Sport: Muhammad on the Mountaintop

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Muhammad Ali was fantasying again. "I see myself in two years," he predicted during the long wait in Zaire. "Foreman's long beat and forgotten. There's a man on the telephone who's gonna give me $10 million to fight some great white hope who's got Governor Wallace workin' his corner." That vision seemed about as realistic as the rest of Ali's prefight bombast. Then, early last Wednesday morning in Kinshasa, Ali stood proud in the ring over the supine form of George Foreman. As the champion was counted out, Ali's wildest prophecy seemed suddenly, surprisingly plausible.

Ali had gone into the ring to face a host of opponents, present and past, in an apparently hopeless cause. He was out for revenge against the boxing establishment that had summarily stripped him of his heavyweight title seven years ago for refusing to be drafted. He was fighting the skeptics who rated him a 3-to-1 underdog against Foreman, and the record of recent fights in which, aging and overweight, he had displayed only brief glimpses of his old speed and guile. He was also challenging boxing history; only one other heavyweight, Floyd Patterson, had ever won the championship twice. Finally, Ali, 32, was facing George Foreman, 25, the invincible boxing machine who had won all 40 of his pro bouts and had mowed down his last eight opponents in two rounds or less.

When the fight began, there was little in action or tactics to suggest the startling turnabout to come. Beneath a full moon in Kinshasa at 4 a.m. (the better for prime-time closed-circuit TV viewing in the U.S.), Ali led a crowd of almost 60,000 Zairians in a chant of "Ali boma ye!" (Ali, kill him) before he began to dance round the ring, dodging Foreman's powerful swings. It was just as the experts and even the boxers themselves had predicted: the bear was chasing the bee.

Ali's Trap. Then, in the second round, the bee unexpectedly threw away the tactics of his entire career. Off his toes and seemingly off his rocker, Ali stood along the ropes, exactly where Foreman wants an opponent to be. Indeed, with his customary authority, Foreman started pounding punches against Ali's midsection. Some of Foreman's blows glanced off Ali's arms and gloves, and none hit Ali's face, but it seemed to be only a matter of time before Ali's belly would turn to pulp.

Astonishingly, Ali seemed hardly concerned. As the fiercest puncher since Sonny Liston whaled away, Ali shouted taunts at Foreman. "You can't hurt me!" Ali yelled. "You punch like a sissy." Soon it became clear that Ali had constructed a trap. All summer and fall he had been developing granite abdominal muscles with a grueling regimen of calisthenics, spending an hour every morning hardening his gut by doing sit-ups with his legs held up at a 45 degree angle or while his limbs were pumping back and forth in a bicycle-pedaling motion. Now he was simply letting Foreman punch himself out against that iron flesh. "I wanted to make him shoot his best shots," said Ali later.