My View from the Corner

by Angelo Dundee

  While divulging his innermost secrets, George also said that he thought he had been drugged before the fight in Zaire, that the water he had been given before the fight had "medicine in it." But if he had taken anything before the fight, it must have been steroids judging from those home run shots he was throwing for the first six rounds. No, it wasn't "medicine" that did George in, nor loose ropes, which he first claimed. It was that one-two Ali hit him with in the first round, the "rope-a-dope," and any one of a hundred other things Ali did to beat him. Ali hadn't needed any help from any "medicine."

  As the countdown to the fight neared, just days away, George was in "trim" fighting shape—if 250, his lightest weight in three years, could be called "trim"—and more than determined to win back his heavyweight championship. He felt destined. All he had to do to achieve that dream and "exorcise the ghost" of Zaire was beat Michael Moorer.

  The scene in the dressing room before a fight, far away from the television cameras, is an elaborate piece of theater. Fighters of all sizes, shapes, and kinds, all sniffing the promise of the night, try to work off their nervousness, each in his own distinctive way. Some will be going through a normal workout routine, stretching, exercising, and shadowboxing, working up a sweat. Others will be throwing punches in the air or into their trainers' hand pads. A few will be standing in front of a mirror, studying their stances, their punches, or themselves. More than a few will be listening to music to soothe themselves. And still a few others will go into the bathroom relieving themselves or spitting and blowing their noses to clear their respiratory tract while others dance their butterflies away. The styles may vary, but all are trying to work out their nervousness and get their minds set for the fight.

  Not so Big George. Convinced he was on a mission and would once again be heavyweight champion, he came into the dressing room radiating a hard glow of high purpose. With all the coolness of the proverbial cucumber, he began unpacking his bag and, after rummaging around in it for a minute or so, came out with a pair of trunks. The trunks, once bright red, had now faded to pink. But you could still read the lettering on them: "George Foreman, Heavyweight Champion." They were the same trunks he had worn in Zaire twenty years ago.

  Going all the way back to about the first decade of the twentieth century when the current style of boxing trunks replaced the skin-tights worn by John L. Sullivan and his successors, boxing trunks are about the only thing besides paper clips that haven't changed. Essentially men's underwear with "Everlast" or "Ringside" imprinted on the waistband, they occasionally sport a legend, usually the fighter's name or some advertisement, like the one Nino Benvenuti sported advertising an Italian restorative. The trunks George now put on were his advertisement that this "old geezer," as he was called, just two months short of his forty-sixth birthday, intended to put to rest the slander that the contest always belonged to the young. More important, those trunks were a sign he intended to exorcise the "ghost" of things past.

  Singing "The Impossible Dream," he told everyone within earshot, "I'm fighting for every guy who ever got told to act his age." Instead of warming up in the dressing room, George stepped out into the hallway to do a little shadowboxing. But when an HBO camera crew came into view, George, without even the slightest trace of nervousness, broke into a loud laugh, not wanting anyone watching to think, as he put it, that "I was having anything but fun."

  An HBO producer asked George if he had any special music he would like played when he entered the MGM Grand arena. George, never having had a musical accompaniment for his entrance, hadn't given it any thought. He paused for a second and then, without saying a word, quickly turned and went back into his dressing room to fish out of his bag the tape he had jumped rope to, Sam Cooke's "If I Had a Hammer." Returning, he handed it to the producer.

  Moments later we were on our way into the arena. As soon as George heard "If I Had a Hammer" blaring over the P.A. system, he burst down the aisle, all pumped up. Suddenly the arena took on the look of a giant psychiatric ward as almost twelve thousand fans, all partial to George and his comeback, greeted his entrance with a deafening roar, collectively mal-treating their lungs by repeatedly shouting his name. The cheering suddenly stopped, almost as if the choirmaster had waved off the choir, and was replaced by booing when rap music began playing. For here came Michael Moorer down the aisle. George, standing in the corner, cloaked in a sweatshirt with the hood up, knew what Moorer was going through. He had been there before, in Zaire.

  Even before the echo of the opening bell had died down, Moorer had begun landing his right jab, pumping it into George's face two and three times in succession. George was content to just stand there, arms crossed in front of him, occasionally throwing his left, more a pawing motion than a punch, with a right thrown in every now and then for good measure. And every so often he would deliver a long looping left, less as a scoring punch than as a range finder to keep Moorer from moving to his right, away from George's lethal right. It was almost as if George was playing "rope-a-dope" without the ropes, waiting Moorer out just as Ali had waited him out twenty years before in Zaire.

  As the rounds continued to mount and those keeping score continued to write "ditto" on their scorecards next to Moorer's name—with the exception of the fourth round, won by George on the strength of his body attack on all three scorecards—it was becoming painfully evident that George's strategy of waiting for Moorer to throw his straight left so that his body crossed over in front of George, creating a target for George's "sneaky" right, was not going to happen soon enough.

  Like a watched pot that never boils, we needed something to bring George to a boil. I tried to provide that something before the tenth round when I told him, "Look, George, you're kind of behind on points." Hardly on par with my exhortation, "You're blowing it, son" to Sugar Ray before the thirteenth round of his fight with Hearns, but words I thought would make the point that George now had to "dig deep" to win. George didn't want to hear any such words and in an agitated tone snapped back, "Don't come with that stuff."

  Angry at me, George went out for the tenth round intent on taking his anger out on Moorer. But Moorer, convinced the lion known as George Foreman was asleep just because he hadn't heard him roar and paying no heed to trainer Teddy Atlas's warning to move away from George's right, stood in front of George, peppering him with jabs and punctuating each jab landed with a verbal "pop, pop, pop." All the while George stood his ground, looking—through horizontal slits that had once served as eyes—for Moorer to cross over in front of him. About two-thirds of the way through the round, George threw a sharp left jab and followed with a strong right, catching Moorer on the forehead. Moorer stood there, stock-still, right in front of George, right where George wanted him. This was the chance he had waited for, and like a bird dog spotting a wounded pheasant, George was quick to jump on his stricken prey. Throwing a left, he then threaded the needle's eye with a powerful right, catching Moorer on the sweet spot of his chin. Suddenly Moorer collapsed to the canvas like a balloon whose string had been detached.

  As referee Joe Cortez tolled the count over the soon-to-be-ex-champ, twelve thousand fans in the MGM Grand arena jumped to their feet screaming with all the wild joy of prisoners on the announcement of their release. At the count of "ten," George, too, felt some of that same release, freed of the ghost that had haunted him for two decades. His prayers answered, he fell to his knees to give a prayer of thanks, saying simply, "Thank you, Jesus."

  One reporter at ringside, then in the process of giving a running commentary, was asked by the voice on the other end of the phone whether Foreman's victory was "a bad day for boxing." The writer merely held up the phone and said, "Bad day for boxing? Listen to the cheering."

  While all this was happening I was thinking to myself much the same thing. When miracles like this happen, how can it be bad for boxing? This was the greatest thing that had ever happened in the sport. And it had happened in the MGM Grand, which seemed appropriate since the lyrics to one of th
e greatest songs in one of MGM's greatest movie went "Somewhere over the rainbow ... ." As in the song, the dreams George had dared to dream had come true.

  George Foreman's long pilgrimage was over. George would have four more fights left in him, but they were mere footnotes to the greatest comeback in sports. For when history revisits the career of this time traveler whose career had spanned four decades and twenty years between championships, it will pause longer over the name of George Foreman than any other great.

  If there was a fitting tribute to this man who had triumphed twenty years after having been beaten by Muhammad Ali and after twenty years of hiding his pain behind a big smile and thousands of one-liners it came from Muhammad himself who sent George a letter after his win reading, "Congratulations, Champ, you had the courage and the guts to go out and do it." Those words were worthy of being lettered on all the white ribbons all over the world to honor the accomplishment of Big George Foreman.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Last Chapter: Memories Are Made of This

  Copyright © 2008 by Angelo Dundee and Bert Randolph Sugar Click here for terms of use.

  It's been said that life is not measured by the number of breaths you take but by the moments that take your breath away. And, boy, over the past sixty years have I had my share of those breathtaking moments.

  When you're aging, time goes by at a fairly accelerated clip—or as someone once said, "When you're over fifty, every fifteen minutes is breakfast." It's been that way for me, too. And looking back over those years is almost like opening an old trunk and having the dusty memories come billowing out, filling the air with reminders of people, places, and friends of the past.

  Just reminiscing (a ten-dollar word), there are so many I'm grateful to who made those breathtaking moments happen. First there were the many trainers who lit the way for me and on whose shoulders I stood, from Chickie Ferrara, who took me under his wing at the very beginning, to Ray Arcel, Charlie Goldman, Freddie Brown, and so many others who guided me when I was the new kid on the boxing block.

  Larry Holmes was once quoted as saying, "Angelo Dundee never took a right hand or a left hook in his life, but he had somebody in front of him that did." And Buster Douglas Sr., along the same line, was once heard to say, "Where did they get that 'we' shit? When the bell rings, I go out into the ring; they go down the stairs." But to Larry and Buster, and all those who have no idea of what a trainer does or how valuable he is, I say you don't have to be a hen to know how to make an omelet. And we're in the omelet-making business, so to speak.

  As a bona fide member of the trainers' fraternity, I can tell you that every trainer I have ever known is there for his kids, helping to give those with God-given talents a better chance of doing what they do best. And anyone who doesn't understand that doesn't understand just how complex the game of boxing is. We have a list of a thousand to-dos to help our kids. It's a mixed bag combining certain qualities belonging to a doctor, an engineer, a psychologist, and sometimes even an actor, in addition to knowing your specific art well. In short, whatever we can do to give them an advantage in the ring, we do. And if you don't think we care for our fighters, let me tell you about Charlie Goldman, who was found sleeping the deep sleep, dead in his bed, wearing the championship robe of his fighter, Rocky Marciano.

  I know that whatever help I can give my fighters ends at the sound of the bell for the next round. Then he's on his own, out there in the loneliest spot in the world, the center of the ring, just him, the other guy, and the ref. And that other guy is there to hurt him and the ref can't help him—although Randy "Tex" Cobb tried to enlist the aid of the referee in his fight with Larry Holmes when, unable to get to Larry with a taxi cab, he hollered over to referee Steve Crossen, "You're white, help me!" But for three minutes it's up to the fighter—and the fighter alone.

  When the bell rings ending the round, that's when the trainer takes over. That's when, with our minds working at computerized speed, we communicate with our fighter, telling him what to do for the next three minutes. That's when something like "You're blowing it, son" to a Sugar Ray Leonard can turn around a fight. Or when a push in the back or fiddling with a torn glove in the corner of a fighter named Cassius Clay can avert a defeat. That's our time to win or lose a fight for the fighter. And knowing how and when to do that voodoo that trainers do so well comes only with experience, for experience counts for everything in this business. That's why I'm grateful to all those trainers who came before me, handing down all their experience and advice, like old clothing, and teaching me to become a trainer. Or, in the words of Yogi Berra, to all those who "Learned me all their experiences."

  Then there were the fighters, those great athletes I had the pleasure of working with, starting with my first champ, Carmen Basilio, who proved that a good little man can beat a good big man, as he did in beating Sugar Ray Robinson. And to my three Cuban champions, Luis Rodriguez, Sugar Ramos, and José Napoles, who not only gave me so many great moments in the ring but also taught me "Spanglish" so I could communicate with the many other Latino fighters I was fortunate to have been associated with. And, of course, Muhammad Ali, who never made me a millionaire but made me rich in so many other ways during the most fun years I've ever had. And Sugar Ray Leonard, who was always a ball to be around and took up the slack both for me and for boxing after Ali's retirement. And George Foreman, who showed me the meaning of perseverance and determination. And so many others, those less-than-boldfaced fighters I had the pleasure of working with over the years.

  These were the best athletes in the world. And if you don't believe me when I say that, then maybe you'll believe ESPN.com, which conducted a poll of trainers, coaches, sports scientists, and medical professionals who ranked sixty-four sports in terms of "athleticism." Based on strength, speed, agility, quickness, courage, stamina, and decision-making under pressure, the pollsters ranked boxing number one—with fishing number sixty-four. So, is it any wonder why I've enjoyed working with the best athletes in the world? They're number one in my book, too.

  Then there were the members of the media, friends who were always 'there' for me, like Budd Schulberg, Bud Collins, Dave Anderson, Mort Sharnik, Lim Kee Chan (my writer friend from Singapore), Steve Ellis, and Howard Cosell.

  Speaking of Cosell, who was always speaking of anything and everything, he was what you might call a real 'beaut,' bombastic and full of himself—Jimmy Cannon once saying of him, "If Howard Cosell were a sport, he'd be roller derby." What I could never understand was Howard's constant boast that he "made" Muhammad Ali when, if truth be known, it was the other way round, Muhammad the one who made Howard.

  Muhammad might have "made" me, too. For just being associated with Muhammad, I was more than just a trainer; I was a "famous trainer."

  As "a famous trainer" I was able to get gigs announcing fights with Howard Cosell and Tim Ryan. I could never understand why Cosell—who was quoted as saying, "Angelo Dundee is the only man in boxing to whom I would entrust my own son" (which was easy for him to say, Howard never having had a son)—would never entrust me to say anything on the air, almost always saying what I told him during the commercial break and incorporating it into his own observations. Ryan, on the other hand, let me have my say. Maybe too much as occasionally, with my scanty knowledge of Spanish, I would correct his pronunciation of Latino fighters' names. And Tim would always tell me he was "using the King's English." Well, I might not have known "the King's English," but I knew the king was now a queen and besides names like "Cuyo" were pronounced "Cujo" in Spanish, with a j sound for the y. Anyway, my biggest contribution to the telecast with Tim came during the second Michael Dokes–Mike Weaver fight when I said, "Weaver's jab is more perceptive than Dokes's." So maybe announcing wasn't my bag. But recently I've made somewhat of a comeback, appearing on ESPN Classic's "Ringside" show as a commentator. Everybody thinks I have hair, so it's a great show.

  Then there were the movies. And here I didn't have to speak. I remember my first movie part
. And when I say "part," I'm not kidding because it was a part of my arm. The movie was Requiem for a Heavyweight, back in 1962, and the producer, David Suskind, was looking for a heavyweight to fight Anthony Quinn, who was playing the part of a well-worn fighter named Mountain Rivera. Well, they cast Cassius as the heavyweight and along with Cassius they cast that "famous trainer" as (guess what?) his trainer. In the movie Cassius KOs Mountain in the seventh round, and if you look closely you'll see my hand and part of my arm holding up Cassius's hand in victory after the fight. For that "part," I received residuals of about eight or ten dollars a year for the longest time. Or rather my arm did.

  The part of that "famous trainer" was later played by Ernest Borgnine and Ron Silver in films about Muhammad. Silver played me in Michael Mann's 2001 picture Ali, and although I didn't appear in the picture, I trained Will Smith to imitate all of Ali's moves in the ring. Here let me tell you that until I worked on Ali I thought boxers were the hardest workers I'd ever seen. But I soon found out that actors work as hard, if not harder. They're as dedicated and disciplined as fighters, working from early in the morning till late at night. And no one worked harder than Will Smith, a great athlete and an excellent learner, who worked at it until he had all of Ali's moves down pat. He even loved to spar, going through several great workouts with James Toney, who played the part of Joe Frazier. I can't begin to tell you how much fun I had just being a part of Ali, even though I didn't have a "part" in it.