strategy. Sooner or later, there must come a time in the fight when Ali would be so tired he could not move, could only use his arms to protecthimself. Then he would be like a heavy bag. Then Foreman would treat him like a heavy bag. In the immense and massive confidence of these enormous reverberating blows his fists would blast through every protection of Ali, smashing at those forearms until they could protect Ali no more. Six hundred blows at the heavy bag; not one false punch. His hands would be ready to beat on every angle of Ali’s cowering and self-protective meat, and Sadler, as if reading the psychic temperature of comprehension in the audience, cried out from his wise gargoyle of a mouth, “Don’t stand and freeze, Muhammad. Oh, Muhammad, don’t you stand and freeze!”
5. DEAD MAN ON THE FLOOR
A LI WAS peeping in. There was not much Foreman could try that Ali did not see. The first to train each day in this same ring, Ali had all the time he needed to begin his workout at noon, talk to the press, walk the hundred yards back to his villa for a shower, and then come out again to take a squint at George. Foreman would arrive about 1 P.M. after a forty-mile drive from the Inter-Continental and go to a dressing room to change. Often he would arrive while Ali was still talking to the press. Hearing the sounds of Foreman’s retinue passing outside Ali would shout, “Come on in, chump. I ain’t going to hurt you.”
Foreman would call back, “Don’t want to hear that.”
He would pass out of range of Ali’s voice, and Ali would declare to the reporters listening, “George Foreman wants to keep his mind undisturbed because he’s got a lot to worry about. He has to face
me
.”
These days Ali seemed more interested in talking to the press than in working. One morning he did no more than three rounds of light shadowboxing. Then he hit the heavybag for a few minutes. Maybe Ali had been hitting heavy bags for too many years, but he did it gingerly as if he did not wish to jar either his hands or his head. He seemed to be saving his energies for the press. He was always ready for a harangue after a workout, and there was something unchanging in his voice — the same hysteria one first heard ten years ago was still present — the jeering agitated voice that always repelled his white listeners, the ugly voice so much at odds with his customary charm. You could feel Ali shift the gears of his psyche as he went into it, as though it were a special transmission to use only for press conferences, or declaiming his poetry, or talking about his present opponent. At such times his tone would turn harsh. High-pitched hints of fear would come into his voice and large gouts of indignation. Even as what he said became more comical, so he would become more humorless. “Great as I am,” he would state, “you have made me the underdog. I, an artist, a creator, am called the underdog when fighting an amateur.” He would be kingly in disdain but it was probably for the castle of Camp since he knew that everything he said was put immediately into quotation marks. Something in his voice promised that you would never know how much he believed of what he had to say. After a while one could begin to suspect these speeches served as an organ of elimination to vent the boredom of training; he was sending his psychic wastes directly into the press. On the consequence, he was not exactly fun to be around. If he poisoned the air with his harangues, he raised the thought that he was in a continuing panic. He certainly had to be in some fear after those quick looks atForeman on the heavy bag. Some part of his gut had to respond to those monumental thuds. As if in reaction, he would assemble the press for still one more tirade. The voice of the tirade was, however, growing hollow, and there were occasions at Nsele when the hollow seemed to reverberate back, as if he sent out a call, “Hear, O walls, the sound of my greatness,” and
5. DEAD MAN ON THE FLOOR
A LI WAS peeping in. There was not much Foreman could try that Ali did not see. The first to train each day in this same ring, Ali had all the time he needed to begin his workout at noon, talk to the press, walk the hundred yards back to his villa for a shower, and then come out again to take a squint at George. Foreman would arrive about 1 P.M. after a forty-mile drive from the Inter-Continental and go to a dressing room to change. Often he would arrive while Ali was still talking to the press. Hearing the sounds of Foreman’s retinue passing outside Ali would shout, “Come on in, chump. I ain’t going to hurt you.”
Foreman would call back, “Don’t want to hear that.”
He would pass out of range of Ali’s voice, and Ali would declare to the reporters listening, “George Foreman wants to keep his mind undisturbed because he’s got a lot to worry about. He has to face
me
.”
These days Ali seemed more interested in talking to the press than in working. One morning he did no more than three rounds of light shadowboxing. Then he hit the heavybag for a few minutes. Maybe Ali had been hitting heavy bags for too many years, but he did it gingerly as if he did not wish to jar either his hands or his head. He seemed to be saving his energies for the press. He was always ready for a harangue after a workout, and there was something unchanging in his voice — the same hysteria one first heard ten years ago was still present — the jeering agitated voice that always repelled his white listeners, the ugly voice so much at odds with his customary charm. You could feel Ali shift the gears of his psyche as he went into it, as though it were a special transmission to use only for press conferences, or declaiming his poetry, or talking about his present opponent. At such times his tone would turn harsh. High-pitched hints of fear would come into his voice and large gouts of indignation. Even as what he said became more comical, so he would become more humorless. “Great as I am,” he would state, “you have made me the underdog. I, an artist, a creator, am called the underdog when fighting an amateur.” He would be kingly in disdain but it was probably for the castle of Camp since he knew that everything he said was put immediately into quotation marks. Something in his voice promised that you would never know how much he believed of what he had to say. After a while one could begin to suspect these speeches served as an organ of elimination to vent the boredom of training; he was sending his psychic wastes directly into the press. On the consequence, he was not exactly fun to be around. If he poisoned the air with his harangues, he raised the thought that he was in a continuing panic. He certainly had to be in some fear after those quick looks atForeman on the heavy bag. Some part of his gut had to respond to those monumental thuds. As if in reaction, he would assemble the press for still one more tirade. The voice of the tirade was, however, growing hollow, and there were occasions at Nsele when the hollow seemed to reverberate back, as if he sent out a call, “Hear, O walls, the sound of my greatness,” and
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