50 years later, Muhammad Ali’s KO of George Foreman still shocks the world. And I was there.

Fifty years ago, on October 30, Muhammad Ali – a whopping 10-1 underdog – shocked the world by winning the heavyweight title from George Foreman. In all sports, there had never been anything like it. It was the Marquis of Queenberry, National Geographic and the triumph of Justice Deferred all rolled into one. I was there and this is how I remember it. —Jerry Izenberg

I was a stranger in what was, to me and my colleagues, the strangest of foreign lands. We came to Zaire in the early fall of 1974 because where Muhammad Ali went, we followed. And now Ali had come to reclaim his rightful Heavyweight Championship from George Foreman in ‘The Rumble in the Jungle’.

I knew little about Zaire, except that it had been the Belgian Congo, then the Democratic People’s Republic of the Congo, and had been renamed Zaire under Colonel Joseph Mobutu. I was also aware that it was there that a 19th century journalist named Henry Stanley had concentrated much of his search for a missing British explorer, a journey that, according to legend, ended dramatically with the words: “Dr. Livingstone, I suppose.’

When I heard that the ring would be placed not far from that spot, this became for me a story in search of an author.

The name and title Mobuto had given himself was President Mobutu Sese Seko Kuku Wa Za ​​Banga of Zaire, which translated as ‘The all-powerful warrior who, because of his endurance and unyielding will to win, will go from conquest to conquest and leaves fire. in his wake.”

Even that was incomplete.

In addition to his “stamina and unyielding will to win,” there was also his ability to kill, steal and maintain happy ties with the CIA. He had already been reprimanded by Amnesty International for torturing political prisoners and had not hesitated to support episodes of strategic genocide in neighboring Rwanda when it served his purpose.

When the fight was announced, I saw little chance of an AIi victory. But later I discovered something that even Foreman didn’t know. Ali, then 32, had suffered from arthritic hands for a long time. Painkillers had been a constant companion. But it was Gene Killroy, his business manager and close friend, who gave Ali one of the biggest hole cards of his career.

He took him to an orthopedist in Philadelphia, Dr. James Nixon, who ordered him to get rid of all those useless painkillers and prescribed hot paraffin baths for both hands three times a day. The hands started to come around.

A month later, the late Jerry Lisker, sports editor of the New York Post, and I traveled to Deer Lake, Pennsylvania, to watch Ali’s final preparations. I couldn’t believe what we saw. For the first time in over a year, his hands allowed him to pound on the heavy bag. With each blow he sang, “I’m going to… punch that… sucker… out.”

As we left for the long drive home, Lisker said, “You know what I think? His time is running out. I think his exile lasted too long.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But this is what I think. I think he’ll knock the sucker out like he said. I remember something he told me years ago. He said, ‘If Muhammad Ali tells you that a mosquito can pull a plow, don’t argue. Just hitch it up.”

“If he says he will do it, he will do it. Go check with Sonny Liston.”

Lisker and I were the only two writers who picked him to win and we each said by knockout.

Zaire – about the size of that part of the United States east of the Mississippi River – was a polyglot of more than twenty tribes that had nothing in common (including their native languages) except the fact that someone long ago had claimed. Belgium.

It was chaos from the moment the outside world arrived. As they got off the plane, Ali asked Gene Kilroy, a sort of major in the Ali camp, “Who do these people hate?”

“I couldn’t say ‘white people,’” Kilroy explained, “because I was white and so was Angelo Dundee. So I said, ‘I think the Belgians’, who had occupied the country.

“So there was a scene. Ali turned to the crowd and shouted: “George Foreman is Belgian.”

Thousands of people chant: “Ali!” and then the cry changed to “Ali, Boom-a-yay” (in Lingala) and the interpreter told me it meant, “Ali, kill him,” and Ali turned that into a chant every day.

With that he jumped straight into George Foreman’s head. He played Foreman’s psyche until it tensed like an overwound violin string, tapping into countless self-doubts that plagued the then-troubled heavyweight champion. Ali even changed genetics, turning Foreman into a white man by carefully explaining to onlookers during a workout:

‘George comes here with a dog. I don’t need to tell you how many dogs have been turned against you over the years. What kind of dog did he bring? A Belgian Shepherd. And who oppressed you? The Belgians. So, what does that make him?”

Ali nicknamed him “The Mummy” and shouted every time he saw him in the days leading up to the fight, “No mummy will beat the great Muhammad Ali when we meet in the house of horrors.”

When Foreman suffered a cut on the right eye, which postponed the fight for six weeks, Ali and Kilroy went to Mobuto’s people and told them, ‘George is going to run. You’d better put some army men in front of his hotel.’

They did so, and George began to brood even more deeply after this insult. On the night of the fight he was a nervous wreck.

Due to time constraints dictated by the orbit of a communications satellite, the battle would not begin until 3 a.m. U.S. eastern time. They filled the gap from midnight with traditional indigenous dancers. A full moon hung over the events. And through it all, the steady pounding of the drums.

Half a century later. the battle itself remains an exciting story of romance, history and justice delayed and ultimately obtained. In many ways it is the benchmark for Ali’s career. It generated staggering myths through fake books from people who weren’t there or were just passing through. Before the ring started, Ali walked up to George and stood about two feet away, yelling at him:

‘I’m going to kill you, dumbass. Warn all those idiots around you. I’m going to pop… pop… POP… do you hear me?’ And just before they pulled him away, you could almost see the cruelty that was George’s stock and trade evaporate before your eyes.

I don’t need to tell you about the rope-a-dope, which became significantly more effective when Ali chose to lay down on those ropes. I don’t need to tell you how in the eighth round, attrition, fatigue and frustration allowed Foreman to gain the brief right-hand lead that shocked the world.

There were actually two, but by the time the first one landed, Foreman was already stumbling and fumbling for an invisible handle. He seemed to fall into pieces.

That’s how it ended.

But what I remember most was a moment just after sunrise, just after one of those heavy African downpours. Ali had only been champion for a few hours.

Columnist Dave Anderson of The New Times and I found him alone, staring at the river for at least five minutes. It was clear that he saw something or someone that we did not see. He didn’t even know we were there.

Framed by the first fresh rays of a new African sunshine, as he stared silently at the river, he raised his arms in the Rocky pose.

To me, in that silent, powerful moment, Muhammad Ali, vindicated and victorious, was indeed the king of the world.

Jerry Izenberg is a columnist emeritus for The Star Ledger. He can be reached at [email protected].