The Greatest

by Walter Dean Myers

  Was Ali back? Was he again the Ali who had been barred from boxing from twenty-five to twenty-eight, a fighter’s peak performance years? People who should have known better declared that the real Ali had returned.

  * * *

  Who was the real Ali? Few people could claim to truly know the man. To begin to know Ali, one first had to know what it was like to be black in the American South before the civil rights movement. Cassius Clay, Sr., had learned his “place” as a black man. He had learned that his place was in the back of the bus and in the “colored” waiting room in the train station. He knew not to sit down in certain restaurants, and he knew that he would be addressed by his first name or be called “boy” until he was an old man, at which time he would be called “uncle.”

  The bus lines didn’t run very regularly in the black sections of Louisville. Adults who had cars used them, and younger people, including Cassius Clay, rode bicycles. Riding a bicycle meant avoiding the humbling experience of having to sit in the back of buses.

  In the fifties, Muhammad Ali had to balance the segregated South of his youth with the world of opportunity that boxing brought him. He had to discover which was real, and which existed for him only because he was the heavyweight champion of the world.

  Ali had two sets of role models. One was that of the respectable fighters such as Joe Louis and Archie Moore. But Ali saw how America had treated Joe Louis. Louis had served in the army, had done the right thing, and yet had still been forced to fight long after his prime by a government not forgiving enough to see past his tax problems. Joe Louis had ended his career with a humiliating knockout at the hands of twenty-nine-year-old Rocky Marciano. Ali witnessed the end of Archie Moore’s career and saw the ancient Archie climbing into the ring with men half his age.

  After the 1968 Olympic protests, Jesse Owens, the spectacular sprinter from the 1936 games, was called to speak to the young black athletes. Ali saw pictures of Owens confronting the young black men, telling them that race had no business in the Olympics, only to have them counter with how America had quickly discarded the most exciting man in track and field after the Berlin games had finished.

  Ali was a child of the television age. As television brought the Vietnam War and the civil rights movement into American homes, it also brought Muhammad Ali. If there was such a thing as a new breed of black man, Ali was its ideal. Blessed with talent and determination, he was the voice not only of young black men, but of young people everywhere.

  Ali was also of the generation that saw the assassinations of Americans who had stood up for humanity. John F. Kennedy. Malcolm X. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Robert Kennedy. The four students protesting the war at Kent State University who were killed by National Guardsmen. Ali had spoken out against the war in Vietnam before it was politically correct to do so. And stood up for what he believed in and was willing to pay the price for his beliefs.

  Above all, Ali was a fighter, and to the altar of his fame and fortune, he brought his body. He took the punishment, bore the pain when it was the only way he could win, and endured when others would have failed. He knew what that sacrifice meant. And he especially knew what it meant to stay in the game that had always been meant for younger, faster, stronger men.

  Ali’s next fight was scheduled for October 30, 1974. It would be held in Kinshasa, the capital of Zaire, in central Africa. Who was the real Ali? Once again, the world was about to find out.

  Muhammad Ali was no longer at the top of his game. He arrived in Zaire a fighter whose principal weapons, speed of foot and speed of hand, were failing him. Newspapers from around the world had sent reporters to the third largest country in Africa, many believing they had come to witness the demise of The Greatest.

  George Foreman was twenty-five, a bull of a man who destroyed everything before him. Ali had struggled mightily against Norton, but Foreman had demolished him in only two rounds. Ali’s battles with Joe Frazier had been classics of endurance, but Foreman had knocked Frazier senseless, again in two rounds. The promoters of the fight had convinced the government of Zaire to put up $10 million, $5 million for each fighter. It would be the greatest purse in ring history. Each fighter would be making more than stars like Joe Louis and Rocky Marciano had earned in their entire careers.

  The entourage the promoters took to Africa to build the television interest included the soul singer James Brown, legendary blues man B. B. King, and a host of other African-American entertainers.

  “How can he hit me when he can’t catch me?” Muhammad Ali shouted to admiring crowds of Africans and reporters, throwing punches as he went backward around the practice ring in Zaire.

  Big George Foreman practiced hitting the heavy bag. Writers Norman Mailer and George Plimpton watched as the young heavyweight champion punished the bag. They were awestruck at his power. Mailer, once an amateur boxer himself, noted the huge dents in the bag. Ali wasn’t going to be doing much dancing if he got hit like that. Foreman practiced catching Ali. He brought in training partners who simulated Ali’s quick movements. He practiced moving at angles around the square ring, a technique he would use to cut off Ali’s escape routes.

  Muhammad Ali was popular throughout Africa. He had traveled to Africa after first winning the heavyweight championship in 1964 and had been extensively profiled in the African press. A Zairean artist described him as being the one who “defended the good cause.”

  Foreman arrived stylishly dressed and lead a large German police dog. Zaire had been a former colony of Belgium, and to the people of Kinshasa, police dogs were symbols of oppression. It was an unfortunate choice for Foreman, who wondered why Ali was so popular with the people. It was not Ali the fighter whom Zaireans admired, but Ali the man. They had read about Ali in international magazines, had seen him speaking up for black people in the United States, and had identified with him. In Ali they had a world-famous figure who was now mingling with their people, playing with their children in the streets of Kinshasa.

  In Africa, Foreman became the brooding champion who had been deprived of the benefits of the championship. Ali had outshone Foreman as he had everyone else.

  “Ali, bumbaye! Ali, bumbaye!” The crowd chanted whenever they saw Ali jogging along the highway. It meant, simply, “Ali, kill him!” Here were two black men, two men of African descent, fighting in Africa. But Ali was considered the real black champion, and the darker Foreman represented the enemy.

  The documentary When We Were Kings, the story of the fight, was being filmed as the fight approached. On camera Foreman tried not to embarrass himself, tried to sound like a man of the world. Ali, seemingly born to excel in the new age of instant media, did much better. He was the articulate one, the one who would be quoted in the morning papers. “Black people in the United States don’t know what Africa is like,” he said. “And you people in Africa don’t know anything about us. I need to change that.”

  The writers worked hard to make their prose distinctive. The entertainers worked to bring their talents to an appreciative African audience. The Africans, in turn, were eager to please and to learn from the Americans with their high technology and glitz. Don King, the slick talking, Shakespeare-quoting promoter, had put himself in the center of the match, hogging as much publicity for himself as possible. The match seemed at times to be an endless spectacle of entertainers and media; then there was a major setback.

  During a session with a sparring partner, George Foreman was cut above the right eye. To have a cut that hadn’t sufficiently healed and then face a boxer like Ali could easily have been the difference between winning and losing. The fight was postponed. The cut was treated, and the two fighters resumed training as they waited for Foreman to heal. The delay stretched to five weeks. All the hype settled down into an adventure with Third World facilities. The air-conditioning didn’t work; communication with America and Europe via telephone didn’t work; and there was also getting used to African food, African customs, and the lack of luxuries the Americans were used to ha
ving.

  Wednesday, October 30, 1974. Finally, the morning of the rescheduled fight had arrived. It would begin at four o’clock in the morning to accommodate closed-circuit television in other parts of the world. Foreman was confident. He had Dick Sadler in his corner, one of the world’s most respected trainers. He also had Archie Moore, who knew more about the fight game than anyone alive.

  Angelo Dundee, in Ali’s camp, was worried, but confident. Dundee still believed in his champion. How did Ali feel? Just before the Quarry comeback fight he had confessed to former champion Joe Louis that he was nervous. In Zaire he was nervous again. But he knew he would muster up the courage to go into the ring, and to do whatever it took to survive.

  * * *

  The time arrived. In Ali’s dressing room there was dead silence.

  “What are you people so unhappy about?” Ali asked.

  They felt they were sending Ali out to his defeat. With his pride, Ali would not go down easy, and he might absorb the worst beating of his life. Ali began to lead his people, people who had been with him for so many years — Angelo Dundee, Bundini Brown, Ali’s brother Rahaman (formerly Rudolph Clay), masseuse Luis Sarria, and bodyguard Wali “Blood” Muhammad — in a cheerleading session.

  “I’m going to dance!” Ali sang. “I’m going to dance!”

  The chorus was a sad one, with some of the singers almost moved to tears. Norman Mailer, in Ali’s dressing room, took deep breaths as the charismatic young fighter, like a Greek hero on his way to preordained death, sang his final song.

  Ali was the challenger, and he came out first. His entourage moved slowly through the humid African night. The air was thick, the heat close to unbearable. The crowd cheered as Ali made his way to the ring. Black hands reached out and touched him. Ali entered the ring and lifted his gloved fists high above his head.

  Foreman and his people jogged to the ring. Foreman was the future of boxing — young, strong, energetic. It looked as if he couldn’t get to the ring fast enough. He was the champion from whom Ali had stolen the respect he deserved.

  Foreman banged his gloves together in eager anticipation. Ali’s vaunted courage seemed more bravado than anything else. A nervous Angelo Dundee pushed on the ropes, checked out the floor, and made sure that all the proper equipment was there in case Ali was hurt.

  The obvious strategy was for Ali to move away from Foreman, to hope that after six or seven rounds, if the big man hadn’t caught him with one of his thunderous blows, the fight would be at least even. Foreman’s fights had always ended within a few rounds; he’d never gone a long distance. Believing that no man could withstand his power, Foreman wanted to simply stand in front of Ali and hit him. Ali hoped to last until the later rounds, when Foreman’s power would fade from fatigue and he could prevail with his sharper punches.

  “I’m going to run over and punch him in his face,” Ali said shortly before the bell rang. “Let him know he’s in a fight!”

  “No, Champ! No!” Dundee screamed. “You have to dance. Stay away from him.”

  The bell rang. Ali rushed across the ring and threw a right lead at Foreman. The punch landed, surprising the big man. Ali stood toe-to-toe with Foreman, exchanging blows, beating him to the punch. Foreman’s most valuable weapon, his crushing blows, started from way behind his back. Ali wasn’t giving him that room. Each time Foreman would bring his fists back, Ali would hit him once, twice, three times. Foreman kept his hands busier, throwing shorter, less effective punches.

  The first round was a surprise to Foreman, and to Angelo Dundee, and to the thousands of spectators. Overhand right leads?

  “Right leads from a right-handed fighter come from a longer distance,” the writer Norman Mailer observed. “When you throw right leads it’s telling your opponent that you think you’re a lot faster than he is. A lot faster.” A right-hand lead from a right-handed fighter has to travel across the body to land on an opponent. A quick left-hand jab, Ali’s fastest and best weapon, would have been the logical choice.

  Foreman had expected Ali to stay away from him, using all the space he could to keep out of hitting range, and had practiced for weeks “cutting off the ring,” moving at angles which would confine Ali to a smaller space. But Ali, in the first round, stood directly in front of Foreman, fighting him man to man, giving him what he thought he wanted. But Ali was beating him to the punch. Foreman was taking more punches than he wanted to, but that suited him just fine. He knew who had the hardest punch. He did. George Foreman, champion.

  “You have to dance,” Angelo Dundee reminded Ali when he returned to the corner at the end of the first round. “Stay away from him. See what kind of condition he’s in. And stay away from the ropes.”

  The bell for the second round rang. Ali moved quickly to the center of the ring, beat Foreman to the punch with yet another right leader, and then moved away. Foreman followed him to the ropes, fully expecting Ali to slide off and move toward the center of the ring. Instead, Ali leaned against the ropes, throwing light punches in the direction of his opponent. This was what became known as the rope-a-dope. No one had seen this before, a fighter standing still and letting a ferocious puncher unleash the full fury of his blows. Foreman saw Ali cringe and knew he had hurt him. “And then he looked at me,” Foreman said, “he had that look in his eyes like he was saying I’m not going to let you hurt me.”

  Prior image: Rumble in the Jungle.

  Foreman had Ali where he wanted him, against the ropes. He could hear Dundee screaming for his man to move. Foreman set his feet, throwing punches intended to punish Ali’s body. He was landing the shorter punches, but every time he tried to unleash the full fury of the longer blows, Ali would again beat him to the punch and make him cover up. Ali was covering up for most of Foreman’s punches, letting them hit his arms and gloves. He knew other opponents had tried to protect themselves against Foreman’s strength, but to no avail.

  The next round came with Ali again leaning on the ropes, taking advantage of each time Foreman reached back with his punches by sending a flurry of blows at his taller enemy. Foreman was still punching hard, but not as hard as he had in the gym with his trainer holding the bag. And he was being hit, more than he had ever been hit in his life. Ali’s punches were sharp, damaging.

  “I realized right then and there he hadn’t bought his championship,” Foreman later confessed.

  The next rounds were repeats of the second, and ringsiders, seeing Foreman swinging away at a nearly stationary Ali, sensed the end was in sight. Ali grabbed Foreman’s head and started talking to him.

  “Hit harder! Show me something, George!” Ali hissed into Foreman’s ear. “That don’t hurt! I thought you was supposed to be bad!”

  Ali’s supporters held their breath as Foreman pounded away.

  Then, toward the end of the sixth round, Foreman’s blows started to seem less effective. Ali was hitting Foreman harder, and more often. In the eighth round a frustrated Foreman again crowded Ali against the ropes. He threw what he had left. It was not enough. Ali hit the big man hard, and again, and again. The crowd was stunned as Foreman stumbled away, his hands falling down to his sides while Ali clubbed him with overhand rights and sweeping lefts. Foreman pitched forward onto the canvas. The referee picked up the count as Foreman tried to clear his head. Soon the ring was filled with people in wild celebration. The fight was over. Muhammad Ali had knocked out the fierce young champion, George Foreman.

  In 1974, Muhammad Ali beat Joe Frazier and then, in a stunning upset, defeated the seemingly invincible George Foreman. In March 1975, he fought Chuck Wepner, winning in fifteen rounds. In May of the same year he beat Ron Lyle, and then less than two months later, Joe Bugner. But with the Wepners and the Lyles and the Bugners of the world, the fights were more exhibition than anything else. No one thought these men would have a chance, and the money earned reflected that fact. For Wepner it was a payday and a chance to get publicity for endeavors other than fighting, such as his wholesale beer busines
s. For Lyle it was merely paid entertainment to get beaten up by the most charming, charismatic fighter of all time, and to do it before a Las Vegas crowd with a backdrop of scantily clad showgirls. The only heavyweight who could bring real money, the money derived from television sponsors and filmmakers, was Smokin’ Joe Frazier.

  Joe Frazier was a warrior, a man whose physical skills and ring knowledge were respected by anyone who knew the game. He always brought his best to a fight, and he brought out the best in Ali. The fight was signed and scheduled to be held just outside of Manila in Quezon City, the Philippines, on September 30, 1975. The event was dubbed the “Thrilla in Manila.”

  * * *

  Joe Frazier rose to boxing prominence the hard way. He worked hard and fought hard in Philadelphia gyms before turning professional. He conducted himself as a gentleman at all times and yet, even when he was the champion, even when he had beaten Ali, he never received the acclaim and respect that he felt the championship deserved. Joe Louis had become an American icon. Rocky Marciano, who had never faced a major challenge to his championship, was highly honored and still considered a major figure in American boxing at his death in 1969. Floyd Patterson, too, was highly regarded and warmly received in sports circles. Not only did Joe Frazier feel that he had never received the respect he was due, he believed the problem was one man: Muhammad Ali.