Playboy Interview: George Foreman

No one--except George Foreman--reckoned he had a chance. In 1987 when he began his boxing comeback, Foreman said his mission was to recapture the heavyweight championship, which he had held between 1973 and 1974. Foreman was then 38 and weighed 315 pounds. If he wasn't joking about regaining the title, he certainly seemed to be kidding. Instead of appearing as the menacing mauler he had been during the early Seventies, Foreman came at the press-- and his opponents--with a newly developed, self-deprecating sense of humor. He talked about his special seafood diet ("I eat everything I see"), confessed to an addiction to cheeseburgers and spoke fondly of his affinity for "roasts of beef, legs of lamb and porks of chop."

In the ring, his taste ran to a succession of tomato cans, fighters whose main talent was their ability to get knocked senseless. Foreman accommodated them, and in so doing proved that, though he had lost his waistline, he probably hadn't lost all of his punch. Unfortunately, he seemed to deliver his haymakers only slightly faster than the U.S. Postal Service delivers mail. Still, that didn't stop him from starching a nonstop series of stiffs. After four years on the comeback trail, Foreman had compiled a record of 24-0.

By then, big George had slimmed down to 267 pounds and had become master of what politicians consider the holy grail--the TV sound bite. To wit: After watching 210-pound heavyweight champ Evander Holyfield knock out an opponent, Foreman cracked, "My left foot weighs more than 210 pounds."

In a down period for boxing, with Mike Tyson in prison and with few other heavyweights of promise on the scene, Foreman had become boxing's biggest draw. In 1991 Holyfield gave him a shot at the heavyweight crown. The matchup appeared to be a mismatch, offering an easy victory for Holyfield. True, Holyfield clearly won on points--but Foreman rocked him in every round. When the decision was announced in Holyfield's favor, a packed crowd of more than 19,000 at Atlantic City's Convention Hall booed lustily. But Foreman had plenty to be thankful for: His cut of the pay-per-view bonanza came to a reported $12.5 million. To all appearances, Foreman's comeback had ended, and sportswriters waited for the announcement that he was hanging up his gloves for good.

Instead he resumed his odyssey, and stayed in the public eye. He became a boxing analyst for HBO, and ABC even gave him his own short-lived sitcom, "George."

Last November Foreman had another chance at the heavyweight crown. This time his opponent was Michael Moorer, a stylist who had wrested the title from Holyfield in April 1994. For nine rounds, Moorer peppered Foreman with jabs and an assortment of swift salvos. In the tenth, though, Foreman abruptly nailed Moorer with a right cross, and Moorer was down--and out. Foreman strode to his corner and fell to his knees in prayer. At 45--20 years after he had lost the title to Muhammad Ali--George Foreman had become the oldest heavyweight champion in boxing history. After Foreman's victory over Moorer, three heavyweight associations named Foreman champion: the International Boxing Federation, the World Boxing Association and the World Boxing Union. After controversies surrounding Foreman's choice of opponents, however, he now retains only the WBU championship belt.

Born in Marshall, Texas and reared in the toughest part of Houston, Foreman was one of four brothers and three sisters raised by their divorced mother. George was a tough kid who duked it out whenever the opportunity presented itself. At 16, he dropped out of high school and joined the Job Corps, where he was taught to be an electrician.

He also learned how to box. Less than two years after his first amateur bout, Foreman won a gold medal at the 1968 summer Olympics in Mexico City. He turned professional the next year, and in 1973 won the world heavyweight title by punching out Joe Frazier in round two of their Kingston, Jamaica clash. The following year Foreman was the odds-on favorite when he met Ali for their Rumble in the Jungle, a much-publicized face-off in Kinshasa, Zaire. For seven rounds, Ali employed his "rope-a-dope" defense, carefully covering up as Foreman trotted out every punch in his arsenal. But Ali's strategy won out: By the eighth round, Foreman was exhausted. Ali promptly knocked him out.

George Foreman was never the same after the Zaire defeat. In 1977, in his dressing room after dropping a decision to Jimmy Young, Foreman had a religious vision. He quit boxing that night and became an evangelist. For the next ten years he preached throughout the Southwest, as well as in the church he built in Houston. Convinced his fighting career had made him lose sight of important things--such as family--Foreman abandoned his boxing identity. He even changed his look, shaving his head and losing his trademark mustache.

But by 1987, money was running out. In an effort to earn enough to run the gym he had built for Houston youth, Foreman returned to the ring. This time, though, he acted as his own manager, which meant that every dollar he fought for ended up in his pocket. The decision paid off: In addition to regaining his title as champ, Foreman's ring earnings since coming out of retirement have totaled an estimated $75 million, making him the wealthiest boxer who ever lived.

To interview the world heavyweight champion, we dispatchedLawrence Lindermanto Foreman country in Houston. Linderman's 25-year history of interviews for Playboy includes conversations with other boxing greats, among them Ali and Sugar Ray Leonard. Here's Linderman's report.

"George Foreman likes to laugh and loves to preach, and he can do the latter without sounding at all preachy. But that's his public facade. There's absolutely no way this 46-year-old (if you believe "Ring" magazine, Foreman is about to turn 48) could have climbed back into the heavyweight picture--let alone emerged with the title--without possessing the kind of overwhelmingly compulsive, competitive streak that's the mark of a champion.

"On TV, Foreman comes across as a sweet uncle, but in person he's a giant of a man. He is 6'3" tall and has long muscular arms and the biggest fists I've ever seen. I checked: They measure 13 1/2" around.

"After we shook hands gently--every boxer I've ever met never forgets to protect his fingers--we retreated to an air-conditioned trailer parked close to the George Foreman Youth and Community Center. We spoke there for a short time before Foreman went into the gym to spar for a dozen rounds. Two days later we met again, 200 miles northeast in Marshall, Texas, where George had driven with his fifth wife, Mary, and several of his children (he has nine). He owns a brick house ten miles south of town, built atop a Texas-size spread--300 acres--where he raises Clydesdales and Tennessee walking horses, cows, chickens, ducks and geese.

"When I got there, Foreman, dressed in light warm-ups, was sitting on a swinging bench in front of the house. His youngest son, George V (the four other boys are also named George), came pedaling out from the garage on his tricycle, and zoomed up to us. Foreman introduced me to his boy, whom he calls Red. 'We call him Red for the stoplight--meaning no more children,' Foreman joked.

"When Red took off again, I sat down on a lawn chair and turned on my tape recorder, and we began our conversation."

Playboy: When you began your boxing comeback eight years ago, you said you were tired of being known as the former heavyweight champion of the world. Now that you've regained the title, are you over your identity crisis?

Foreman: It's strange, but if you had traveled around with me from 1974 until last November, that's all you would have heard: "And here he is, ladies and gentlemen: the former heavyweight champion of the world, George Foreman." Now I'm introduced as the heavyweight champ, but that's almost frightening because I think, Is this a joke? I'm actually being called something other than the former champion? I keep expecting someone else to stand up. It's a pleasure, don't get me wrong, but it is kind of strange.

Playboy: So you still haven't gotten used to it?

Foreman: Not this time around, no. The first time I became champ of the world, in 1973, I enjoyed it. As a youngster I figured I should have the title--that it belonged to me--so I took it, and nobody could keep it from me. But this time I tell myself, "Man, you sure got a blessing." I'm a little more humble.

Playboy: Why?

Foreman: It's like, if you're in a race and you're leading the pack all the way and you win, it's no big deal; you're supposed to win. But if you come from behind--and I mean from way behind--and you get to the finish line first, you enjoy it a lot more. That's how I feel about winning the title again. I started from the back of the pack.

Playboy: You left boxing in 1977. Did you miss the sport after you retired?

Foreman: Not at all. When I stopped I went into preaching--my evangelistic work--and I traveled. I didn't want to be a boxer anymore. I didn't even want to talk about boxing.

Playboy: Why not?

Foreman: Because the first time I won the title I forgot about my family. I didn't care about anything but the title--I was married to it. But after I got out of that frame of mind, the fact that I had been a fighter actually became embarrassing to me. So I shaved off my mustache and the hair on my head, threw away all my flashy clothes--I got rid of everything. I didn't want to be known as an athlete, let alone a boxer. I found a new life, and for ten years I enjoyed it. I began to think I had wasted my time until then trying to achieve foolishness. All I could see in that George Foreman was a guy who was striving for some phantom thing that doesn't exist.

Playboy: In a 1991 Playboy 20 Questions, you said you had returned to the ring not only to win the title but also to earn enough money to run the gym you had built for kids in Houston. Now that you've achieved your goals, tell us: Is there really any reason for you to continue fighting?

Foreman: My mother would put it this way: "The cat chases the rat. When he gets the rat, he plays with it a little bit."

Playboy: In other words?

Foreman: In other words, I chased the title, I won it and I've played with it a little bit.

Playboy: How much longer do you intend to keep playing, George?

Foreman: I will not box beyond this year.

Playboy: You told us the same thing in 1991.

Foreman: It's true. I've said a lot of things like that before, but this time I really mean it. I'm just happy I was able to stretch out my boxing career this long and make it a long-term investment for what I could do the rest of my life.

Playboy: When you started your comeback, you certainly knew you had a chance to make money, but did you believe you would win the title again?

Foreman: I've said this throughout my life and I'll say it again: Every year in boxing, maybe a thousand heavyweights turn professional, but only one has it in his heart to be the champion. Some guys want a truck, a house, a car. When I made up my mind to get back into boxing, I said I wanted to become heavyweight champ of the world and make money. And I did it. I've always tried to pursue excellence.

I learned boxing early on from Dick Sadler, my original manager and trainer. He taught me how to fight and how to get in shape, and I've never forgotten that: Going to the gym, skipping rope, hitting the punching bags, sparring--I like all that. I never knew I appreciated it. After ten years, when I got back into the ring and started sparring again, I realized, "Hey, this is what I do. I like what I do."

Playboy: When did you realize that you might be able to regain the title?

Foreman: First I had to look at myself. When I made my reentry into boxing, most people said, "Oh, he's old." But I never saw that. People also said, "Yeah, he's fat too." [Laughs] OK, that was true. But the point is, when I looked into the mirror I always saw a slim young man.

Playboy: How did you swing that? Did you have trick mirrors installed in your training gym?

Foreman: I'm telling you that's all I could see--a slim young man. In the morning newspaper I'd read, "This guy should leave it alone, he's too old." But when I'd look in the mirror, I'd see a fresh youngster. And that would propel me to run ten miles, to go to the gym and hit the bags for an hour, skip rope, maybe box 17 rounds with four or five guys. I couldn't see the guy the reporters saw because I don't respond to anything negative. For instance, if someone says, "George, your jab is too slow," I can't hear that. But if someone says, "I'm going to show you how to make your jab faster"--great! I can't digest anything unless it's positive.

Playboy: When you compare yourself now with the boxer you were in the Seventies, how do you rate?

Foreman: I'm a better fighter today than I was then.

Playboy: Seriously? In what way?

Foreman: The first time around I was like a windup doll. I'd do whatever my trainers told me to do. I was a slugger. This time around I've perfected my profession. I've got the skills now, and I'm able to face opponents with waves that just keep coming, one after another. I know exactly what I'm doing. I know how to fight offensively and I know how to fight defensively. I know what I can do to whip the other guy, and what whips me. If a guy stays away from my right all night, great, I'm prepared for that. If he stays away from my left all night, I'm prepared for that, too.

Playboy: You just said you know what beats you. Care to tell us?

Foreman: What gets me now is the pitiful look a guy gives me after I hit him a couple of times. Oh, man. And being in a ring with kids who are young enough to be my sons sometimes gets me to the point where I say, "Take it easy on the baby." That's a disadvantage for me, and I've fought only one boxer who really understood that.

Playboy: Who was that?

Foreman: Tommy Morrison, who fought me on pay-per-view TV for the WBO title. Before that fight, every time we were together at a press conference, he called me Mr. Foreman. He never pouted or smarted off to me. When the bout started, he ran a little bit and I threw jabs. In the last round I finally hit him with a good right hand--boom!--and he fell on my chest. I told myself, "Now shake him off and finish him." Then I looked back in his corner and told myself, "I'm not going to do it. He's made it through 12 rounds, and I've got a decision won. I'm not going to go crazy and knock this kid out." And I didn't, but the judges gave him the decision.

Morrison's presence before the fight was what you would call a good tactical move: He totally respected me. He treated me like good old Uncle George. Now, how am I going to hurt a kid I like? Morrison was so nice to me that I let him off the hook. I really did. It wasn't so smart on my part--anybody who wants to be a champion has to win.

Playboy: Nice story, Uncle George, but Morrison kept his distance from you throughout the fight. Even though you stalked him, you didn't seem too concerned about not catching up with him. How did that experience affect the way you fought Michael Moorer a year ago for the heavyweight title?

Foreman: I felt the same way when I fought Moorer. I had in my mind, "Oh, he's just a kid." I knew I wasn't going to hit Michael Moorer with five punches in a row--boom, boom, boom, boom, boom! I just wasn't going to do that. I had to be more precise with him: whop, pop and down!

Playboy: You were able to do just that.

Foreman: Right, because I'm quicker today than I've ever been. After I beat him, I read an interview with Moorer in which he said, "I don't know what happened. George hit me, and just before I was going to hit him, he hit me again. He's a quick man." But who will ever read that? It's up to me to keep that camouflaged. I've got to keep it from the announcers.

Playboy: Your secret is safe with us. One thing we've noticed is that you seem much more mellow in the ring than you used to be. Any particular reason?

Foreman: When I was young I wanted to intimidate guys. I'd stare them in the face and get them scared and all that stuff. But the old saying "It's not winning that counts but how you play the game" has meant a lot to me this time around. I didn't want to get back into this business to scare the whole world, to frighten guys, psych them out, all that stuff. I didn't want to act like a schizophrenic, with one personality in the ring and another outside it. I wanted to be one kind of guy: What you see is what you get.

So I don't try to scare guys; I'm their friend. I'm boxing them and trying to win, but there's never a punch thrown in anger. I'm natural and I'm relaxed, and I let the other guy get natural and relaxed, too. And may the best man win.

Playboy: And you haven't seen any falloff in your abilities?

Foreman: No, I do everything better. There was a time when I would move in the ring and move and move. Now, I know why I'm moving, moving, moving. And I can wear out a fighter's sight.

Playboy: Come again?

Foreman: When I move to a guy's right, it's not about moving, it's about getting his eyes and his brain to follow me in that direction. When I stop, his brain keeps going in that direction, and that's when I can get my shot in. See, I'm better now because I know why I'm doing certain things.

Playboy: You were 38 when you began your comeback. Did you have a timetable as to how long you'd have to wait for that title fight to come your way?

Foreman: Yeah. When I first turned pro in 1969, Dick Sadler said, "Young man, it's going to take three and a half years before you're ready to fight for the title." Three and a half years later, I was ready for Joe Frazier. But when you get to be 39 or 40, people say, "You'd better hurry up and do it." Well, I never forgot what Sadler taught me, and I always thought that if I made the sacrifice and took the time to perfect my boxing, I could do it again. And three and a half years after I started my comeback, I got my shot at Evander Holyfield. Not only did I go 12 rounds in that fight, I also had Holyfield holding on in the last round. When that happened I thought, If they don't give me this decision, then I'll know that I should have gone for the knockout in the later rounds.

Playboy: Why didn't you?

Foreman: To be honest, it goes back to my knockout of Gerry Cooney. That had bugged me for a long time. People would show the knockout on film, and I didn't like that--it wasn't the way I wanted to be remembered.

Playboy: What didn't you like about the Cooney KO--your ferocity?

Foreman: Yeah. I just went off on him. But Cooney had hurt me and I wanted to get it over with. He hit harder than any guy I'd fought since starting my comeback, and I realized I couldn't play around in there. I had to finish him.

Playboy: But?

Foreman: But it didn't look right. So when I fought Holyfield, I was still under that Cooney influence. I wanted a clean knockout, and none of this hammering and hammering, with the guy crashing to the floor and all that. I hit Holyfield with a good right hand in the last round and staggered him, and then I tried to be real cool with it. I wasn't going to go after him with the bang-bang-bang anymore. I tried to knock him out with one shot and be done with it. But I wasn't able to do that. He almost went, and when he started holding on to me I should have pushed him away and gone crazy on him. But I'm not going to have film like that of me again. I didn't get him with the clean stuff and I wasn't going to go after him with the raggedy stuff. If I couldn't drop him with one punch, I didn't want a knockout.

Playboy: Even if that meant losing by a decision?

Foreman: Well, I have bad habits as a fighter, and probably the worst of them is that I relax in the ring and play around too much. I get satisfaction in beating a guy at certain things the crowd and the judges can't see, even though I know I got the guy whipped. I'll just play with him--I'll get in under his jab, jab him as soon as he tries to touch me, fake him, scare him off, make him look to his corner for help. That's my habit, but I lose fights on points.

I think jazz has found itself in the same predicament, because musicians sometimes play just to satisfy themselves and they forget all about the audience. After the Holyfield fight I told myself, "Look, you can go out there and enjoy yourself, but the next time you fight for the title you're going to have to get a knockout." And last November, I did that against Michael Moorer. I knew I'd need a knockout to beat him.

Playboy: Most boxing observers believe that you are just hanging around waiting to fight Mike Tyson in a bout that could earn you a minimum of $20 million. True?

Foreman: Not really. Tyson would have been important to me when he was heavyweight champ of the world. Or when I was broke. I could have made some money and been the titleholder.

Playboy: What do you think of Tyson?

Foreman: He's a kid who has to get his life together. His sole purpose in life now should be to enjoy his freedom--to go down to the corner store and buy Fritos and have a refrigerator he can go to all night. If he wants to fight me he is welcome to do so. But he has to do it this year, because I will not box beyond 1995. And I will not say, "OK, Mike Tyson, wanna fight?" I won't do that. Not interested. He'll have to call me and say, "Look, George, I want to fight for the title. Work out the details." I'll say great. But if he calls me and says, "Work out the details with Don King," he won't get even a conversation out of me.

Playboy: What do you have against Don King?

Foreman: In 1973 he came to me crying, "George, I need your help, man. They won't give me a chance to be a promoter--they're discriminating against me." He begged and pleaded, so I let him in boxing. I gave him the chance to promote the Muhammad Ali-George Foreman fight. After I lost the title, King worked with Muhammad, and when Muhammad dropped him I picked him up because he was still trying to do his best. I let him negotiate a big contract for me with ABC, and with that he was able to stage a championship tournament and then have a big-time career as a promoter. I gave him his chance. Then a couple of years later, when I was out of boxing, I tried to call him and he wouldn't even answer my calls. His secretary said, "Look, Don is busy. We have things to do." Not only did he not take my calls, he also offended me by having his secretary tell me not to call anymore. That's what I have against Don King.

When I got back into boxing, he thought I wanted a favor, and I told him, "Listen, I made myself the first time and I actually made you. I don't need you to repay any favors. Just stay out of my life." I said, "I'll be champ of the world again." He laughed at me and I told him, "I will be champ of the world." After that, King did nothing but try to take my name out of the ratings of heavyweight contenders. So what will he do to Mike Tyson? Tyson should leave him alone. When Tyson looks in the mirror, he should see me, George Foreman. I love Don King, but he's not a nice guy. He's strictly a creature of the flesh. Is that enough about Don King?

Playboy: Let's stick with Tyson for a minute. What's your assessment of his skills?

Foreman: When Tyson won the title, he was young and had the style, size and energy to be champion of the world. But as you get older you lose a bit of this and that. When Tyson became less daring, he started getting whipped some. He'll never be able to get back what he had because he will never be 19 years old again. If Tyson wants to recapture any of what he had, he will have to get with his original trainer, Kevin Rooney, who furthered the Cus D'Amato style that Tyson used. If he doesn't get back with Rooney, it will take him three years to learn another style. He can do that and become champ again, but he won't be able to start on top. He'll have to start from the bottom. That's my assessment of his skills today.

Playboy: You have been quoted as saying that Tyson's day has come and gone. Do you really believe that?

Foreman: It has. When he lost to Buster Douglas, I said, "Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall. All Don King's horses and all Don King's men will never be able to put him back together again." That's Mike Tyson.

Playboy: Tyson is smaller than most of the top heavyweights now fighting. Do you think that works against him?

Foreman: Boxing has never been about size; it has always been the art of self-defense. Heavyweights who might be a little smaller than their opponents are supposed to find a way to beat tougher, bigger men. To take the full effect of this sport, you're almost supposed to be a little smaller than the guy you're fighting. Boxing wasn't created so bears could attack deer, if you know what I mean.

Playboy: We take it you see yourself as a bear?

Foreman: That's true, but when I made my comeback I had to combine both animals. I mean, I had to be a bear, but I also had to have the temperament of a deer to make these guys attack me.

Playboy: Give us an example.

Foreman: When I fought Michael Moorer for the title, I thought, How in the world, in my wildest imagination, can I convince him to stand in front of me? You look at Moorer, you look at George Foreman--how do I convince a kid like that to slug it out with me? I had to make him see a deer. Even more, I had to create the illusion that a deer could actually whip a bear. Finally, this foolish deer went out and attacked the bear. And the bear licked his chops. The media helped me by saying, "Foreman's old, he's fat, he's out of shape." So that was my illusion, and I tricked everybody.

Playboy: How did you trick Moorer once the fight got under way?

Foreman: I jabbed him a lot and held back my power. You see, if I had hit him real hard and knocked him down and he got up, he was going to run. And if he ran for 12 rounds, they would have given him the decision--they did that with Holyfield. So in every picture of the Moorer fight, you'll notice I have my hands up to protect myself. But what do I have to protect myself from? Nothing. And there's nothing for me to hide from, either. I'm what people hide from. You understand?

But I had to give Moorer the illusion that he had nothing to worry about. That's what you have to do in the wild when you want to eat: You have to act tame, especially when you can't run and catch what you're hunting for.

Playboy: So in other words, you were playing possum with Moorer?

Foreman: Yes, and he fell for it. It was like in my favorite poem, by Mary Howitt:

"Would you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly.

"It's the prettiest little parlor that you ever did spy.

"The way into my parlor is up a winding stair.

"And I've got many curious things to show when you are there."

"Oh no," said the fly. "To ask me is in vain

"For who goes up your winding stairs will never come down again."

That means I have to try something else:

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, from soaring up so high.

"Won't you rest upon my bed?" said the spider to the fly.

Playboy: And this tells us?

Foreman: This tells us that you've got to keep it up until you get the fly inside--and then boom-boom! [Foreman throws a left-right combination in the air.] You got him! I've always had to do that, starting when I was a little kid.

Playboy: You've always suckered guys into fights with you?

Foreman: No, that's not what I mean. I was a big baby and the other kids' parents didn't want them to play with me because they thought, Oh, he's going to hurt my child. But I needed to play and, of course, I needed kids to play with. So I did what I had to do. Other little kids would come around and I'd let them get me into wrestling holds, and I'd go, "Ahh!" and then fall down and say, "Don't hurt me anymore." You see, I needed to play the next day, too.

Playboy: Did you really do that?

Foreman: Yeah. When I was a teenager I also wanted to play basketball, and I'd bump a lot of the kids I played against. I'd go in for a layup, and after a while they'd all move out of the way and let me have the shot. But soon I noticed that they no longer wanted me to play with them. So I began missing a lot of shots. Then most of the kids would say, "OK, let him play again."

I've had to pick my winning spots all through my life. I knew that when I got out there with Michael Moorer, I had to be old. I had to be everything the writers said I was before I could get him to stand in front of me.

Playboy: Are you telling us that you actually planned to let Moorer pile up a commanding lead before you went for a knockout late in the fight?

Foreman: Well, before the bout my intentions were to knock Moorer down three times--quick--in the first or second round, and get a knockout through the three-knockdown rule. But just before the fight started, the referee came back to my dressing room and told me that the three-knockdown rule had been waived. I didn't know about that, because I hadn't gone to the rules meeting. And I was shocked.

Playboy: Why?

Foreman: Because I don't want to hurt any of these young kids. If I couldn't get the three-knockdown rule, it meant I was going to have to hit him and hit him and hit him until I knocked him down and he stayed down. That was not an easy decision for me to make, because I like these young fellas.

Also, I knew that if I tried for an early knockout, he would run from me for the rest of the fight. So I had to keep jabbing. Finally, in the tenth round, he didn't have any juice left because I'd drained him with my jab. It was like he was thinking, I've got to stand here, what else can I do? That's when I caught him with a left and right combination and--boom!--that was it.

Playboy: We know that before he came out for the tenth round, Moorer was told by his corner to stay away from you. Why didn't he?

Foreman: Once you're in the spider's web, you don't need anyone to tell you what to do, because it's too late. Moorer let me jab him for nine rounds, and those punches took their toll. It was too late for him to run. Too late.

Playboy: Teddy Atlas, Moorer's trainer, warned him that you would be dangerous--he feels you never got over losing your title to Muhammad Ali. Atlas said you know you quit in that fight. Did you quit?

Foreman: It's hard to comment on what he's talking about, but I remember what happened in Zaire in 1974. Muhammad knocked me down, and I remember looking up and waiting for Dick Sadler to tell me to get up. When you get knocked down, your corner tells you when to get up--you're not supposed to do that yourself. But Sadler told me to stay down. Then, when he yelled, "Get up!" I jumped up right quick, but the referee told me the fight was over.

Playboy: Were you crushed by that?

Foreman: Yes, but not because I believed I was going to jump up and win. I figured if I got up, I could get knocked down again--but I could live with being beat up. I could not live with the knowledge that I didn't get a chance to give my all. While the referee was counting, I was thinking that Ali was going to rush in and try to finish me. That was OK with me because every time I went after him, he covered up and made me throw myself away--he wouldn't mix it up. And I do believe that if Ali had tried to mix it up with me, I would have caught him, because I believe in my punch.

For months after the fight, I lived in agony and blamed myself. I said to myself, "You didn't even die. If you're going to lose, at least get killed." I couldn't live with myself because I hadn't given 100 percent. And 100 percent for me at that time would have been dying in the ring.

Playboy: How long did it take you to get over the Ali fight?

Foreman: It wasn't until 1976, when I fought Ron Lyle at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. I made up my mind before that fight that the only way to count me out would be if I needed a stretcher, because I'd already used every excuse for losing the Ali fight. Well, Lyle hit me hard and knocked me down--you'd be surprised how quick you can think when you're knocked down and waiting to get up--and I remember thinking, Here I am on this canvas, and I'm not dead. I'm not going to wait for the count. I'm jumping up because I can't tell people about a short count this time. Even if he knocks me down again, he hasn't killed me. And I jumped up and got right back into it, thinking, Let him kill me. Before the fight was over, I had knocked Lyle down, and he had knocked me down again. We had each other rocking and rolling. In the sixth round Lyle just passed out and my life came back to me. I could live with myself again.

Playboy: Ali had outfoxed you by using his rope-a-dope defense. If you could have changed the way you fought him, what would you have done differently?

Foreman: The biggest mistake I made was not recognizing that Ali was the most intelligent, pure boxer I'd ever fought. He knew, like I know now, that you have to fight not only with your physical strength but with your brainpower as well. And he was the only fighter I ran into who knew that.

I was going to be a puncher until I died. I exploded on guys, and not everybody could do that. Muhammad knew that about me. That's why he covered up, lay on the ropes and let the dope throw his explosives. But every guy I'd fought had tried to do the same thing--survive--and I'd been getting them all, so I wasn't worried. Before that, it was always me running after every guy I fought, just wasting my muscle power and my strength. I finally told myself, "Aha, I am explosive. I've got to find a way to distribute my explosiveness over 12 rounds." That's what I have now.

Playboy: Do you believe, as most people do, that Ali's Parkinson's disease is in some way related to the many blows to the head he took over the years?

Foreman: No, I think Muhammad has always had something wrong with him. And his nonstop talking when he was younger was a symptom of it.

Playboy: In what way?

Foreman: Ali would go on and on and on and on, and after maybe five hours of this, at about three in the morning, his friends and family would leave the room. They would come back a few hours later, and he would still be going. Muhammad could go on like that for nights and days. Ask some of the people who knew him then and they'll tell you: This guy would start talking at, say, ten o'clock at night, and it would be six in the morning before he'd stop. He had only a few faithful friends who would sit there and endure this. And he never had anything new to say. Same things over and over.

Playboy: Was listening part of the duties of the people who worked for him?

Foreman: Yes, they sat there and listened. And nobody ever said, "Hey, there's something wrong with Muhammad." He wasn't crazy or anything. There was just something wrong with him that he couldn't control. Maybe if someone had paid attention and corrected it then, it wouldn't have gotten to where it is today. The way Muhammad can't function now was the way he overfunctioned back then. I see now that it was there all the time.

Playboy: Are there moments when he's like the old Ali?

Foreman: Certainly, he's still sharp. And if you're real nice to him he'll even do that shuffle--and it'll still look like his feet aren't moving off the floor. He's still got it. He'll entertain you and he'll joke, but then the symptoms take over and he can't speak much. He's a beautiful guy and you love to be around him, but he hasn't just gotten sick. It has always been there.

Playboy: Recently, superfeatherweight boxer Jimmy Garcia died of brain injuries sustained during a bout, and not long before that middleweight Gerald McClellan almost died after a bout in London. England is now debating whether it will ban boxing altogether, an idea that has also met with some favor in the U.S. Do you think boxing will eventually become a thing of the past?

Foreman: There will never--and everybody had better understand this--be an end to professional boxing. It's like saying, "We're going to outlaw earthquakes and hurricanes." It's not possible. I don't care what legislation is passed, there will always be earthquakes and hurricanes--they come with nature. Well, boxing comes with mankind--it's our nature. You can legislate all you want. You can stop it and knock it down, but you can't knock it out. Boxing is the granddaddy of all sports--including chess. A good chess player goes for the knockout; he goes for the finish. But he gets there from the actual boom-boom! of boxing. Man-to-man. That's it.

Playboy: So you don't think boxing will come close to being abolished?

Foreman: You can try to fight it, but you can't erase it. What all the intellectuals and doctors don't understand is that, while they're bickering and trying to outlaw our sport, we're getting killed. Boxers are dying. Why don't they put their energy toward our safety? Give us headgear, mats, gloves--give us something. Since you can't outlaw us, make us safer. Or, until you outlaw us, are you going to let us die? Keep us alive, please.

But even if you outlaw it, men will still be boxing in the fields somewhere. And before you know it, the arenas will get bigger, and then you'll start paying the police to make sure they don't arrest the fighters. Then you'll pay the judges and pay the lawyers and even pay the doctors again. But before all that happens, give us some safety.

Playboy: Let's move on. Many fight fans feel that most of the current top heavyweights don't measure up to their Seventies predecessors--who include, among others, Ali, Joe Frazier, Larry Holmes, Ken Norton and the young George Foreman. Do you share that view?

Foreman: Well, that's nice to say, but basically it comes from old guys, and old guys always want to think that yesterday was better. That's one thing I've tried to refrain from: going back into the past. Let the past be where it is, and let today speak for itself. I like to compliment the past, of course, but the guys who were fighting then could not dance to the rhythms of today's boxers, and you can't compare the two. This is a whole other deal here, and you have to get in it to appreciate it.

Playboy: Do you think any current heavyweights could have beaten you when you were in your 20s?

Foreman: Boxing has never been about who is the toughest. It's always been about: "Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and see the bearded lady." Or the fattest lady, or the tallest man. It's Barnum and Bailey--let's get in under the tent--and it's never been anything else. It's writers telling us things that will make us want to watch a fight. Muhammad was the Louisville Lip, Sonny Liston was the Bear--writers created these things and made them real for people.

Playboy: How could writers have helped your comeback? Before your title fights with Holyfield and Moorer, sportswriters throughout the country all predicted that the bouts would be travesties.

Foreman: There you go. You just said the magic word: all. There was so much stuff about me in the newspapers before the Holyfield fight. "It shouldn't take place," big articles, writers showing off their style, everybody reading every word of it. It made the fight. I even jumped on the bandwagon because, as I've learned, you never go against the writers. Ride the wave, and they'll take you there. I got the writers talking so much before the Holyfield fight that, do you know what happened? We broke the pay-per-view TV record.

Playboy: Yet wasn't it a little painful for you to read that you were fat and over the hill?

Foreman: It's not painful if you have a family to feed. It's painful if you're living just on ego--but, hey, what if I came home with an ego and nothing else? What if I came home and my nine kids were sitting at the table, and all I had were two shotgun shells and an excuse: "It wasn't my fault we got nothing to eat. I had one shot at a rabbit, but it jumped out of the way." The kids are still going to sit there hungry. They can't eat excuses. I realized, "Hey, I have to feed these kids. I can't go out with just an ego. I've got to go out with an appetite and feed my family." So I've learned to ride with the media. Go with them and you can go a long way.

Playboy: Do you ever wonder why you weren't this popular the first time around?

Foreman: I know why: I hated it the first time around. I'm going to tell you how ignorant I was when I won my first heavyweight title. I remember seeing a group of boxing writers in Jamaica. Then I went to Tokyo to fight again, and then to Caracas for another fight, and these same guys were there to ask me questions. This may sound strange, but I thought they were following me around just to mess with me. I had no idea that they all had jobs. A certain amount of ignorance goes with being a young champion, because you dedicate everything to winning and don't look around and check everything out. If I had known these guys were newspapermen doing their jobs, I could have been as popular as Muhammad Ali.

Playboy: It's certainly true that you've been known to charm the media better than any athlete since Ali.

Foreman: That's because I'm aware of how people do their jobs. Look, I will die knowing this: Writers create personalities, and then television and movies cash in on those personalities. When TV and movies get tired of them, it's back to the writers again. You watch. You'll see guys such as Eddie Murphy going to press luncheons again because the studios have told them, "Hey, man, you have to create some press."

Playboy: You've not only created some press, you've also created a character: the cuddly heavyweight champ people love to love. Is there a time when the pixieish Foreman of television commercials isn't necessarily so cordial and accessible to everyone?

Foreman: Well, that's why you have to surround yourself with the right people. For example, after the Holyfield fight, I remember saying to my wife, Mary, "All I want now is pancakes with bacon and sausage from the International House of Pancakes." We found one on Westheimer Avenue in Houston, and when we were seated and I got ready to eat, some guys came over and asked for my autograph. I told them, "When I finish eating." My wife leaned over to me and said, "You know, you're always out there smiling and being nice to everybody. Now unless you don't mean it, don't put these people off." I told her, "I mean it." So I called the guys back to our table and started eating with one hand and signing autographs with the other. I am what I am, and I don't want people thinking I'm nice to them just to get them into the tent. I like people. I really get a kick out of them.

Playboy: You obviously enjoy all the attention you get, but do you ever long for some privacy?

Foreman: No. Look, I had ten years when nobody knew who I was. Now when I sit on an airplane, the stewardess will tell me to come up front where there's a bigger seat. People will give me the bigger piece of meat at the butcher shop.

Playboy: That's just what you need, George: a bigger piece of meat.

Foreman: Aha! [Laughs] But do you understand? For ten years I was out of boxing, and nobody knew who I was. One time I went to the Summit Arena to see [then Houston Rocket] Ralph Sampson play, and a guy spotted me and yelled, "Hey, man!" I was so happy. He said, "I know who you are--William 'the Refrigerator' Perry." That's as close as I came to getting some recognition. So now when people see me and want my autograph, I love it.

Playboy: That's quite a change from the young George Foreman, who clearly wasn't interested in cozying up to the public.

Foreman: Well, I was kind of a crude guy, because my image of a boxer was Sonny Liston.

Playboy: Why Liston?

Foreman: He was my stablemate and role model. Before the Olympics in 1968, I needed someone to spar with, and Dick Sadler--who I met through Doc Broadus, my trainer in the Job Corps--was training Sonny Liston. Liston needed a sparring partner, too, so I sparred with him. He treated people tough, and I thought that was the way you ought to act when you got to be a big-timer. I didn't know any better.

My other role model was [football player] Jim Brown, who was known to sling people out of windows. I wanted to be like my heroes. I didn't want to go around giggling all the time. I figured I was going to be a tough cookie.

Playboy: Did you get along well with Sonny Liston?

Foreman: He became one of my best friends. The main thing I discovered about Liston was that he was illiterate, and a lot of his problems--and a lot of the airs he put on--were just his attempt to conceal that. One day I wanted him to read something, not knowing that he couldn't, and he told me to get that blankety-blank book out of his face. Sadler came up to me and said, "The big man didn't mean any harm. He just can't read." At first I was on the outs with Liston because of that, but then we got closer.

Playboy: Boxing insiders have always believed that Liston tanked his two title fights with Ali. Did he ever level with you about what really happened?

Foreman: One day I took a walk with him and he explained what happened. He said, "You know, George, when I got to be heavyweight champ of the world, everybody looked at me funny, like, 'What are you doing with the title?' Like I was trash. So when I fought Cassius Clay and they said, 'Why didn't you win? You should have won,' I knew I should have won." Liston wanted to be champ of the world so much--he thought it would give him something. Yet when he won the title, so many people said, "What are you doing here?" that it hurt him. So he figured, "Hey, forget it. I'm not gonna fight for them, I'm not gonna win nothing. So I get knocked down--what am I going to get up for?"

The average person would never understand how a big boxer could be that sensitive. He didn't enjoy being the champ and he was looking for a way to get out of it. And he took it.

Playboy: By way of those two strange losses at the hands of Ali?

Foreman: Yeah. And he didn't do it for the Mob or to make more money. Liston was hurting. But when he realized how much money was involved, he made a comeback. One day he said, "George, you want to be champ of the world, huh?" I was in the dressing room, before sparring, and I said, "Yeah, man. What do you think?" I thought I was going to get some magnificent advice, but Liston said, "When you get to be champ of the world, if you spit on the sidewalk they'll write about it in the newspaper. So all I care about is the dough-re-mi."

But he lied, because when he lost to Leotis Martin, I caught him crying. He cared. He wanted the title back again, but he never got it. Sonny Liston was the only man ever to stand up to me in the ring. Even Muhammad covered up. One guy tried--Ron Lyle--but he backed off before I knocked him out.

Playboy: What about Joe Frazier?

Foreman: Frazier was the only guy I was afraid of. When I got into the ring with him, I was really scared. In his fights he'd always keep coming, keep coming. And he had that look: Of all the looks from all the kids I grew up with, Frazier had the one you'd get from the guys you don't mess with. Muhammad had the look of a guy who fights but who always had some sort of backup--the kind of guy who was popular and would fight only if he had to. Frazier had the look of a guy who didn't need a gang. There were no loopholes with Frazier. I had to fight him, and I was afraid of him. When I beat him, I felt so proud of myself. I thought, Man, I can beat anybody.

Playboy: Why? Because you felt he was the toughest guy in the world?

Foreman: Yeah, I really whipped somebody when I whipped Frazier. I kept knocking him down and he kept getting up. All I remember about the fight was thinking, Man, I got to get this over or this guy's going to get me. He kept smoking, though. That was one of my most famous fights, and it was the only time I was intimidated by a guy I fought. Nobody else, before or after.

Playboy: You compared Frazier and Ali to kids you grew up with. Was the Houston neighborhood where you were raised all that dangerous?

Foreman: Yeah, it was. There were two roads to travel when I grew up. There was the respectable road, where kids, parents and instructors told you to go to school, get a good education, go to college and be a teacher or something. Then there was the other road, where the guys wanted to be nothing but thugs. I grew up near Lyons Avenue, in the Fifth Ward. At times they called it the Bloody Fifth because someone was always being cut, stabbed or beaten to death. For some reason I was attracted to the wrong side of the road, and to get on that side, I had to start from maybe three blocks away, working my way bit by bit to Lyons Avenue.

Playboy: And how did you work your way up?

Foreman: By little fights here and there. I started when I was about 13, and by the time I was 16 I'd made it to Lyons Avenue. I remember the first day I went to E.O. Smith Junior High School. I had heard so many rumors about this school and the kids being so bad that the first year I walked there on the back roads, just to avoid all the tough kids. And I kept wondering, "Why do I have to live like this?" The next year in E.O. Smith, I knew why: It was because of guys like me. Everybody had better get the hell out of the way, because I came down that street with thunder, looking like a terror. And I would see other kids walking down the back street just like I used to do. [Laughs]

Playboy: So the tough guys you hung out with were Frazier and Ali types?

Foreman: Yeah, guys like Frazier, with that look, hard as steel. And the Ali type, who had flash and flare. Then there was the guy like me, who lifted weights and said, "I'm going to work my way up, block by block, to be the toughest guy in the Fifth Ward." I was that guy.

Playboy: Did that guy get into any serious trouble?

Foreman: I stayed in trouble. I never served time in prison, but my biggest problems were drinking and mugging. I was strictly a juvenile delinquent, but I didn't really concentrate on being a criminal. I wanted to be the tough guy who beat up every other tough guy.

Playboy: How did you happen to take up boxing?

Foreman: When I dropped out of high school in 1965, I could no longer be pursued as a truant. There was no hiding for me anymore, and that's when my mother saw me for what I was. It was like, "Uh-oh, you really are a bad boy." Someone in an employment office told me about the Job Corps, and I also heard a commercial with Jim Brown saying that if you joined you could get a second chance in life.

So I joined the Job Corps and went to Grants Pass, Oregon, where they taught us basic education and vocational skills. I stayed there for six months, and then I was transferred to another center in Pleasanton, California. I wanted to be an amateur boxer and I knew they had a boxing program there. Doc Broadus was the coach, and when I told him I wanted to box, he told me to come down to the gym. That's how I got started.

Playboy: Was it then a clear track to the Olympics?

Foreman: I had a total of 24 amateur boxing matches, and the 24th was my Olympic gold medal fight. I had my first organized boxing match in February 1967. In October of 1968, I had an Olympic gold medal around my neck.

Playboy: When your gold-medal bout was over, you skipped around the ring holding a tiny American flag above your head--a gesture that resulted in a mountain of publicity for you. Were you surprised by that?

Foreman: Oh boy, it was the most amazing thing in my life. That has been the core of my being cool. The Olympic victory was such a big deal, and about six months after that I turned pro. I fought on the undercard for Joe Frazier versus Jerry Quarry. I got $5000 for that fight and I was rich. Five thousand dollars! When I became champion in 1973 I was accustomed to publicity, because the Olympics had prepared me for that. Same thing after I came back and won the title again last year: It was the most natural thing for me to do.

Playboy: But your hype is bigger now than it was then.

Foreman: To your readers maybe, but to me it's the same old shtick.

Playboy: And you insist that you're still the man you were 20 years ago?

Foreman: If you mean physically, I'm a better man than I was then. When I fought Joe Frazier at the peak of my conditioning, I was running three, three and a half miles. When I got ready for my reentry into boxing, my wife would drop me off ten miles from home, and I'd run back. Then I got to the point where she would drop me off 17 miles from home--and I'd run back. There's no way I could have done that or would have done that in my earlier career. Back then I would hire sparring partners and go maybe six rounds with two or three different guys. Now if I hire five guys, I'll take them for 17 rounds, and we'll stop only because they can't take it anymore.

Playboy: So reports of your old age are greatly exaggerated?

Foreman: Look, I'm older, and I'm happy to be older. But my age has nothing to do with what I want to accomplish. Old age is not something that happens to you; it's a decision that you make. And I wasn't going to allow anyone to make that decision for me.

I never decided to fight only for money and not for the title. If I had done (continued on page 175) George Foreman (continued from page 68) that, there's no way I could have waited until the tenth round to win the title by a knockout. You cannot step over that barrier. It's like some horses--and I know because I raise them--that don't want to win. They'll act like they were edged out by a nose, but they know they didn't want to win. They were just running, running, running, even though they knew, "I'm not supposed to beat that horse. He's trying to be a winner."

Playboy: You're saying that horses actually have consciousness?

Foreman: Sure they do. They'll run fast, as if they're bursting their hearts, but they know they're not supposed to pass certain horses. And the horses that refuse to be beaten are the real champions.

Playboy: And the same thing holds true for boxers?

Foreman: Yes. But every now and then someone will hold the heavyweight title until a real champion comes along. Someone has to be in the White House until a real president comes along. There will come a time when one of the guys who is fighting just for money ends up with the title. And the winner is: "Oh, wow--me?" But when a champion comes along, the pretender knows he's not supposed to be there. He knows. Like Michael Moorer. He knew.

Playboy: You're talking a great deal about will here.

Foreman: It's called willpower--and I'll tell you a secret: In 1987, I heard the Lord speak to me and he said he was going to give me the gift of willpower. And now I have it. It's a gift that he gave to me, and I can decide what I'm going to do with it.

Playboy: You actually heard this?

Foreman: I actually heard it. But to boast about it would be unfair. It's like if someone gave you a gold Rolex watch with diamonds all over it, and you turned around and said, "Look what I got, man. You got to get like me." It's just a gift I was given. A gift of willpower,

Playboy: And when you woke up the next morning?

Foreman: I kind of stuttered and said, "Well, maybe I missed something." But the day my wife dropped me ten miles from home and I made it back running, I knew I was a different man. In fact, now I know I have two gifts: the gift of willpower and the gift of a good wife. [Laughs]

Playboy: Has combining the careers of a preacher and a boxer been difficult?

Foreman: Not at all. As a matter of fact, it's helped me. When I began my return to boxing--my first fight back in Sacramento--hundreds of churches wanted me to speak. And because of the fight I was right in the area. I got the prisons and I got the churches, and all at someone else's [the promoter's] expense--because I certainly wasn't going to ask the people who invited me to speak to pay me, even though I'd completely run out of money. I gave those people my message about the good life, and how I found God and how it changed me for the better.

Playboy: What changes did you see in yourself?

Foreman: The major change is that I now have peace of mind. First you have to be totally crazy and unorganized and desperate to understand how great peace of mind is. I was definitely out there, and I'd explain to people about how my life had been and how it is now.

Playboy: How was your life?

Foreman: I was always looking for something, and whenever it looked like I was about to get it, it seemed that someone would snatch it from me. That would give me someone to hate, someone to distrust, someone to get even with. So I'd say, "Forget that," and go after something else. But someone would mess that up, too. Eventually, I didn't want anything because I was sure I was going to lose it. I didn't trust nature, I didn't trust man and I didn't trust woman.

Playboy: Was your distrust in the last what broke up your first marriage?

Foreman: Certainly, because I couldn't trust. I was married once before I found religion. And my other marriages happened after I found religion. With those I was looking to serve the good Lord, and I wanted a wife--one who would get into what I was doing. But they didn't want what I wanted.

But that first marriage, of course, I just messed up. I had a good wife and I got to be heavyweight champ of the world, and that blew my mind. One day you're anonymous, and the next day, man, you're popular. And the prettiest girls in the world were sitting there saying, "Are you George?" I'd say, "You better believe I'm George." I just couldn't handle that. I lost my wife, but I lost my conscience first.

Playboy: You were sampling the fringe benefits of fame?

Foreman: Yes. The first time anything happened I was in Jamaica. All of a sudden the prettiest girls there were interested in me. I couldn't make the flight home that I was supposed to take, so I had to spend an extra night in Jamaica. I met a girl, and I courted her. Slept with her. It was a couple of days before I went home to my wife, who had just had a child. I felt like a dirty rat. That was the beginning of the crumbling of my marriage. The first time it happened I thought, Oh, if I could only get myself clean--I actually wanted to burn my clothes. The second time it happened, it wasn't so tough. The third time it wasn't tough at all. After a while, it was like I didn't know what was right. During the ten years I didn't box I reconsidered everything I'd done in my life, and what I would have changed if I'd had the chance.

Playboy: What changes would you have made?

Foreman: I never would have courted women and not married them. I went around the world, and the only thing that was important to me was a date. I never met people and shook hands and said, "How do you do? Look at this river, look at this sea!" But then I did get a chance to do it all over. This time when I went around the world, I never dated, because I had my nice wife with me. So I did it right.

And now I have peace of mind that's built on nothing but me. I mean, if a hurricane takes off the roof--or whatever comes next--it has nothing to do with how I feel about myself. I've got peace of mind that's not based on what I have or what I can get.

Playboy: You sure it has nothing to do with your success?

Foreman: It has nothing at all to do with it. As a matter of fact, I was just sitting here, and if you hadn't stopped by. I wouldn't have even thought about being the heavyweight boxing champ. Doesn't even occur to me. It sits in one spot, like: "Hey, boxing champion!" OK, there's going to be a boxing match in Las Vegas, and it's for the championship. Right. And when I get there I'll box. But I don't rush into it, nor do I dwell on it.

Playboy: Your second--and, you say, final--retirement from boxing is now only a few weeks away. Do you intend to have any connection with the sport after you hang up your gloves? Dan Duva, a pretty fair promoter himself, thinks you could be a great promoter. In fact, he feels you already are a great promoter.

Foreman: I wouldn't be true to it because, basically, I wanted to box, get the heavyweight title and make money. And if I drop pieces of that, I would scorch my whole personality. So, no, I don't see myself involved in promotion at all.

Maybe I've left boxing the way it should be now. Maybe I finally put on a good, honest boxing show. But I don't think I'd be able to take this attitude about boxing and apply it as a promoter.

Playboy: What if you met a young fighter who possessed all the attributes you say a champion must have. Would you want to be his promoter or manager?

Foreman: That would probably have to be the most mysterious, frightening, exciting, greatest thing in the world to feel. Wow, would I love to see that man! And I don't mean just a boxer. You got 999 boxers, but there's only one champion. And that kind of thing flows. It's like, "Come on, champ!" You carry him around with you and he's got that fire. You wrap his hands and you can feel it. Actually, it's not one in a thousand, it's one in a million. I'm telling you, I would love to recognize that in a young fighter. In that case I would be a manager, I would be a trainer, I would be a promoter. But only then. Poor Dick Sadler--when he first saw me he must have gone, "My gracious, this is it! This is it!"

Playboy: Have you thought about another career after boxing?

Foreman: I already have one. I'm an evangelist with the Church of the Lord Jesus Christ. That's what I do. I moonlight as a boxer, but my profession is preaching. I've preached all over the world--I even went back to Zaire to preach in the same arena where I lost to Muhammad Ali. And I had a bigger crowd than when I was defending my title. I tell people all the time, "There's a back door to the world and a front door." Everybody considers boxing and its glamour as the front door, but I've always drawn bigger crowds through the back door, preaching. There's not a whole lot of money in it, but you meet a lot of good people, and you eat a lot of chicken dinners.

Playboy: Chicken dinners?

Foreman: Sure. Folks give you your food and you don't stay in swanky hotels. But some of the nicest people in the world allowed me to stay in their guest rooms and have breakfast with them. I traveled all over the country through that back door. Loved it.

Playboy: Do you think you'll feel all right about being out of boxing?

Foreman: I was out of boxing for ten years.

Playboy: But you got back in.

Foreman: But I got back in strictly for two things: to get that title and to get that money.

Playboy: True, but you also told us how no one recognized you for ten years.

Foreman: OK, nobody knew me. I had on bib overalls and I'd be pushed out of a store by a salesman saying, "Hey you! It's not your turn yet." Or I'd be moved aside for someone else--"Oh, that seat is for Mr. So-and-So." And it hurt for a while. The people with me would whisper, "Tell them you're George Foreman." But I didn't need to tell anybody. I know who I am. And I like being who I am.

Playboy: Do you think you will miss boxing?

Foreman: No. I didn't miss it at all after I left it in 1977, and I won't miss it now.

Playboy: Do you think boxing will miss you?

Foreman: No. Look, I had a good time, and people had a good time with me. I have my fans. But there's a baby being born today who's looking for a fan. And that fan will be excited by him or her. The fans will multiply in years to come, and they'll all need their own guiding lights, their own heroes. And they'll come to see their heroes in masses. They'll fill up arenas, and they'll break every attendance record that's ever been set. And they'll all want to see--well, it won't be Tyson, and it won't be Foreman. It will be guys we don't even know about yet. And they will love it. And I'll be right there asking: "Who won?"

The first time I won the title I forgot about my family. I didn't care about anything but the title--I was married to it.

Liston treated people tough, and I thought that was the way you ought to act when you got to be a big-timer.

I was a juvenile delinquent, but I didn't concentrate on being a criminal. I wanted to be the tough guy who beat up every other tough guy.

I just messed up. I had a good wife and I got to be heavyweight champ, and that blew my mind.