I
came to boxing in the late '80s and early '90s. At that point George
Foreman was the commentator for HBO Boxing, along with Jim Lampley and Larry
Merchant. I was aware that George Foreman was a former heavyweight champion and
also that he was staging a professional boxing comeback after a long absence. He was fighting often, but usually against no-hopers. His comeback was often dismissed as a novelty act or a vanity project.
My
first real exposure to Foreman was him wearing a tuxedo, calling fights and
always having an ear-to-ear grin on his face. Foreman and Merchant had an
entertaining double act in those days. Practically every broadcast Merchant
would react incredulously toward some statement that Foreman would make. While we all were watching the fights in the ring, the sparring between the broadcasters provided extra entertainment. Maybe Merchant
regarded much of what Foreman said as gibberish, believing that Big George was just
another member of the jockocracy who didn't have anything to offer other than his own biography. Maybe he believed that Foreman was
underprepared for the action in the ring. Or maybe Merchant was just
predisposed toward argument. It was Foreman's wide-eyed optimism vs. Merchant's inherent cynicism. It made for great television.
And many of Foreman's comments were dismissible. It often seemed as if he was watching a different fight than the rest of us. But every now and then he would offer a truly fascinating pearl of wisdom.
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| Image courtesy of Top Rank |
What I specifically learned from Foreman was "lean" and "mean." In a fight between big men, or a brutal bout that extended into the late rounds, if Foreman ever saw a fighter leaning on the other, he almost always would note how taxing that leaning was on the other fighter, how it could deplete the opponent. Foreman had been a master at using his physicality in the ring and I'm sure that he understood both sides of the "lean." It was a tactic that was often missed by other ring commentators; they dismissed it as clinching or getting a break, but George saw it differently. It was another way for a fighter to win, one that was often missed in the ensuing fight report the next day. Ultimately, it was a vital piece of information about how fights can be actually won or lost.
I
can still hear Foreman's voice in my head when a fighter is underperforming or unwilling to mix it up. "He has to get mean," Foreman would say.
To Foreman, much about boxing was a temperament issue. It's not that he wasn't
interested in X's and O's, but he understood that the intangibles, specifically
a fighter needing to do whatever it took to win, was paramount at the upper
reaches of the sport. Spite was needed. It was the hurt business after
all.
He
loved to look at a fighter's eyes and interject whether he thought that the
boxer had what it took on a psychological level to win. Was the will to win
present? Was the moment too big for the fighter? He was always keyed in on a
fighter's body language and temperament, and left the describing of the
fight action to others.
***
In the usual descriptions of George Foreman's stunning knockout win over Michael Moorer, where he became heavyweight champion for a second time, 20 years after his initial reign, Foreman's age was the main focus. Heavyweights weren't supposed to be world champions in their mid-40s. And in truth, that was quite a story!
But
to me, the overall unlikeliness of that event, the absurdity of it, had to do
with the final combination of the fight. Foreman flashed a jab and then threw
what looked like an arm punch with his right hand. And then Moorer splattered
on the canvas. It looked like a nothing punch. It wasn't an epic sequence that
led to the victory; no, it was a basic combination, and one that looked like it had
very little mustard on it.
However,
that final sequence demonstrated once again that Foreman had unusual power. He
didn't have great hand speed or torque with his punches; he just had
sledgehammers in his hands. Throughout his career, wins or losses, Foreman's
power played differently. He had unusual results: blasting out the destructive
force of Joe Frazier like it was taking a little kid's lunch money; nuking Ken Norton;
and forcing the great Muhammad Ali, the man who flew like a butterfly, to languish on the ropes out of desperation.
***
To
me, the first sign that Foreman's comeback was a serious proposition was his
fight against Holyfield in 1991. Holyfield had just beaten Buster Douglas to
become the heavyweight king and the Foreman fight was viewed as a way to make a
big money fight with little risk. Few gave Foreman a serious chance in the fight.
However,
Foreman blew up that narrative quickly and the first two-thirds of that
fight was one of the best heavyweight wars of the 1990's. Holyfield had faced
many punchers in his time at cruiserweight and heavyweight, yet he seemed, like
others before him, unprepared for Foreman's level of power. Here was a supreme
athlete with all of the tools, yet he had to spend significant portions of the
fight in recuperation or even survival mode. Foreman didn't have Holyfield's
speed, legs, coordination, or conditioning, but he blasted Holyfield in the
pocket at numerous times throughout the fight.
Holyfield
would eventually win the bout. He essentially outhustled Foreman and had much
more to give in the final third of the fight. But it was more than just an uncomfortable
night at the office for him. That night reminded the boxing world that Foreman was still a threat and demonstrated that Holyfield had real vulnerabilities when trading. Holyfield
would have another rough fight next against hard-hitting journeyman Bert
Cooper and would go on to lose in 1992 against Riddick Bowe. After Foreman, the
inevitability of Evander Holyfield was
now more uncertain.
***
Foreman's
first fight against Joe Frazier was just as absurd or unbelievable as the
Moorer bout. Frazier was the baddest man in boxing, the guy who decisively
beat Ali. And yet against Foreman, Frazier could barely stay
on his feet. Time after time, Foreman would pop Frazier with a big right hand
as Smokin' Joe would try to close the distance. And Frazier reacted like he was
on roller skates. Quickly his legs were gone. Frazier kept getting up and
Foreman kept knocking him down. Six times in two rounds. It was as if Foreman
was playing a different sport.
***
I
interviewed Cus D'Amato's biographer, Dr. Scott Weiss, many years ago. One
fascinating nugget that emerged during the interview was that D'Amato was
petrified about Foreman's style as it related to his young charge, Mike Tyson.
Now keep in mind, Foreman was still in his first retirement during those years,
but there were rumblings that he was about to return to the sport.
D'Amato
studied fight films with a zealotry that few possessed. He knew the strengths
and weakness of every fighter, of every style. And as much as he loved the
bob-and-weave for Tyson, he understood that there was a Kryptonite to the
style, a heavy puncher who could come underneath with either hand as Tyson was
trying to get in close. Foreman was so skilled in the pocket, so devastating
with short punches from either hand, that D'Amato advised
his team to avoid Foreman if at all possible. For as much as D'Amato
was about the art of overcoming fear, even by unconventional means like hypnosis, he was still spooked by a retired Foreman.
***
The Rumble in the Jungle occurred before I was born. And when I initially watched the fight, I had already known the outcome. But even with that knowledge, it was still a stunning result. Foreman spent round after round wailing away at Ali, who was stuck on the ropes. And these were not the short, thudding punches that I mentioned earlier. This was Foreman unloading with everything he possessed, physically and psychologically. He was determined to end Ali that night. But if we're being honest, there was also an element of fear in Foreman's performance, like if he stopped or took a rest, that bad things were going to happen.
The
Rope-a-Dope is perhaps the most famous strategic gambit in the history of
professional boxing. Perhaps it could only be achieved on that scale once. No one
could conceive of a fighter taking that much punishment from Foreman and simply
trying to outlast him. What fighter would even do that to himself? This was Ali
junking a game plan and deciding to go mano-a-mano, not with technique or
power, but with sheer will. Ali figured out early that he could not win a regular
fight against Foreman. He was outgunned. But he thought that he was mentally
stronger, and on that night he was.
***
The
Foreman fight against Jimmy Young in 1977 was the one that made him go into retirement for the first time.
And it's a tough watch. Foreman isn't even 30 yet in the fight, but he looked
so listless during large portions of the match, like he had completely run out of
ideas.
Young
came into the fight with an unimpressive record (20-5-2) but don't let that
fool you. Many thought that Young had beaten Ali the prior year. He had also
authored a convincing win over Ron Lyle, whereas Foreman had previously gone
life-and-death with Lyle.
Young
was a slippery defensive fighter from Philadelphia and if I said earlier that
Foreman looked like he was playing a different sport than others, so was Young.
Young was a non-puncher, but more than that, he was unconcerned with power. He
was an angles fighter who would often stick his body or head between the ropes
to get an unconventional line of attack on an opponent. He could glide around
the ring, but he was also incredibly awkward. He was an expert at using his
forearms and elbows to maneuver an opponent into a hitting position or to
escape damage. Perhaps the closest the heavyweight division has seen to Young
in the last 40 years has been Chris Byrd, but Byrd was far more conventional.
Foreman against Young was an example of a guy trying to kill a bee with an ax. The axman would swing at air and then the bee would come back around to sting the big, bad aggressor. The process continued on an inescapable loop. Foreman could not handle that type of fight. He looked so far removed from the killer of the '70s. He seemed dispirited in the ring.
But his spirit would soon return. He maintains that immediately after the Young fight was where Jesus called to him. He would leave the sport, become a preacher. His life forever changed.
***
For a final absurd Foreman bout, check out the five-round slugfest against Ron Lyle from 1976, which was one of the decade's best fights. This was Foreman's first fight after Ali and it was clear to me that he wasn't quite all the way back to his best. Lyle was a tough dude, a good puncher and someone who was rough on the inside, and Foreman's legs just didn't look right to me.
The two went to war and it's still amazing to see how badly hurt Foreman is in
the fight and yet somehow pulls off an almost miraculous reversal of fortune to
get the knockout win. Throughout all of Foreman's career, I believe that he had
never been as busted up as he was here, even against Ali.
And
if one of Foreman's weaknesses during the first phase of his career was a
questionable psychological will, here is the counter to that narrative. Foreman
was completely battered in the fight, sprawling on the canvas, a second or two from the fight being stopped. But he finds a way. He summons the
courage. I have no idea how he pulled out that win. In a career full of
remarkable feats, his victory over Lyle was his most impressive to me. Not
because it was a dominant showing or a clean victory, but it was an example of
Foreman being more than a bully or a gifted puncher. No, here he stared at the
abyss, but he wasn't going to let it take him that day. He would prevail.
***
Throughout Foreman's second career as an active fighter and in his later years, he was one of the best interviews in the sport. Humble almost to a fault, he was exceedingly gracious regarding those whom he had shared the ring with, even the fighters who had beaten him. He hilariously referred to himself as the "Dope" when recounting the Rumble in the Jungle.
Foreman wasn't burdened by the negative aspects of pride. He seemed
comfortable with his life. He knew that he had made a mark and didn't feel the
need to remind others of his accomplishments. That he believed life was a blessing, and that he
had become a blessed man, was evident in his words and deeds.
Most
refreshingly, Foreman, unlike many past greats, always had time for a kind word
for the top fighters who came after him. He often would
praise fighters like Manny Pacquiao or Tyson Fury. He didn't believe that the best of boxing ended with his retirement and those of his contemporaries. He understood that the sport evolved, that
athletes changed, and that greatness could be defined in any era.
His passing on Friday marked the end of a sunnier time of boxing for many. When Foreman was king, the world cared about boxing in a much more profound way than it does today. I'm sure that Foreman's death to many represented even more than the passing of a man, but with it, another reminder of a past that most likely will never return.
But
Foreman's later years were not marked by bitterness toward the sport. He
understood that greatness was still within it. He knew that boxing gave him a
life and a platform to do well and to do good. It's a sport that provides
opportunities for the downtrodden, the deadenders, like Foreman himself claimed
that he once was. It can be a sport of uplift, of grace and of transformation. Those characteristics remain. There is still good in boxing. Foreman saw
that. And perhaps we should remind ourselves of that too. For all of boxing's
myriad problems, which we all can recite without notes or preparation, the good
that it contains should never be forgotten. That's what Big George understood.
