Can He Dish Out Punishment, Too?

It doubtless will be said, when George Foreman is dispatched by Evander Holyfield in their upcoming championship fight, that George was a flash in the pantry.

Indeed he is. And whichever way he strays, allowing, too, for the remote possibility he puts the boff on Holyfield, he must be credited with pulling off one of the more artistic heists of this half of the century.

George has done it. The fight is building to something that will involve major currency. Small, if any, credit goes to the champion.

The hall in Atlantic City, N.J., will sell out. Revenues from pay television will be large. Coverage will be massive.

And, licking his thumb, George will count his share, possibly running upward of $12 million. How did he frame this brilliant campaign? He did it making a farce of standard conditioning practices, lecturing on the virtues of cheeseburgers, pastrami sandwiches, roast beef and mashed potatoes, meat loaf and gravy, shrimp creole.

“I never grew up on escargot,” George told us. “In my neighborhood, it was too hard to find.”

People lunching on diet shakes, studying nervously cholesterol counts on labels, have looked upon George as their knight-errant, playing out their caloric fantasy.

Only two other boxers in the past built up gates with the genius of Foreman. One was Muhammad Ali.

Ali recited poetry. He agitated opponents, fastening to them such names as “the Rabbit,” “the Washerwoman,” “the Big Ugly Bear.” A converted Muslim, he revolutionized science with his findings on the evils of pork.

He informed the world one day: “When you hear that bacon crackling in the pan, that’s the maggots coming out.”

Ali addressed crowds on street corners. A formidable coffee shop orator, usually rising early, he turned breakfast at hotels into cultural conventions.

No one acquired such refinements of the buildup since Archie Moore who, curiously, serves today as Foreman’s consultant.

Light-heavyweight champion, compelled to weigh in at 175 pounds, Archie provided hair-raising suspense to each title defense.

Could he make 175, down from maybe 193? His struggle to make the weight superseded interest in the fight.

Rapturously, Archie extolled the wonders of the chocolate sundae. He especially liked doughnuts. And the staple he held most precious--as Foreman honors the cheeseburger--was fried chicken, described by Archie as man’s most utilitarian foodstuff.

He explained: “There is nothing to match it for versatility. It can be a full meal or a between-meal snack. It can be eaten at a table or while riding in a car. If you can’t finish what you’ve got, wrap it in a napkin; it will keep. Eat it hot or cold, with fork or free-hand. You can fry a chicken all at once, or a bit at a time. And best of all, chicken is cheap.”

So how did Archie manage to make 175? He owed it all, he insisted, to a secret diet slipped to him one day by an aborigine on a park bench in Sydney, Australia. The diet is best forgotten; it began each morning with a glass of hot sauerkraut juice.

Archie owed a debt to the gate, but he wouldn’t do everything in its behalf. For instance, preparing to fight Rocky Marciano for the heavyweight title, Moore was asked by the publicist to go to Brockton, Mass., and slug Marciano’s father.

“Why don’t you ask me to slug his mother?” Archie snapped, suggesting they go on to the next idea.

Archie was colossal, but so is Foreman, a student threatening to outstrip the master. Proclaiming his affinity to the sandwich, while Holyfield remains a slave to healthy nourishment, George is asked: “Has the franchise ‘burger changed your life?”

“That and buffet,” he responds. “At the buffet table, I am found to be very active.”

With this spoof, George has returned from the quiet life of Texas preacher to big box office, maneuvering his way, at 43, into a championship fight.

We asked him a while back at what weight he aimed to contest Holyfield. He answered: “Somewhere between 248 and 263.”

You like an eater who gives himself latitude.