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By Root 558 0

Ali was ready to meet George Foreman for the title in 1974 in Africa, he got high marks, across-the-board respect for his courage and character as a performer, trailed by cemetery whispers, a genuine concern for his life and limb. George Foreman! A true beast! Why, he can jackknife a heavy bag with one punch! No big deal here; heavy bags become supple over time, and even a Boys Club novice could give it a bend. Ali would never tumble to that intelligence from Foreman’s camp. Big George never concentrated Ali’s mind like Frazier. He knew the style book by rote. While the press might fret over the outcome, Foreman’s youth, size, strength, and punch capability against Ali’s descent to mortal—he knew that George had none of the volume of Joe, that he was slow, that his punches came in lethargic, single blows like soldiers in a ragged march and, most of all, he was poorly conditioned and emotionally uncentered. George was not managed or trained properly, either; there had been too many voices in his ear, in and out of the ring.

Foreman was a morose young man, often angry and given to deep pit stops in attitude. His models were Sonny Liston and Jim Brown, the kind unafraid (to Foreman) to “throw people out of windows.” Ali first saw him on TV when George won the Olympics in the black-revolt Mexico City Games. He ran around the ring waving a little American flag, and Ali said: “Look at that fool jumpin’ around. Who’s he tryin’ to bullshit? He can punch some. Might make some money with him.” They later met in 1969 in a Miami gym. Ali said to him: “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He came back with a briefcase. George envisioned it containing hundred dollar bills, or maybe Ali’s title belt. He opened the case, revealing a telephone, then said: “Can call any place in the world in a second. Nice, huh? Become a champ and you’ll have one.” George just looked at him: “Is that it?” Ali replied: “You think I was gonna give you something for nothing.” George went back to the heavy bag, with Ali yelling: “Harder! Harder!”

That was about the size of it in Zaire, with Ali in his most cerebral fight, a virtuoso performance of mind over the stone age matter of Foreman, as he urged George to hit harder and harder. All Ali asked from Angelo Dundee was that he made sure the ropes had a lot of give to them, and the ring apron was tightened for speed. The looseness of the ropes would allow him to hang there with his long arms so he could sway and time George’s single, awkward blows or to tie his arms up. Dundee had no idea what Ali was planning. Old Archie Moore in George’s corner saw it right away, yelling: “Oh, no, you beautiful thief! I see what you’re doing.” It was the “turtle shell” that Archie taught him years ago. Archie tried to tell George about the scheme in the corner. George waved him off, saying: “He’s a tired old man.” George had a fatal love affair with his strength and punch. Ali had wanted him up close so he could measure his blows, feel that strength recede minute to minute. By the eighth, Ali took the action, feeling that George was ripe for picking, to the center of the ring and knocked him out; he was champion again with another diamond to his collection.

The result stunned the world and its press, and destroyed George, it seemed, forever. He faded out of sight, declared that he talked with God after a bad outing against Jimmy Young, and ended up, after some hard living, on Houston street corners preaching and being mocked. For years he claimed that he had been poisoned in Zaire, still amazed that his strength had left him so quickly. The hard verities of style were lost on him. There is no more vital calibration. When styles do not fit, they stick out like woolly mammoths in subtropical weather; nothing can save the bout. When they are matched (and it is rare), fighters complement each other with their own superior values, and the event has a chance to be memorable. Well, it might be asked, how was Foreman able to dispose of Frazier so easily? No three fighters illustrate the fixity of the equation of style. Big George would