previous Champion. It’s something I’ve borrowed, and I’ll have to give it up.” He turned expansive. “I even love to see young cats looking at me and saying, ‘Aaah, I can take him,’ and I laugh. I used to be that way. It’s all right. That’s how it ought to be.” He looked so happy with this press conference that he had become a natural force in the room, and everyone liked him. He was a contrast to Ali who, when reporters were about, was always intent over the latest injury to his status and therefore rattled on the being of the media like a tin roof banging in the wind.
The questions continued. Foreman’s answers came back with the velvet touch of a well-worn pair of dungarees. Only once did he give a clue to what he might be like in a temper. A reporter asked what he thought of Ali’s claim that he was more militant in working for his people than Foreman.
George got stiff. The warp and woof were jamming the thread. His breath was a hint constricted. “There is no suggestion,” he said, “that can bother someone who is intelligent. In answer to Ali being more militant …” But his voice rose. “I don’t even think about things like that,” he answered, cutting off the question. It was obvious thatanger was upset in him as easily as tears from a spoiled child. There must be a massive instability to his faculties of rage, explanation in part for his rituals of concentration. Like the man who fears falling from high places, and fixes his eyes on the floor so that he need never look out a window, Foreman fixed his mind on the absence of disturbance.
“It’s hard,” said Foreman, “to concentrate and be polite when you’re asked questions you’ve heard before.” He subscribed to the principle that repetition kills the soul. “You see, I’m preparing for a fight. That’s my interest. I don’t want distraction. I have no quarrel with the press, but I like to keep my mind working on the things I set for it. You see,” he said, “you have to be one hundred percent stable in everything you do.” And he looked about him as if to indicate he had been talking long enough.
“George, one last question. What’s your fight prediction?”
Foreman was home. It was over. “Oh,” he said, in no faint parody, “I’m the greatest fighter who ever lived. I’m a wonder. The fifth wonder of the world. I’m even faster than Muhammad Ali. And I’m going to knock him out in three … two … one.” He let his eyes laugh. “I’ll be doing one hundred percent my best,” he said. “That’s my only prediction.”
Now, Dick Sadler was asked a few questions. Short, stocky, about sixty, with a bald head, a flattened nose and a flat black beret sitting on his bald head, Foreman’s manager was rough yet roly-poly, and formidable in his features for they were a map with renovations — Sadler knew how flesh got bent in the real world. Since he was also an amalgam of all that sly wisdom of manner that comesthrough the cross-fertilization of the various Black establishments: prison, boxing, music, even personal oratory, Sadler, if he had been an actor, could have played anything from a trusty on a chain gang to an aging emcee. He could have done a hoofer or a stand-up comedian, and had; could play piano or trumpet, and had. He was versatile and knew it by the age of nine, when he acted in “Our Gang” comedies. Even now his features made you think of such classic faces as Louis Armstrong or Moms Mabley; Sadler’s mouth was always looking to digest the taste on his lips of the last remark. It was often original for he never needed to say the same thing twice. All the same he made a point of saying the same thing if talking to the press: “Repetition is security for idiots,” said his sardonic look, and he developed his speeches. “George,” he now told them, “is going to keep his left foot between Muhammad’s legs. Oooh!” said Sadler in pain. “That’s where George should be. Hit you
The questions continued. Foreman’s answers came back with the velvet touch of a well-worn pair of dungarees. Only once did he give a clue to what he might be like in a temper. A reporter asked what he thought of Ali’s claim that he was more militant in working for his people than Foreman.
George got stiff. The warp and woof were jamming the thread. His breath was a hint constricted. “There is no suggestion,” he said, “that can bother someone who is intelligent. In answer to Ali being more militant …” But his voice rose. “I don’t even think about things like that,” he answered, cutting off the question. It was obvious thatanger was upset in him as easily as tears from a spoiled child. There must be a massive instability to his faculties of rage, explanation in part for his rituals of concentration. Like the man who fears falling from high places, and fixes his eyes on the floor so that he need never look out a window, Foreman fixed his mind on the absence of disturbance.
“It’s hard,” said Foreman, “to concentrate and be polite when you’re asked questions you’ve heard before.” He subscribed to the principle that repetition kills the soul. “You see, I’m preparing for a fight. That’s my interest. I don’t want distraction. I have no quarrel with the press, but I like to keep my mind working on the things I set for it. You see,” he said, “you have to be one hundred percent stable in everything you do.” And he looked about him as if to indicate he had been talking long enough.
“George, one last question. What’s your fight prediction?”
Foreman was home. It was over. “Oh,” he said, in no faint parody, “I’m the greatest fighter who ever lived. I’m a wonder. The fifth wonder of the world. I’m even faster than Muhammad Ali. And I’m going to knock him out in three … two … one.” He let his eyes laugh. “I’ll be doing one hundred percent my best,” he said. “That’s my only prediction.”
Now, Dick Sadler was asked a few questions. Short, stocky, about sixty, with a bald head, a flattened nose and a flat black beret sitting on his bald head, Foreman’s manager was rough yet roly-poly, and formidable in his features for they were a map with renovations — Sadler knew how flesh got bent in the real world. Since he was also an amalgam of all that sly wisdom of manner that comesthrough the cross-fertilization of the various Black establishments: prison, boxing, music, even personal oratory, Sadler, if he had been an actor, could have played anything from a trusty on a chain gang to an aging emcee. He could have done a hoofer or a stand-up comedian, and had; could play piano or trumpet, and had. He was versatile and knew it by the age of nine, when he acted in “Our Gang” comedies. Even now his features made you think of such classic faces as Louis Armstrong or Moms Mabley; Sadler’s mouth was always looking to digest the taste on his lips of the last remark. It was often original for he never needed to say the same thing twice. All the same he made a point of saying the same thing if talking to the press: “Repetition is security for idiots,” said his sardonic look, and he developed his speeches. “George,” he now told them, “is going to keep his left foot between Muhammad’s legs. Oooh!” said Sadler in pain. “That’s where George should be. Hit you
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