Big George

by Ted Schnack

I cried when I heard George Foreman had passed, but before long I found myself smiling.

What a man.

What a legacy.

What a positive light he spread in his walk through this world.

He thrilled us as an athlete and awed us as a person. Easily my favorite athlete and public figure of all time.

By pure coincidence, I had just watched the Foreman-Lyle fight the night before, my favorite fight of all time. No hype. No months-long buildup. No social media campaign designed to generate interest. No pay per view..  Back then, you looked at the TV guide in the Saturday newspaper and thought, "Oh, George Foreman is fighting this afternoon on Wide World of Sports. Ooohhh we gotta watch that. 

I watched it live as a teenager, jumping up and down in front of the television, yelling:

"Dad! Come in here! You've got to see this…this is incredible!"

George is the GOAT, and yes, I know about Zaire, so let's start with that.

At that point in time, George had one setting: "Destroy." And it had worked incredibly well so far. So, as the saying goes, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Ali, on the other hand, was not only operating with a high boxing skill set, but he was much savvier in the power of mental games. He had shared the ring and stage with many other fighters and knew that all men had weaknesses and vulnerabilities, both outside and inside the ropes.

Ali looked at boxing as a grand stage, not just a place to exchange punches and match boxing skills. A violent Wagnerian opera with heroes and villains, humor and drama, taunts and triumphs, plot twists and turns. He understood the psychology of tough men, game plans, and the importance of strategy, knowing that in many regards they were more important than lefts and rights.

He understood his own strengths and weaknesses. He was not known as a one-punch knockout artist, but many of his victories came through an accumulation of punches, winning the mental game, the ebb and flow of a fight, and his ability to write and re-write the script in real time while under fire, somehow finding a way to end up the hero.

Yes, he understood these things, but at the end of the day he was stepping into the ring with the most dangerous and devastating heavyweight the world had ever seen.

Ali was already tapping into the energy of the country and its people—not out of manipulation, but because that was simply who he was. He interacted with everyone: maids, waiters, drivers, and people on the street. He wore local attire, he joked, smiled, and put his natural charisma on full display, and the people loved him for it.

On the other hand, if George was looking for support in Zaire, he could hardly have made a worse mistake upon arriving at the airport. George loved dogs and thought nothing of bringing along his German Shepherd, Dago. To him, it was simply a dog, his companion he liked having around during training camp. To many Congolese, however, it was something very different. They were only a little more than a decade removed from Belgian colonial authoritarian rule, and German Shepherds had been used by authorities as riot and attack dogs to control crowds and intimidate the population. What George viewed as an ordinary companion, many locals saw as a symbol of a painful past—and perhaps, for some, something even darker.

In the lead-up to the fight, Ali had mocked George's fighting style, calling him "The Mummy," staggering around with his arms out like Boris Karloff, groaning, "I'm the muuuummmy... arrrrggghhh," to the roaring laughter of the press corps. He had gotten under George's skin.

I can safely say you could have scoured the earth in 1974 and not found a more dangerous man to tease and make fun of before meeting him in a boxing ring where he was free to inflict life-threatening damage than that version of George Foreman. It was personal, and George was pissed. A risk Ali was willing to take, never allowing himself to blink in fear.

George had just recently destroyed both Frazier and Norton in shocking fashion—fighters who had handed Ali a broken jaw, losses, and all sorts of trouble. No one had any reason to believe this would be anything more than the same story repeating itself, with Ali becoming another head to hang on George's mantle and another victim in his violent rampage through the heavyweight ranks. Key wins against legendary Hall of Famers, titanic forces who had ruled the Heavyweight ranks before George showed up as a runaway train. 

The consensus among almost everyone was that, with his pride, Ali could seriously get hurt. The mood in his dressing room was said to be like a funeral until, with his natural charisma, he was able to rally some hope.

In the skies over the outdoor arena a nearly full African moon hung somewhere beyond the looming thunderheads, its pale lunar light swallowed by the gathering monsoon that rumbled in the distance.  Each rumble a little bit closer.

Huge stadium floodlights had attracted legions of flying insects from the surrounding jungle, spinning wildly beneath and crashing into the blazing artificial sun. Creatures as old as the jungle itself, drawn toward a light they could not possibly understand.

Massive banners of Zaire dictator strongman Mobutu, wearing the black-framed glasses of a Western intellectual and the leopard-skin cap of a savage warrior king, overlooked it all—a strange collision of the modern world and the ancient forces of the jungle from which this surreal spectacle had erupted.

This was Mobutu’s Zaire, where strongmen held enormous power through fear, spectacle, and brutal force as much as politics. This fight didn't happen in Las Vegas or such to become another fading footnote in the annals of boxing. It was happening in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.

As if the cast of characters wasn't already strange enough, the entire event had been put together by Don King. King had spent time in prison after kicking a man to death during a street fight years earlier. Whatever else one thinks of him, he possessed a rare talent for navigating powerful men, giant egos, and dangerous situations. In many ways, he may have been the perfect person to negotiate with Mobutu and bring the biggest fight in history to the heart of Africa.

While researching this project, I came across a fight poster bearing the heading: "From Slave Ship to Championship." It was a striking phrase and, in many ways, captured the deeper symbolism surrounding the event. Two African-American fighters had returned to the continent of their ancestors to battle for the heavyweight championship of the world while sixty thousand Africans roared beneath the lights.  Zaire was just 14 short years after being unshackled from the colonialism of Belgium rule. The whole thing felt less like a sporting event and more like a titanic collision of larger-than-life characters, history, politics, race, pride, and destiny, each carrying their own complicated past into the African night.

It was said that rooms beneath the stadium had once been used for interrogation and darker purposes during Mobutu’s reign, while the stadium itself reportedly played host to public executions. A brutal reminder of how strongmen often maintain power—not merely through politics, but through fear, spectacle and public examples. In the weeks leading up to the fight, Mobutu was said to have rounded up known street criminals, some to never to be seen again and some let loose bearing the wounds of "interrogation" to show others their seriousness about not embarrassing the regime with street crime while the world watched. We probably don’t want to imagine the horrors that had unfolded in those underground catacombs and in the dirt beneath the stadium. Atrocities is a loaded word, and enough said.

And if you are someone like me who believes places absorb unseen energy, darkness, suffering, and the residue of human violence, then this place felt charged with it. The Congo basin echoes dark magic and witch doctors cast spells openly and in the shadows.  The whole area carried a strange dimensional heaviness, as though the surrounding jungle still held the lingering spirits of those dark forces.

This was Mobutu's time to shine under the international eye. While much of Zaire still lived under crushing poverty, Mobutu had spent an obscene amount of money for the time to bring the fight halfway around the world. The five million dollars paid to each fighter, an unheard of amount at the time, could likely have been spent more responsibly in a country only fourteen years removed from Belgian colonial rule, but that is not what happened.

In real time, the money could certainly have been put to better use. But in retrospect, it helped create what I would argue was the greatest sporting event ever staged.

Outside the stadium, a day-long festival was underway. It was the third day of international music festivities featuring James Brown and other performers with African roots from many corners of the earth. Tens of thousands filled the surrounding streets. Food vendors turned sizzling pigs over glowing coals. Bush meat, smoked monkeys and bats, dried fish, fresh fruits, Coca-Cola, and Marlboros were all part of the scene. Bright eyed bare foot kids scampered about giggling on a grand adventure.  Beer sellers, street musicians, entertainers, acrobats and jugglers, and enterprising merchants hawked cheap souvenirs and T-shirts that likely wouldn't survive a single wash.  Everywhere was bursting with life and energy.

Some of the more industrious had painted images of the two fighters in crude cartoon-like poses that barely resembled either man, Foremen was of course portrayed with a mean grimace and Ali handsome and fresh faced. along with the words "Zaire 74." For me, those may have been the best collectibles of all. It was the buzz of humanity. Many knew they would never get inside the stadium, but they wanted to be close to the biggest event their country would ever see. 

Inside, the crowd of sixty thousand had begun arriving hours before the fight. Traditional Congolese dancers, drummers, musicians, and performers transformed the event into something far larger than a boxing match. Some wore colorful ribbons and elaborate attire, others were adorned in animal skins, bones and feathers, warriors carrying spears and shields half naked sweat glistening on their muscular bodies, moving thrusting and chanting to the beat of war drums  while towering surreal stilt dancers seemed to float above the crowd beneath the blazing floodlights.

All to the heartbeat of traditional instruments, electric guitars, and Congo drums, ancient African rhythms mixed with soul blues and rock and roll ,modern television, politics, international celebrity, and sixty thousand chanting and singing voices. From frenzy to ancient tribal songs, some fierce, some tender, jungle darkness and political spectacle, African tradition and global media. The result was a surreal collision of ancient and modern worlds unfolding beneath the gathering monsoon clouds in the middle of the African night.  And if this wasn't enough we still had a fight to fight.  We didn't know it then but what is most likely the most interesting and famous of all fights was about  to go down.  The jungle was rumbling.

The stage was set, and the whole world was watching. To cater to television audiences in the West, the fight was being held at 4 a.m.—the witching hour.

Finally, out came the robed fighters, making their way through the surging crowd, surrounded by white-helmeted Zaire police in full riot gear. Ali was engulfed by the crowd, the masses pressing in around him from every direction, drawn to a light they didn't fully understand. George, meanwhile, had a clear path and was given enough room to jog towards the ring.

The bell rang and George hit the “destroy” on switch with no reason not to believe that was exactly what would happen. A soft canvas and loose ropes diminishing his power and a seemingly crazy but clever ploy by Ali to lay on the sagging ropes in the jungle heat and humidity doing his best to deflect his best shots and sap his strength leaving him exhausted, confused and vulnerable. George said later after hitting Ali to the body as hard as he had ever hit a man, quite possibly the hardest blow a man had ever laid on another in a boxing match he could tell it hurt him and Ali said. "Is that all you got George? They said you could hit hard?"  And he thought “Yeah that’s it" throwing even harder in pride and desperation draining his strength quicker. 

I can only imagine the slow, sickening realization as he was being swallowed in the quicksand of his reality and exhaustion, finding himself in the ring with the great Muhammad Ali while the whole world watched. George was playing hand-grenade checkers, and Ali was playing a violent game of mental chess.  It was incredibly risky by Ali, completely unexpected, the general consensus was Ali's only slim chance to just survive was to stick and move to avoid Foreman power, but instead he embraced and stood in the storm.  But miraculously  it was working. George’s punches no longer had their frightening force, snappy speed, and full-body torque, toe-to-knuckle power. They didn’t resemble the fearsome fists he hammered into Joe Frazier, destroying the toughest man we had ever seen—the proud Smokin Joe Frazier. And while Ali's pieces were perfecting their positions while George's bombs had lost their bang and there was no plan B.

George staggered about following Ali, not knowing what else to do, very much like a mummy, sweating and breathing heavily, his massive rib cage heaving deep breaths, nostrils flared, his mouth open in a half-gasp and half-gulp at the hot jungle air. The taste of blood was in his mouth. These were uncharted waters and he was sinking. Sweat glistened under the sharp, bright lights. His short afro was messed up. Still swinging diminishing blows that were becoming slower with every punch.

At world-title levels, boxers are looking for momentary advantages and openings that require split-second reflexes to exploit, and those opportunities were now everywhere. George had forgotten about defense, leaving himself more and more wide open. Ali, who had spent most of the fight on the ropes deflecting shots and firing back in short bursts, was a master at sensing the diminishing power of another fighter and recognizing those openings. He could see all those factors coming together into a perfect storm.  In the distance the storm rumbled but it was closer now.  Soon Ali would unleash lightning bolts that would shock the world

George was like a man who finds himself in a gunfight and out of ammo, yet still pulls the trigger, the firing pin landing on empty chambers because he doesn't know what else to do. Click click click.

Uh-oh.

Bad place. Bad time.

And it was about to get worse.

Way worse.

The Congo crowd of 60,000 rocked the night air with the chant: "Ali Bomaye! Ali Bomaye!"—"Ali, kill him! Ali, kill him!". At times between rounds Ali  instead of taking his stool energized by the moment pumping his fist leading the chant with his people, their champion.

These were not hollow words. This was a land that had known violence, coups, wars, tribal conflict, revolution, and bloodshed. The phrase carried a weight beyond sport. Those tribal chants had echoed through real struggles long before they ever found their way into a boxing stadium. As thousands pumped their fists into the air and chanted in unison, it was not hard to imagine spears, clubs, AK-47's and machetes having once been gripped in those same hands. There was a contagious energy surging through the crowd and they were lusting for blood. George's blood. 

Ali's checkmate move was a beautiful left-right combination, pulling back a third punch that might have missed or landed awkwardly. Like an artist knowing when to put down his paint brush or chisel so as not to spoil the masterpiece.

The combination sent George reeling in a half pirouette before crashing to the canvas, those punches finally putting the staggering, wildly swinging, bewildered beast down. 

A deafening roar rumbled through the night—not just inside the arena, but rocked on worldwide—as millions watched the impossible become possible.

No need to count. George Foreman lifted his head up like he had just woken from a nightmare realizing this wasn't a dream, then to an elbow, looking about in confusion  as pandemonium erupted around him. This fight was over. David had slain Goliath and played rope-a-dope with George, and George was the dope—a hard wound for a proud man like George to take and bear.

Soon after the fight was over, like something biblical, those saturated black muscular clouds were done threatening and now fulfilling their promises, unleashing a fearsome warm jungle rain. The monsoons had arrived carrying the power of destruction and rebirth. Deep rumbles of thunder had become frightening in intensity and force. The heavens pounded the earth with spikes of lightning bolts stained crimson in the haze. Rain so dense it seemed less like raindrops and more like sheets of baptism fire. An Old Testament battlefield and the wrath of God. The mighty brought low. Samson had lost his hair. The proud warrior broke in the mud and rain while the heavens themselves rolled and growled overhead. Judgment.

They called it the “Rumble in the Jungle,” but by the end of the night the rumble had become far more than two proud African-American warriors coming home to fight for the heavyweight championship of the world, their feet planted on the continent of their ancient ancestors. It no longer belonged only to the two fighters beneath the lights. The jungle was alive with the rumble of thunder, rain, pride, fear, and forces older than the men standing beneath it. Something primal had come over the scene. Something timeless.

This very well might have been George Foreman’s first real encounter with God. Not in victory. Not under bright lights with belts and cheers. But broken down in the African rain, stripped of the terrifying power that had carried him through the world like a human storm. Now he stood wounded and naked in the jungle rain before the world, the storm itself seeming to manifest the shame, confusion, and darkness George must have felt inside. 

George would later say that before the Ali fight, people were afraid to even speak to him. Then after the loss, they felt comfortable enough to slap him on the back and say, “You’ll get him next time.” In a single night, he had gone from fear to pity.

The old George Foreman was dying there beneath the African storm. Neither he nor the millions watching could yet see the resurrection coming. Nobody could see it then, particularly George himself.

Storms can be terrifying and destructive, but they also bring rebirth and new life. What looked like an ending beneath the African rain would ultimately become a beginning.

Without the crucible of Zaire and its change of trajectory, without its baptism of humility, we are probably not having this conversation about George being the GOAT. Had George gone out and obliterated Ali the same way he did Frazier and Norton, it would have only reinforced who he already was—an unstoppable force, seemingly beyond challenge. The forged in fire master of his destiny.  To become the GOAT, George first had to lose in Zaire.

His story may likely have become more Tyson-like—a flash of terrifying ring ferocity followed by a wreckage of prison, drugs and alcohol, self-destruction, arrogance, anger and hedonism. Instead of the most improbable and uplifting journey in sports history, half-hearted comebacks ending with him quitting on his stool when things were not going his way. Another cautionary tale of immense talent and wasted greatness, followed by endless discussions about what might have been.

But George didn't become a "what might have been" story.

He became a "nobody saw this coming" story.

Instead we got to witness perhaps the most incredible sports story—and one of the most remarkable public-figure stories—in modern history unfold before our eyes.  

But looking back, it is clear to see now that on those dark and haunted stadium grounds, standing in that very dirt soaked with fear, violence, pride, and human suffering, George Foreman—defeated, disgraced, humbled, and broken—had just taken his first real step toward the light of Christ. God still had work to do, but George was on his way.

George says that, in the grand scheme of things, losing that fight was the best thing that could have ever happened to him.

Without Zaire, Foreman would likely be the unanimous GOAT without question. I know after everything I've just written, it may feel like I've dug my hole even deeper on the GOAT argument. I'm chuckling to myself as I write this because I was probably having too much fun exploring the visuals, history, atmosphere, characters, and ideas surrounding this fight. And yeah what Ali pulled off against all odds pretty incredible. 

In the process, I likely spent more time appreciating the event than building my case. I'm not trying to spin anything or explain anything away. I'm doing my best to be honest. In my opinion, it was the most incredible sporting event ever staged, and it deserves to be treated as such. The goal of this section wasn't to strengthen George's case or weaken it. It was simply to appreciate the spectacle for what it was.

Bear with me for a moment while I explain why I still think George is the GOAT.

A prime Frazier had beaten a just 29-year-old and I argue still prime Ali, pounding him, hurting him numerous times and knocking him down hard in the final round in the “Fight of the Century” winning a clear decision.  The right side of Ali's handsome face that had been absorbing Frazier's legendary hammering left hook was grossly misshapen and the size of half a grapefruit.

George destroyed that same unbeatable, and undefeated prime Frazier to take the heavyweight crown in Kingston Jamaica.  I would argue in the annals of boxing we had never seen such a dominant and pedigreed champion like Frazier obliterated in such a shocking fashion.   Six times in less than two rounds the ferocity of Foreman’s punches knocked Joe down... six times…., sometimes lifting him off his feet in a terrifying display of raw power like we had never seen before.  The first knock down so shocking Howard Cosell screamed in hysterics “Down goes Frazier! Down goes FRAIZER!!… DOWN GOES FRAIZER!!!!!.  Frazier had the heart of a bull and would go down five more times until the end yet still rose to his feet looking for George. Proud men die hard.  

The image of a just 19-year-old George wearing this white tank top emblazoned with USA.   Splattered with the blood of his opponent, behind the iron curtain boxer where there are no professional sports. The Soviets most seasoned professional level boxer and an advanced heavily backed government sports program with one mission; Beat the Americans. George, still a teenager, did then what he would go on to do in his storied career. Bloody and knock out the best.  Big George, Olympic Gold medal winner, a small American flag, the kind a kid might wave at a parade in hand politely bowing to all four corners of the crowd would be one of sports most iconic and endearing photos. 

In just six short years from strapping on his first boxing glove George had won an Olympic Gold medal and now wore the Heavyweight Crown.

George was no Sugar Ray Leonard.   He wasn't floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. He had built his style to play into his biggest strength, punching power.   I say the greatest show of punching power we have ever seen in the ring.  His style might simply look like a search and destroy mission, and the ring was his battlefield.  There was so much more.  You don't have the incredible knockout and win record against professional fighters and Hall of Famers just because you can punch hard. 76-5 with 68 knockouts. Wow. Boxing is like a high stakes chess match, and it takes a brain to go along with the brawn.  When the conversation goes to punching power we hear Tyson, Shavers and Foreman as obvious contenders. Without question George did more with his power than anyone in the history of the sweet science. If the ultimate object of boxing is to hammer your opponent unconscious or until the referee mercifully stops the slaughter nobody did it better or longer than Big George.  Nobody. Not by a long shot.

Both Norton and Frazier beat, and gave Ali all sorts of trouble. Norton famously broke Ali's’ jaw   and in their trilogy Ali admitted it was 2-1 in Norton's’ favor.  George gave the same kind of brutal annihilation and knock out to Ken Norton in Caracas Venezuela; he had Frazier also in less than two rounds. In both fights it was a slaughter.  Ali went 45 rounds with Norton and 44 with Frazier.  Foreman destroyed both in less than 4. At one point a few years later Ali who was about to be stripped of his title for not fighting Norton again contacted George saying.  “George I can’t beat Norton, he’s afraid of you, knock him out again I’ll even let you use my camp”.  Ali wasn’t joking, the fight didn’t happen, but it opened a close and lifelong friendship of two men who had been bitter opponents.

The only time Ali beat Frazier was after he had been destroyed by Foreman in Kingston for the title.  You never really come back from that kind of beating, not really, sure we have seen people come back to win titles but they are really never quite the same, not really and both Ali-Frazier 2-3 were closely contested fights, and I would argue Joe damaged goods. I don't say this to diminish Ali or Joe for that matter but to make the case that George is the GOAT as everyone wants it all to be decided on the outcome of Zaire.  Zaire is marked as a loss but in the grand scheme of things his most important win.

This kind of puts me in a tough spot personally and in my argument. I couldn't admire Ali any more than I do. He was larger than life, not only as a humanitarian, but a beautiful human being and an example to many, but because of his obvious brilliance inside the ring. As men, the way they carried themselves through life, the impact they had on the people around them, and their influence on the world, comparing Ali and Foreman is like comparing two great works of art. Different in many ways, yet undeniable in their greatness.

I do think those things are part of any GOAT discussion. Character matters. But just for the sake of argument, let's call that category a tie, because at the end of the day, this discussion is about boxing.

Ali went on to enjoy success after the Foreman fight, but he spent more and more time on the ropes and less and less time floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. By his mid-thirties—ironically, about the same age George would be when he began the second half of his career—Ali was clearly a diminished fighter and would lose the title to Leon Spinks, a crude slugger with only seven professional fights under his belt. He would later finish on his stool against Larry Holmes in one of the saddest visuals we have seen in sports.

Watching it, many people—including myself—were thinking the same thing:

Please stop.

There is an old saying in boxing.  You gotta be able to give it, you gotta be able to take it and you gotta have heart. To be the GOAT you need to rise from the ashes to victory.  Tyson never did. We need to see your heart on full display and stripped bare and in boxing there is no way to fake it. The first fighter George would face after a year layoff after Zaire feeling lost and full of doubt was the very dangerous hard-hitting Ron Lyle #5 Heavyweight in the world. George would later say Lyle possessed shocking power and  in the top three heaviest punchers he faced in 81 pro fights. The heart and raw courage George showed against the murderous punching of Ron Lyle rising to his feet twice of the three times he had been down the only other time in Zaire.  Twice he rose to his feet in less than ten seconds facing an enraged and energized punching monster that smelled blood.

George said when went down the second time, right after he had sent Lyle down, his face against the canvas seeing his own blood "What ya gonna do now George?” Great men face a moment in their lives and this was it. The wound of Zaire had been opened again, and another man had beaten him to the canvas in front of millions watching. This time it wasn’t the voice of Ali that echoed in his head but his own.  "Is that all you got George?  The answer in Zaire had been "yeah that's it" and I think that is what haunted George the most.   This time the answer was different, later saying he thought as he battled back to his feet "He's gonna have to kill me"

Two men standing on the edge of a grave.

All great men are able to look into themselves to find that special thing turning a time of desperation into triumph and transcendence. We stood in wonder watching, knowing we were witnessing something rare, wonderful, pure and unknown.  The crowd roaring for blood, the lights bright and spinning, still unsteady, ears ringing, vision not crisp to face not only Lyle but his demons.   This was wild, this was raw and it was happening live and I can remember it like it was this afternoon. 

George threw himself back into danger with the clarity of I win or die.  It was the most amazing display of raw courage, fortitude and sheer will I will ever see in my life and I have watched the replay hundreds of times.   This was not just a boxing match of flesh, bones and fists but something primordial was on display as the battle raged in the hearts and souls of both men. Cosell  screamed "This is a wild fight utterly without boxing skills” This was no longer a boxing match.  It had gone primal.

Lyle had been a convicted killer and banished from society, locked behind iron bars like an animal, learned to box in prison, paid his dues, and had something of his own to prove.  They both had been hurt badly on numerous occasions taking huge shots, Foreman down twice, Lyle once.  You knew the next one down wasn't getting up; but who?

George had Lyle reeling along the ropes from a series of crushing blows and now cornered.

They stood toe to toe; man to man stationery both throwing bombs with nary a thought for anything that looked like defense. It would be the final stand. Somebody wasn't walking away from this pit.  George’s feet planted firmly, throwing a barrage of punches as Lyle threw back. Then you could feel a shift, a focused desperation, it was no longer Lyle in front of George but those demons. George’s punches, still heavy, had started to become shorter and less sharp and propelled by sheer will.  He was all in.  He would use the very last of what he had here.  Win or die. His truth was at hand.  Lyle was badly hurt, slumped forward and had stopped punching but refused to go down.  Was this the penance for the man he had killed?  

Ringside Angelo Dundee screamed "Stop it! Stop it!"  I remember thinking in real time "Don't stop it" not because I enjoy senseless brutality but because this was a battle of two great forces that couldn't be stopped on the opinion of the referee, a mere mortal. It had to play out.  A man can only take so much, and the proud and capable Ron Lyle finally toppled forward as George got out of the way to let him fall to the canvas face first. His fight would end here. There were no losers in this fight, and it would always be known as Lyle’s greatest.  George had slain the Dragon of Zaire and was free at last and George declared this his greatest fight.

George would knock out Frazier again this time almost as a foregone conclusion.  George then lost to Jimmy Young, a man he should have beaten.  Broken and lost in the defeated locker room he was overcome falling to the floor as what he described as "Death all around him" In this dark and sinister place of complete loss he was overcome once again but this time by the power and presence of Jesus Christ.   George declared "Jesus Christ has come into me!" The people in the room were sure he had lost his mind, this surely wasn't George they knew.  They tried to restrain him, calm him down, talk some sense into him.  George had been blind and now he could see and what had happened was so real, so overpowering from that moment on he was a changed man.  God sometimes needs to break you before he can fix you. That fearsome marauder who annihilated other men for sport was dead and he soon left boxing.  The man who use to mock the weakness in people for believing in God was going to become a preacher.

This likely was the ending of this story as an athlete and public figure but God had something else in mind.

What brought George back into the ring after such a long 10-year layoff and obvious retirement?   Was it squandering his fortunes on selfishness?  Did his ego need a boost?  For another shot of Glory?  To forever silence the Ghosts of Zaire?  

No to the contrary it was for his Church and Inner-City gymnasium and that was on the ropes to keep the doors open.  George hadn't spent his boxing money for sports cars and million-dollar watches. No. His money was spent on his gym and church to give young men hope and spread the love of Jesus Christ.

"The George Foreman Youth Center” was for lost young men to find a place of discipline and purpose and someone who cared.  He never forgot the chance the Job Corps gave him as a lost and troubled young man.   In the pounding bags, the tapping of skipping ropes, grunts and sweat of that brick building had become an oasis of love and for some Big George the father some never knew.  He was 100 pounds heavier than his prime fighting weight and had become a gentle giant and nothing like the stalking killer that had destroyed men in the past.  

Nobody wants to play the fool, but he thought just his name could bring enough money to save the gym and like all great athletes a chance to test himself one more time.   He knew boxing, and for aging boxers it is well agreed that the last thing to go is punching power, the great equalizer.  He was willing to sacrifice himself, look foolish, attempt the rigors of training in a young man’s sport, laugh at himself saying his best combination was the left the right and the belly bump, take the punches from young world class boxers and ridicule if it saved the gym and his House of God. 

At first it was treated as a circus act and novelty. But then the strangest thing started happening. He started winning.  And this time he wasn’t fighting for himself but something bigger and we all stood witness. He became everyman's champion , a little more girth around the middle,  knocked down in life, but got up and kept trying and showing up to weigh in's with not a scowl but a plate full of hamburgers stacked high and a smile

Of course, the anchor in the GOAT argument is his improbable comeback to becoming the oldest Heavyweight Champ at 45.  He made legend and history knocking out a young prime 35-0 Michael Moorer and heavyweight title holder who had just defeated the great Evander Holyfield who had beaten George a few years before.  

Really nobody gave George a chance.  He had had his chance a few years previously and the Cinderella story was winding down.  Jim Lampley, his boxing analyst booth partner and close friend said on two occasions George had told him leading up to the fight “Late in the fight he will come to me and let me knock him out" Using the same words each time.   Was George visualizing his game plan or was something deeper and more spiritual happening. Had George had some sort of spiritual awakening, vision or dream like had happened in that dressing room after the  Jimmy Young fight. 

As a devout Christian artist and writer, I have had clear messages from God as clear as if He stood next to me.  Was something prophetic unfolding?   The same God that had taken a mean, surly and selfish man and turned him into the George the world had grown to love, the Creator of everything, changing in the outcome of a boxing match, or having a fighter, move or not move when they should would be child’s play in the grand scheme of things. 

George was known worldwide as a true believer in Jesus Christ and was deeply a man of God who wore his heart on his sleeve with no shame.   Had every step of his life led to this moment?  The fight and Georges journey had become much more than boxing, much bigger than the heavyweight title, knowing a victory here would give many people a reason to believe in themselves, to get up and keep trying, that your never to old to dream and a man’s whose heart is true north to Jesus Christ incredible things can happen.

As George approached the ring he was singing in a loud clear voice filled with joy and as God is my witness my personal all-time favorite song "The Impossible Dream"  George was no Pavarotti but he sang with such sincerity his words rang through the arena like a cloud of  trumpeting angels.  

To dream the impossible dream ...To fight the unbeatable foe...To try when your arms are too weary....To reach the unreachable star...This is my quest to follow that star...No matter how hopeless, no matter how far....To be willing to march into Hell for a heavenly cause...And I know if I'll only be true to this glorious quest...That my heart will lie peaceful and calm when I'm laid to my rest.. That one man, scorned and covered with scars...Still strove with his last ounce of courage......To reach the unreachable star.

Blessings or not, there was still a fight to fight.

When George took his robe off, he was wearing the same trunks he had worn in Zaire when he was knocked out by Ali. They were tattered, worn, and had some years on them—just like George.

Teddy Atlas, Moorer's cornerman, noticed them but kept it to himself, not wanting to give Moorer a psychological bugaboo or distraction.

One might think they would be bad luck, but George knew they were part of his journey as a man. He did not see them as a symbol of loss, but as a symbol of overcoming, transcendence, redemption, and everything he had become since that dark night of stormy skies in Zaire so many years ago.

The trap would take time to develop, let Moorer get comfortable being close and in front of you, let him get comfortable being in the ring with a legend,  don't let him feel your power, get him to relax, throw slow, throw your left jab short giving a false sense of a safe range, get him in a rhythm; your rhythm thinking its his rhythm, let him have success, let him think to not just win but go for the knockout.  Let him feel like he has taken your best shot and is still standing. Set the stage. Your stage. This was much more than looking for a lucky punch.  After not throwing a single left hook the entire fight in the 10th round George threw two wide looping left hooks not to hit but to stop Moorer from moving to his right and momentarily in the perfect position to spring his trap.  

And when that trap was sprung the most incredible thing any of us will ever see in sports happened that night, and I didn’t fully realize it until this year, more than fifty years later. No, not him winning the title back at forty-five, but something else—something far more incredible.

I have seen George Foreman throw a zillion punches throughout his fights as an avid fan.  The punch that put Michael Moorer down for the count always looked wrong to me. It looked almost half speed and half effort. It never felt right. I couldn’t shake it. It wasn’t hard enough. It wasn’t devastating enough. It wasn’t thrown with that feeling of, Yessss… there’s the opening I’ve been working for since my comeback started—now hammer your hardest shot. 

George just steps in casually and throws what looks like a half-hearted punch. Yes, it was to the perfect spot, and down Moorer went, but it still never matched the magnitude of the moment in my mind.

Fixed fight?...impossible for George to be part of something like that.  But something didn't feel right.  Something was off. 

Then I was watching random boxing videos on YouTube and came across some obscure clip of Jim Lampley and George talking about the Moorer fight. Lampley said, almost casually, that Moorer had told him he was actually knocked out on his feet from the punch before the one that put him down. George then added just as casually:

“Yeah, I thought he would go down from the one before, but it was a little high, so I aimed the next one lower.”

WHAT!!!???  WHHHHAAATTT!!!!

That was the key to the mystery, and somehow it makes it far more incredible than it already was—and it was already off the scale.

I remembered an interview where George once said that, as the young George, he would clench his fist as hard as he possibly could when throwing punches because he wanted to inflict maximum damage. He even admitted there were moments he thought, Maybe one day I’ll kill one of these guys, and then people will respect me.

Think about the distance between that man and the older George.

After Christ came into his life, he was still doing everything possible to win the boxing match, but over and over you can find clips of him having fighters in deep trouble and actually backing off, looking toward the referee to stop it. And if the referee didn’t stop it, George would come in and throw just enough to force the stoppage without completely destroying the man in front of him.

One of my favorite George Foreman moments came after one of his comeback victories. He had stopped his opponent early—a former professional football player who, if we're being honest, was never much of a boxer. The fight wasn't particularly competitive, yet when the television interviewer asked George about the win, he didn't talk about his own power or how easy the night had been. Instead, he smiled and said something like, "He must have been a great football player. He hurt me with a good right hand and a body shot."

That was classic George. He found something honorable to say, even when there wasn't much to say. In a few simple words, he gave that man a gift that would last the rest of his life. Now, years later, that former opponent has a story for his grandchildren: "Yep, your grandpa fought George Foreman... and I almost had him. I even hurt George." Foreman understood something that many champions never do—that lifting another person up never diminishes your own greatness. If anything, it magnifies it.

The monster that annihilated Joe Frazier and Ken Norton had found another way to win.

Of anybody that ever walked the planet, George knew what a knockout blow looked and felt like when it landed on your opponent. Remember, this is the greatest prize in sports, and this had been a long, demanding struggle back in his second career. Standing in front of him, helpless and out on his feet, is the heavyweight champion of the world wearing the crown he had fought so hard to wear again.  His destiny.

This is supposed to be the moment where you summon up the most murderous punch you have ever thrown. Hearns on Duran comes to mind heavyweight style. Old school George.  Destroy. Win. Take what's yours.

But is that what George did? No.

I can’t get inside his mind, but I can make a pretty good guess from years of watching him. George thought: No need to really hurt him. This should be just about enough for ten seconds. Pop!   "Clean as a whistle" as Cosell might have said.

Hence the short, controlled, half-effort-looking last shot that kept Moorer down just past that ten 

second mark that had me wondering all of these decades.  Incredible.

Obviously, I’m biased as such a huge George Foreman fan, but even standing on its own merits, regaining the heavyweight championship at forty-five is already almost beyond comprehension. But I honestly think it may have been one of the most gracious moments we have ever seen in sports and impossible to find a parallel in any sport as the mere nature of boxing defies comparison. When everything he had chased for years was finally on the line, George Foreman chose control over destruction.  He chose love over hate.

George had sent many men to the canvas under the thunder of his punches and knew Moorer wasn't beating the 10 count. The George of youth that might have scowled at his downed opponent with a look of “how dare you step in the ring with me” raising his hands in self-admiration over his fallen and broken foe.  This George became still and took a moment looking to the heavens, the bright ring lights radiating on his calm face.  When the fight was waved over George sank to his knees in his corner, head bowed in prayer as pandemonium erupted around him.

He had dared to dream the impossible dream.  Hall of Fame ringside announcer and close friend Jim Lampley, the idea George might win so implausible was unprepared with something clever to say   and simply blurted out "It Happened!"  The impossible dream had happened, and George had reached that unreachable star.   George knew a much greater power than his punches had won this fight. Asked after the fight where the celebration party was, George responded "No party for me I gotta get back to Houston I got a sermon to preach tomorrow."

One of my greatest regrets in life is I never got on a plane and went to Houston to watch George preach about God and the Love of Jesus Christ and shake his hand.  

This essay, much like sculpture, reminded me of my favorite part of the creative process: how much more deeply you engage with the subject at hand. I knew  many of the things I wrote about above, but through the process of writing I learned to appreciate them on much deeper levels by thinking about them in more substantive and practical ways and learned a few new things.

I started this essay the morning I heard George had died. It began as a Facebook post, something I rarely do, but there were so many stories, memories, and tributes circulating that I simply felt compelled to write about him. I had long argued that George was the GOAT for many of the reasons discussed here, perhaps ad nauseam. But essays have a way of expanding, just as ideas do.

What began as an attempt to make the case for George being the greatest heavyweight of all time gradually became something else. In many ways, I wrote this as much for myself as anyone else. As the essay grew, morphed, and took me in unexpected directions, I found myself less certain that there will ever be a definitive GOAT at the levels we are talking about.

Earlier, I compared Ali and Foreman to great works of art. The more I think about it, the more fitting that comparison becomes. At a certain level, trying to definitively rank Ali, Foreman, Louis, Marciano, Holmes, or other all-time greats starts to feel a little like arguing whether Michelangelo was greater than Rembrandt or whether Beethoven was greater than Mozart. The discussion is fascinating, but the greatness remains regardless of where we rank it.

I suppose much of it eventually comes down to personal connection and what it is about a sport or athlete that excites you. Between Sugar Ray Leonard and Marvin Hagler, I pick Leonard for his speed, brilliance, and ability to do things I had never seen before and haven't seen since. You might pick Hagler for his relentless pressure, no-nonsense destruction of opponents, and war-waging will to win. At the end of the day, neither one of us is wrong.

The things that resonate with us. The things we value. The things we see reflected in ourselves or appreciate in that sport.

Maybe you're a blue-collar guy from the Northeast and Rocky Marciano's unblemished record and relentless work ethic speak to you as much as his athletic prowess. Maybe you saw the Brown Bomber in Joe Louis as your guy when the deck of America was not stacked fairly for a young Black man. Maybe in the turbulent times of the 1960s, Muhammad Ali became your guy—not only because he was brave enough to step into the ring against the best heavyweight in the world, but because he was willing to take a meaningful stand when he had everything to lose.

Or maybe, like me, you found your champion in George Foreman for many of the reasons I have laid out here.

There is no definitive answer, and perhaps that is one of the reasons sports can be so compelling. Greatness matters. Greatness should be celebrated. But our connection to greatness often says as much about us as it does about the athlete. Maybe another man sees something of himself in Ali, Louis, Holmes, Marciano, Leonard, Hagler, or Foreman. Maybe that connection is every bit as important as the statistics, titles, and victories we spend so much time debating.

So, is it time to vote?

Not really.

Somewhere along the way this essay stopped being a simple argument about whether George Foreman was the GOAT. It became a way of processing his death, beginning on the morning I heard the news and evolving into a deeper exploration of the man, the fighter, the journey, and the things that made him special.

So after all of this, maybe the question isn't whether George was the GOAT or not. Maybe the journey of me writing this and you reading it is really about engaging with someone extraordinary. Someone gifted. Someone blessed. Someone whose life left the world a little better than he found it. 

I find it fascinating that two of the most beloved and influential figures in sports history emerged from a profession whose objective is so primitive. The entire purpose of championship boxing is to physically dominate another man, break him physically and mentally, and the gold-standard outcome is to beat him unconscious.

Does that say something about society? Maybe. Perhaps. But I think it raises a more interesting question. Is it because we admire fearlessness? Because we admire toughness? Or is it because, out of such a tempest, other things can grow?

Perhaps it is because boxing leaves very little room to hide. The ring has a way of exposing the truth. Excuses disappear. Reputations are tested. Character is revealed. And when we watch men willingly step into that arena and tell the truth about themselves under pressure, our respect is earned, not demanded.

Not only in victory, but in defeat and the struggle that unfolds when things stop going their way. Are they able to get up and press on? To throw themselves back into the tempest of the storm? Was George able to overcome his defeat in Zaire?  Rising to his feet in the Lyle fight after taking murderous shots and battle to victory. Yes, and then some. Was Ali able to overcome being stripped of his title for taking a stand he believed was right? Yes, and then some.

Perhaps that is why these men continue to matter long after the cheering stops and the belts are put away. The ring revealed who they were, but it was what they did afterward that revealed who they could become.

Yet out of that brutal arena came Muhammad Ali and George Foreman, two men who would eventually become larger-than-life international figures, known as much for the lives they lived as their boxing prowess. Out of one of the most violent sports on earth emerged two men who would become known for their love of humanity, their compassion for ordinary people, and their ability to inspire millions far beyond the boxing ring.

What I find especially interesting is that neither ultimately used their fame simply to glorify themselves. Both, in their own way, spent much of their lives pointing toward something greater. Some may chuckle at the thought of Ali constantly declaring himself "The Greatest," and perhaps rightfully so. But as the years passed, both Ali and George bowed their heads before a God they believed was greater than them both.

That may be one of the most important parts of their story. Not self-glorification, but humility. Not selfishness, but selflessness. Not simply what they achieved, but what they ultimately chose to serve.

George had showed us as Philippians 4:13 tells us "I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength" and George was a joyous Soldier of God and had shown us the impossible was possible.

His boxing accomplishments are undeniable, and I obviously couldn't be a bigger fan and see him as an American treasure and yes the Heavyweight GOAT.   As a boxing analyst he was bright, intelligent and engaging. George became an amazing salesman, not because he was clever in that sense but because we knew he was an honest man and we trusted him.  George was proud to be an American and voiced it often and it played into his mantra of relishing the possibilities of the future and not dwelling on the past.  Get up, get going and make your dreams come true.  Forget about what the naysayers say, believe in yourself simply do your best and amazing things can happen.  Knowing whatever the outcome is, doing your best is a victory in itself.

But the thing that affected me and made me admire him most was his transformation as a human being. He went from mean and menacing and truthfully a scary guy. To a man filled with the love of God radiating kindness with the most unforgettable and sincere smile. George would be the first to tell you that transformation was because of his relationship with Jesus Christ.

Writing this has me doing some soul searching of my own. Am I the person God wants me to be? Am I the best version of me?   The true and lasting sign of greatness is not trophies or titles but a person who makes people around them want to be better by the example they set.

In the last few days, I have read many of his quotes on the nature of positivity, application, truth, honesty and hard work are incredibly wise and profound and on par with some of the best minds of history.   He personified like no other: getting back on your feet and battling forward regardless of what had happened or the naysayers said and he did it with a big smile on his face and inspired millions.   The world needs more George Foreman’s, but I'm afraid George was truly one of a kind.  We all can't be George, but we can all be better, George showed us how.

Big George, Heavyweight Champion of the World, Olympic Gold medalist, Holy Bible in hand in the humidity of a Houston street corner, sweat trickling down his bald head and that ever present smile professing the Glory of God and the love of Jesus Christ.  I can’t help but be sad and the world seems a little emptier without Big George. Everybody will hear the final bell and fight their last fight and see their last dawn and sunset. For George that day came, but he was ready.  I can only imagine when he walked into Heaven basking in the Glory of God, his childlike enthusiasm, that big George smile saying "Man this is great"!