Maybe you know him from the ring in the 1980s.

Perhaps you recognized him in The Hangover in the 2000s.

Regardless, we can all agree on one thing, can't we?

What we saw alongside Jake Paul under the big top in Dallas wasn't what anyone wants to remember about Mike Tyson.

Whether you view "Iron Mike" as an all-time great or you simply enjoyed his cameo KO of Zach Galifianakis, it was in no one's best interest to see a stiff, stationary 58-year-old repeatedly punched in the mouth by a high-profile wannabe young enough to be his son.

It was embarrassing. It was unnecessary. And we're all better off that it's over, particularly because Tyson walked and wasn't carried from the ring.

But it wasn't really him anyway.

Though Paul and the social media horde can claim otherwise, the guy from whom the "Problem Child" stood across Friday night bore no meaningful resemblance to the one who terrorized the heavyweights before meeting his Waterloo against Buster Douglas in Tokyo.

Oh sure, the name was the same. The tattoos, faded by years of hard living, were the same ones that had once stretched over taut muscles. And the pre-fight ring walk, down to the basic towel and no socks, was at least similar to ones we'd seen made before.

Thanks to our pals at Netflix, we know the cheeks match up, too.

The fighter, though? No, not so much.

But there is some good news. It won't leave a scar.

Though Boxrec now lists Paul with Lennox Lewis and Evander Holyfield among Tyson's conquerors, his Friday night "victory"—secured under bastardized rules blessed by a dubious commission—does nothing to compromise a rational version of his in-ring legacy.

Tyson, of course, made his feelings known to a mortified teenage influencer when asked about the L-word.

"Can you really imagine somebody saying, 'I want my legacy to be this way?' You're dead!" he told jazzysworldtv during fight week. "You think somebody really wants to think about you? What's the audacity to think, 'I want people to think about me when I'm gone?' Who the f--k cares about me when I'm gone?"

He's not entirely wrong. But on the off-chance there's concern the debacle at Jerry Jones' palace will have adverse long-term impact, here are three reasons it won't:

Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky and Brett Favre.

The go-to memories are of Jordan in black and red, Gretzky in orange and blue and Favre in green and gold—the colors they wore winning championships, setting records and becoming dream journal targets for anyone aiming to shoot, score or scramble.

None of them, though, ended where they began.

Jordan started 120 forgettable games with Washington. Gretzky spent 11 title-less years in Los Angeles, St. Louis and New York after hoisting Cups in Edmonton. And Favre played three NFL seasons in two cities as an ex-Packer but never consistently hit the high notes he'd managed as an ironman in Green Bay.

And yet, their legendary status remains.

It's hardly unique when a fighter overstays his welcome either.

Ray Robinson lost five fights in his last six months. Ray Leonard didn't go the distance with slap-hitter Hector Camacho. Bernard Hopkins was knocked from the ring by a guy who hadn't been conceived at the time he turned pro. Even Tyson, exactly 7,098 days before Friday, surrendered to a 6-foot-6 Irish journeyman.

All were hard to watch.

But they didn't and won't dent their Hall of Fame plaques.

Would everyone feel better had the heroes ridden off as recollected—MJ with the Bulls, the "Great One" with the Oilers, Favre with the Packers?

Sure.

And it's no different for "Iron Mike," who became history's youngest heavyweight champion and set a standard for menace that's barely been approached let alone surpassed.

But even if he called out the rest of Paul's clan from the nursing home, it wouldn't alter footage, erase good times or jeopardize regard aggregated as he scaled summits most rivals never pondered. Why? Because the memories are permanent.

And so, too, are the legacies.