![]() Arm weary, he began to swing wildly, frequently missing entirely, spinning around on his own momentum like a worn-out drunk. In the sultry tropical night (the temperature was 86° and the humidity about 90%), Foreman’s punches soon lost power. “I wanted to make him shoot his best shots,” said Ali later. Now he was simply letting Foreman punch himself out against that iron flesh. 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. “You punch like a sissy.” Soon it became clear that Ali had constructed a trap. As the fiercest puncher since Sonny Liston whaled away, Ali shouted taunts at Foreman. 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.Īstonishingly, Ali seemed hardly concerned. Indeed, with his customary authority, Foreman started pounding punches against Ali’s midsection. ![]() Off his toes and seemingly off his rocker, Ali stood along the ropes, exactly where Foreman wants an opponent to be. Then, in the second round, the bee unexpectedly threw away the tactics of his entire career. ![]()
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