The Passion of Big George

On November 5, 1994, in the moment Michael Moorer was counted out, as Jim Lampley screamed "It happened!" across HBO's broadcast, George Foreman looked up and saw god. 

Foreman had just won the world heavyweight championship at the age of 45, making him the oldest boxer ever to win a world title. He'd been champion before, in 1973, when he annihilated Joe Frazier in two rounds. A year later, he lay on the canvas in Kinshasa, knocked out by Muhammad Ali, and was never the same again. He retired in 1977, a broken shell of the demon that had previously terrorized the heavyweight division.

Norman Mailer used that word to describe Foreman in his book The Fight. Demonic. Brooding, menacing, with lethal power, and a seemingly irrepressible rage that Foreman hinted at quietly in his rare, begrudged interviews, and showcased fully in the ring. 

Boxing is fuelled by its capacity to become narrative. Mailer knew this when he covered the Rumble in the Jungle in The Fight. So many boxing narratives follow the same beats, showcasing stark poverty and  troubled youth (Foreman no exception) as pathways to boxing as the unlikely but divine saviour. This is a favoured narrative of capitalism, a supreme bootstrap story that shows discipline, skill, and hard work triumphing over abject upbringing. But the total narrative of Foreman's career is unique in how it is tied to the question of his faith, and the moral duality preserved in a single athlete. Usually these reversals are saved for professional wrestling, were performers regularly turn heel or face, from "good guy" to "bad guy" or vice versa. George Foreman is not a boxer, but two. A man of two distinct boxing careers, separated by a decade, a complete re-writing of his public persona, and his emancipation via religion. 

The Foreman that stepped back into the ring for the first time in a decade, in 1987, had a big belly and a bald head. Gone was the sinister and aloof shadow that he manifested in the early 70s. This Foreman was jovial and chatty outside the ring, a pleasant teddy bear. In his time off he had become a pastor, and credited his newfound religious commitment as being the thing that saved him from whatever hell his loss to Ali submerged him in. He did commentary work with HBO after his comeback, presenting as a thoughtful and energetic addition alongside Lampley and Larry Merchant. There was a warmth to his voice, a comfort to his presence that was non-existent in the 1970s. A riot broke out in the arena during Riddick Bowe Vs Andrew Golata 1, and Foreman, still on his microphone from his ringside commentary, could be heard saying "Don't do it, son. Don't do it," attempting to talk sense into nearby rioters and cool the situation.  The demon had become an angel.

Foreman's faith, on display and inseparable from his new self, was not in and of itself unique. Many boxers cite god as their primary benefactor. But the way Foreman wove religion into his new persona was intricate. The 10-year hiatus suggests that it took him that long for god to change him into whatever it was he was supposed to be. Such a change would presumably be meaningful to Foreman regardless of his success in the ring, but wouldn't a championship belt and a remarkable comeback story make the whole thing that much more complete?  

At the beginning of the HBO broadcast of Foreman vs Moorer, a pre-recorded video played of a tuxedoed George Foreman singing "The Impossible Dream." The irony was not meant to be lost on anyone watching that the cherubic crooner was singing his own swan song in such a cartoonish way. Anyone that had tuned in knew that this was his last chance. Twice beaten in championship fights in this second career, against Tommy Morrison and Evander Holyfield, he had one last shot. This final attempt came against an undefeated and highly athletic 26-year-old Michael Moorer, who had just come off an upset win over Holyfield, in a fight he was losing on the cards, until trainer Teddy Atlas yelled and scolded him in the corner with such impassioned fury that Moorer found whatever he needed to find and clawed back a harrowing win to become champion. Moorer had done what Foreman couldn't by beating Holyfield. He was much to fear. Foreman, wearing the same red and blue trunks he wore the night he lost to Muhammad Ali 20 years before, came to face his demons head on. He came to perform an exorcism. 

Moorer dominated Foreman for the majority, controlling distance and jabbing Foreman into oblivion. Foreman looked very likely to lose as the fight progressed, way behind on cards. But in the ninth round, Moorer appeared to be tiring. In the tenth, Foreman did what he later said he had always planned to do, to wait for Moorer to slip up, and land the perfect combo to flatten him.    

When Moorer lay on the mat, and the ten count was complete, Foreman was standing calmly in the corner. He looked up, the camera on his sweat-drenched face. His glassy eyes resembled Renée Jeanne Falconetti's in The Passion of Joan of Arc, in the moment of her martyrdom. It was a look of transcendence. Foreman showed the world in that moment, in the moment of his victory, that he was in the presence of god. He then turned around and kneeled in the corner, and as his trainer jumped on him to hug him in celebration, Foreman shoed him away. Grace first, celebration second. 

What I find most fascinating about this moment is the question of how aware Foreman was of his performance of faith as a public-facing aspect of his second persona. Athletes play up the religion thing all the time; Floyd Mayweather has answered with "only god can judge me" when asked to account for his various assaults on women. But something about that look, that glassy-eyed stare, makes it hard to deny the feeling that Foreman believed he truly was with god in that moment. Of course, we cannot know, which is what makes the narrative compelling. The uncertainty is the where the tension lives. 

I rewatch that fight often, even though it wasn't a particularly compelling fight, technically speaking. I rewatch it to see that look in Foreman's eyes, and to hear Lampley's call. These tiny moments are like the ultimate payoff in a narrative with seemingly endless build up. But I also watch it for that first sequence. To watch Foreman sing that silly song, in that affable voice, with that look on his face. The Impossible Dream. There's a wink to the whole thing. As if Foreman knows for certain that he will win, despite being 45 and fat. But how could he know for certain, unless a divine voice told him so? The look in his eyes can't answer the question of whether or not a divine being was in fact with him in the ring that night, but it does give us a glimpse into an athlete that came to have total control over his own narrative, and the way his performance of himself as a subject was inseparable from his performance as an athlete.