The Heavyweight Championship of the World – The Fight

 

In her introduction to Folio's new edition of The Fight, to mark the 50th anniversary of the 'Rumble in the Jungle', Muhammad Ali's daughter Hana shares her unique insight into the minds of two great champions.

 

In the heat of the humid African night, beneath the swaying palms of Kinshasa, Zaire, Muhammad Ali stood outside his villa under a blanket of vivid stars. As a boy he would sit on his porch steps in Louisville, Kentucky, staring at the sky, waiting for God (or one of his angels) to reveal his life’s purpose. Now a thirty-two-year-old man, fully aware of his mission and its sacrifices, his mind traveled back to 1964 when he was an 8-1 underdog before he shook up the world and won his first heavyweight championship against Sonny Liston. Now, a decade later, history prepared to leave its mark on the canvas of the sporting world once more.

Whenever I inquired about the most meaningful fight in my father’s career his answer remained steadfast: ‘The Rumble in the Jungle. Nobody believed I could do it,’ he said. ‘They thought Foreman was too strong, too big. He had youth on his side. But I had a plan and knew I could do anything with God’s help.’ George had recently triumphed over two of my father’s most formidable adversaries, Joe Frazier and Ken Norton, fighters with whom Dad had engaged in gruelling battles. The key to my father’s success lay not only in his unwavering faith and self-belief but in the fact that the fight was always for a more significant cause.

 

 

‘If I had walked into that ring only for myself,’ he once said, ‘George would have seemed scary; he might have got me. But when I thought of all the good that winning the title could do, when I thought of all the people I could help, George seemed small by comparison.’

It was October 30, 1974. The stage was set for an epic bout that would resonate far beyond the ring. Two larger-than-life figures emerged to define an era: Muhammad Ali, the charismatic champion and defiant voice of the Sixties, and George Foreman, the indomitable force whose ferocious power seemed to have no bounds nor yield any mercy. Millions tuned in from every corner of the globe, drawn by the irresistible allure of witnessing history in the making. For my father, it was a chance to reclaim his throne and reaffirm his place in the annals of boxing greatness. For George, it was an opportunity to solidify his dominance and silence my father’s mouth.

Beyond the glamour and theatrics, the fight held a deeper resonance, reflecting the struggles and aspirations of a generation grappling with its own destiny and identity. Against the backdrop of the civil rights movement, the Vietnam War, and the fight for global justice, Dad and George stood as towering figures, their personas emblematic of the era’s complexities and contradictions. The crowds adored my father, he was The Peoples’ Champion. At the time, George was perceived as a figure of authority due to his unapproachable persona and the German shepherd police dogs he arrived with. The fight was a cultural phenomenon, a symbol of resilience and resistance, and a testament to the power of the human spirit. It would become the most famous victory in boxing history and the birth of the ‘rope-a-dope’ strategy.

When Foreman fell in an eighth-round knockout, the crowd erupted into a deafening roar. A sudden downpour of heavy rain cascaded from the sky, drenching the cheerful people of Kinshasa as they danced in the streets. Against all odds, my father had achieved the impossible. ‘My God, he has done it!’ exclaimed the commentator over the radio as Foreman collapsed to the canvas. ‘The great man has done it! Muhammad Ali has regained his heavyweight title at the age of thirty-two! He must be The Greatest!’

 

 

My father always seemed to have a spark of magic stored deep in his spirit that he could summon at will. When the world was trying him unjustly, when his bouts in the ring were exhausting, and later, when his reflexes slowed and his speech grew softer, he’d reach down to the bottom of the well and find the strength to defy seemingly impossible odds, showing himself and the world time and again, that impossible is just a word.

‘No matter what you are in life,’ he once said, ‘no matter what color, what religion — it’s never too late to start all over again. I did it, and so can you. Never forget that, and never forget me.’ Fast forward five years to 3 December 1979. A beautiful friendship was born when my father picked up the phone to call George at home in Houston, Texas.  

‘George Foreman!’ he shouts.

‘Praise God, man! It’s a miracle,’ said George.

‘How you doin’, George?’

‘I’m doing just fine, man. I’m thinking about you, sitting down here, working for the Lord...'

The serendipitous encounter that inspired this call is a tale worth sharing. One evening, while driving through Houston, my father unexpectedly spotted George standing on a wooden crate in a desolate dirt lot. He was addressing a small audience. Following Foreman’s defeat in Africa, he plunged into a deep depression, ultimately forsaking boxing and selling all his possessions to pursue a spiritual journey. Dad had heard whispers of George’s troubles after losing the championship. His renunciation of worldly goods and wholehearted embrace of his faith resonated deeply with my father, gaining his attention and respect. That evening in Texas, Dad was astounded at the sight of George Foreman, once a fearsome heavyweight champion, now standing humbly on a dusty street corner, clutching an open Bible. Astounded, and intrigued, my father parked the car and approached. After a brief conversation and a few photographs, Dad departed with George’s number in his pocket, still captivated by the encounter.

 

 

Two champions, each representing different faiths, once rivals in the ring, forged a connection through their common spiritual values. In a profound hour-long exchange delving into matters of religion, boxing, life and sacrifice, an enduring friendship blossomed between these improbable allies.

‘... How old are you now? I’m 37,’ said Dad.

‘I’m 30,’ said George.

‘George, you know, if you want to, you’re young enough to fight again... I want you to return and regain the heavyweight title.’

‘Oh no,’ said George. ‘I could never do that anymore... God doesn’t want you back in that stuff anymore either...’

‘I’m not fighting,’ said Dad. ‘I’m through with fighting. I’m 37, man. I’m way older than you...’

‘Yeah, but he doesn’t want you in the ring anymore – he doesn’t want you in any more boxing exhibitions either...’

‘No boxing exhibitions?’

‘No,’ said George... ‘I had a dream that you were having an exhibition, but it would lead to another fight...’

‘Can you please call me a little more?’ said George. ‘You and I are closer than you think... We’ll be old men and friends together. You should call me up at least once every month, man.’

‘I’ll call you once a week,’ said Dad.

‘Could you?’ ‘Yea...’ ‘All right,’ said George. ‘God bless you.

As my father often remarked, ‘Everybody suffers losses in life. It’s the ones who overcome them and make a success of themselves that are doing something.’ Though George was defeated in The Fight that night in Africa, he persevered and reclaimed his title in 1994, making him the oldest person to achieve such a feat.