to relentlessly expand on his talent with rigorous conditioning. His mother (a stay-at-home mom, it seems) was on-board with her son’s disciplined upbringing, complimenting her husband’s stern agenda with loving encouragement.

That family dynamic may not have been so unusual in the stories of yesteryear, but it is downright alien in the reality of America today.

Not only is the home life of Steinmark idiosyncratic in our present cultural context, but Freddy himself was exceptional, in any time and place. He is the model of what a young man should be–and what most parents would once have aspired to raise. To list his positive qualities would make this post too long, but I’ll list three that would seem to be diametrically opposed in any other film coming out of Homowood, Commiefornia. He is:

• Forthright
• Humble
• Thoroughly masculine

Ah, crap, I have to list a couple more. The Freddy Steinmark of this film shows the guts, determination and toughness that once exemplified the average American male. Considered too small for most college football programs to take him seriously, there is no “quit” in him, and he fights an uphill battle toward a full-ride scholarship with the Texas Longhorns. I should mention here that other players on the team, and the coach, are developed just enough to make me want to read the book for more details. Despite Steinmark being a terror at defensive back, the team was a team, not a one-man-show. I’m thankful for the authenticy of the film’s depiction of how a football team works (or can work, anyway) from the inside.

One very interesting subplot depicts the starting quarterback–a phenomenal player with a cannon arm–losing his position to a fourth-stringer with better instincts for reading opposing defenses, and who more readily adapts to the coach’s new “triple option” offensive scheme.

Though he is a devout Catholic, Steinmark’s portrayal (by Finn Wittrock) is a case study in Christian integrity–not the wussified churchianity so en vogue on both sides of the pulpit in pretty much every denomination today. Even the leading lady’s (Sarah Bolger) portrayal is a departure from the obligatory grrrrl power! cliche`s rammed down our collective throats everywhere else. The only time she gets “assertive” with boyfriend Freddy, it is due to genuine concern over his well-being. (Director Angelo Pizzo, however, does overdo it trying to milk our emotions in a few smarmy scenes no doubt included to appeal to the females in the audience.)

I’m not sure how faithful the movie is to the true story of Freddy Steinmark, though it does ring true. In any case, you won’t find many movies made since the early 1960s or so which present unabashed manhood in such a positive light.