After being out-boxed and out-speeded over the course of nine rounds by reigning heavyweight king Michael Moorer, George Foreman's quest to regain his heavyweight championship of the world, a title that was snatched from him by the guile and nimble feet of Muhammad Ali on a warm African night way back in 1974, seemed all but lost. There were only three rounds to go, and George, all 45-years and 250-pounds of him, with his eyes puffy and with his once vaunted power seemingly a distant memory, was far behind on points. It seemed quite obvious that all Michael Moorer had to do was peck and poke his way through the next three rounds and his first defense of his heavyweight title would be one for the books. But George had other ideas!
He had come too far. George was a man on a mission, a desperate man. After losing his precious title to Muhammad Ali in a huge upset, George was never the same. His cloak of invincibility had been stripped from him; his psyche irreparably damaged. That title meant everything to George Foreman. It was what defined him as a man. And then it was gone. Snatched away in the time that it takes a referee to count ten. For over twenty years George wrestled and fought with the demons of that night in Zaire, Africa. The ropes were too loose. His water had been poisoned. His shoes were too big! Big bad George Foreman didn't lose like that. But he did. And it hurt! And that hurt was something that George Foreman was determined to exorcise. And George wasn't about to let Michael Moorer stand in the way of that exorcism!
George had been spying Moorer's chin all night long. Moorer, for all his skill and ability, did not have the best of chins. Sure, he had proven that he could pull himself up off the floor each and every time that he had been dropped. But he still had a suspect set of whiskers. And against a hitter like George, that could prove costly. But Moorer was smart. He kept circling and moving and shifting, never allowing George to get in more than an occasional shot. But Moorer was starting to get a wee bit careless. He had tasted Foreman's power a few times during the fight, and he had held up well. Foreman's power was more myth than fact in Moorer's mind, so why not mix it up a little? And that's exactly what George wanted.
George came out throwing punches with renewed vigor as the tenth round started. He knew his chances were diminishing with each passing round, and he wanted to get to Moorer while he could still muster the energy. A series of left hooks drove Moorer to his right side, towards George Foreman's best weapon - his right hand! George had had that right hand cocked and ready all night long, but he was having trouble landing it cleanly on Moorer's sweet spot - his chin! But finally, thanks to Foreman's judicious use of his left hand, Moorer was now in Foreman's range. George, sensing opportunity, brushed Moorer with a soft left jab and then landed a sharp right hand on Moorer's chin. The punch was solid and true, but Moorer stayed erect. George then repeated the exact sequence - left jab followed by a short right to the chin - and Moorer crashed to the canvas in a heap! He fell as if he had been shot!
Moorer, spread out on his back with his eyes dazed and uncoordinated, never threatened to beat the count. As referee Joe Cortez counted “ten” and waved his arms over Moorer signaling the end of the fight, George Foreman knelt in prayer in his corner. It had taken twenty years for him to do it, but George Foreman was not only the heavyweight champion of the world, but he was the oldest heavyweight champion in history at age 45. The ghost of Ali and Zaire had been exorcised by Foreman's pile driver of a right hand!
