THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, November 7, 1994 TAG: 9411070063
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B01 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Guy Friddell
LENGTH: Medium: 63 lines
As old, fat George Foreman squeezed through the ropes, many of us figured the travesty of a fight would end in the final humbling of a clown, once proud, who pitches burgers and mufflers on TV.
And through most of 10 rounds, many spectators wished that young Michael Moorer would take out the old man, lest, while he stood, swaying, on his feet, he suffer lasting injury, even death.
A Tower of Pisa, Foreman leaned but would not fall. Between rounds, he stood in his corner, rooted, stolid, lest, if he sat, he mightn't get up.
Only at the end, he fell to his knees in a neutral corner, his forehead at the ring post, to pray. His brother Ray fainted in the euphoria of the upset as the crowd roared in an endless sounding surf.
In a jubilant post-fight statement, Foreman said he ``extablished'' superiority in the 10th through jabs to his foe's nose. (That recalled, for me, advice from Sugar Ray Robinson during an interview that, if ever in a fight, deliver the first blow with all my might to the enemy's nose, which I promised dutifully to do.)
And I like ``extablished.'' It's stronger, somehow, than the customary pronunciation.
But in Las Vegas Saturday night, Moorer connected on 348 punches to 199 by Foreman, whose reddened left eye swelled almost tight.
His battered face, pummeled out of shape, was a Halloween fright-mask, numb, dumb. He had become a human punching bag, as did Muhammad Ali 20 years ago in Zaire when, leaning on the ropes, his face in his arms, he let Foreman punch himself into exhaustion - rope-a-dope, Ali called it - and then whipped Foreman.
Saturday night, trainer Teddy Atlas warned Moorer to keep circling to the right to escape Foreman's thunderous right; but, relaxing, Moorer paused, facing Foreman.
``He never should have stood in front of me,'' Foreman said. ``I'm a straight-right puncher.''
Foreman landed a left jab, and reaching back 20 years, crashed a mighty right - ``the best punch George threw all night,'' Atlas said; ``a hamhock to the chin,'' Foreman said - to Moorer's chin.
The once-and-no-more champ fell on his back. Midway through the referee's count, he half-raised his head, but it fell back, doll-like.
The loser didn't know if he would fight again. He was more concerned with getting home ``to comfort'' his 2-year-old son who, on the phone, had been in tears.
``I wasn't going to let up; he caught me,'' said Moorer. ``What can I say? The best man won tonight.''
It was well said.
Now that Foreman has established himself, pressure will mount for another fight, perhaps with Mike Tyson, that would net more money than any bout in history.
But even that match would be anti-climactic. Foreman should recall once articulate, whimsical Ali, now well nigh entombed alive, nearly speechless, a state that began in Zaire as he lay on the ropes.
George had best forego any more rope-a-dope. by CNB