The strategy that moose generally use is to try and turn their opponent to attack his vulnerable side, perhaps breaking ribs, incapacitating the opponent. This is what Ike was trying to do, but the Champ was cagey. Although Ike was clearly stronger and having his way, he couldn’t get at the Champ’s side, until about 45 minutes into the fight. Finally, Ike turned the Champ, buried his antler in the Champ’s side and shoved him into a small patch of trees. Ike pushed with all his massive strength into the Champ’s ribs, and I heard a series of dry snaps, which could have been branches, or the Champ’s ribs. I grabbed my rifle and got ready to fire a shot over the two. I didn’t want to see my old friend the Champ lose his title. Maybe I could scare Ike away and give the Champ a reprieve? No! I decided if the Champ was going to lose, it was going to be clean. The Champ sat pinned against the trees, and didn’t make a sound. Ike pushed and pushed, until something strange happened. Ike seemed to get tired. He backed off and heaved his huge body trying to draw a massive breath into his lungs. It was just the chance the Champ was looking for. He flashed around beside Ike and dug an antler under his belly. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The Champ strained upward and nearly lifted Ike completely off the ground. Then he began to shove mercilessly. It was Zaire all over again. The Champ had gotten Ike with the rope a dope!!! The Champ continued to push on Ike’s broadside until Ike’s leg’s got tangled up on a small log, and he crashed to the ground on his side. I leapt to my feet and shouted my delight, nearly tipping myself out of the canoe. None of the animals noticed my antics. Once he had Ike on the ground, the Champ was merciless. He pushed his antler into Ike’s exposed flank with all his might. Ike thrashed, squealed, and bellowed, until, after a full minute of struggling, foaming with sweat, Ike lay still. When Ike stopped struggling, the Champ backed off. Exhausted and beaten, Ike slowly got to his feet. He wore a huge red gash from the tip of his back to his underbelly. The first real battle scar in his perfect black hide, and it would stay with him for life. Ike got his feet under him and jogged away. The time would come when he would hold the title, but not today. To my surprise the Champ didn’t chase him, as was customary. I would soon discover why. It was clear that the Champ had suffered a lot of damage during his title defense. I watched him until it was almost dark, but he didn’t move at all, he just stood there. Just before it became too dark for me to see, I saw the Champ fold his huge legs underneath him and lay down. I had no choice but to leave and return the next day. I checked on the Champ for the next three days, and always found him lying in the same place I had left him the day before. He was alive, and awake. He swung his massive head around when I approached, but made no move to rise. Always, his harem was close by. On the fourth day I arrived at the lake just before dawn. I lifted the canoe off the back of my truck and pushed it into the water. There was frost on the ground, and the cold air nipped at my face as I paddled down the lake to check on the champ. I was about halfway down the lake when the sun burst over the mountains into a clear blue sky. It sprayed its golden rays over the red and yellow leaves that marked the approaching winter. There was something different about this morning. I had a good idea what I was going to find. When I arrived at my usual spot I was surprised to find the Champ gone. I put ashore, and followed his trail a short distance into the tall grass. I had only gone about 50 yards when I came upon the Champ. He was laying on his right side, his body covered with a thin veneer of frost. I couldn’t help but feel a great deal of grief as I knelt beside him. He carried even more scars than I had thought. Just as every scar on a boxer represents a story, I wondered what untold story each one of the Champ’s scars represented. I ran my hand along his left side. Most of his ribs had been broken. He also had a massive gash on his left foreleg. I couldn’t see what damage was on his right side, although it was probably substantial. The Champ had fought so hard, with so much skill, guile, and determination, only to succumb to his injuries. It was then that I noticed something strange. Where was his harem? I scanned the area and was immediately overjoyed to see a shallow pit dug a short distance from where the Champ now lay. When moose breed they dig what is called a rut pit. Sometime during the night before he expired, probably in tremendous pain, the Champ had summoned one final effort, and written himself into history by passing on his genes one last time. Like a true champion, he had gone out on top. By relating the story of the Champ, I have done my best to convey the anticipation of a big matchup, the excitement of the fight, the sacrifices fighters often make to achieve victory, and the qualities of a true champion. I put forth an honest effort to deal with the violence issue. The Champ was not violent by nature, but violence was part of what made him special. Violence is hardwired into us as human beings, just as jealousy, lust, greed, anger, and joy are hardwired into our psyche, and we would be foolish to deny that. They no longer serve any real survival purpose, like they did for the Champ, but they remain present nonetheless. I believe by participating in, or watching boxing, we provide ourselves with a structured, controlled outlet for our intrinsic violence, and that this is preferable to some of the other outlets that seem to be gaining popularity these days.
I was reminded of this nifty tale the other day as I watched “When We Were Kings”, the award-winning documentary on the Rumble in the Jungle between the seemingly-invincible world heavyweight champion George Foreman and his challenger, aging ex-champ Muhammad Ali, considered by many to be fighting perhaps his last fight. Oh, yes. There was fear, ominous foreboding in the run-up to the African extravaganza. It was the grand achievement of upstart, flamboyant promoter Don King: two black Americans vying for the greatest title in the whole world preceded by the extraordinary lead-in musical encounter that was Zaire ’74, an African-American “Woodstock”, featuring James Brown, B.B. King, another twelve overseas acts, as well as 17 Zairian performing groups over three soul-power days. Ali had, of course, immediately won over the entire country. But understand that the man’s foundation was principle, not merely the empty bluster—the pale imitation—we see nowadays from too many top athletes. Ali did not win his African brothers over with gangsta bravado. He did it with sincerity, wit, true and pure charisma, respect for the continent’s black peoples, and that sunny-bright self-confidence and freedom of thought, word and deed. He had followed his conscience in accepting his government’s consequences for refusing to fight in a war he didn’t believe in and the Africans loved him. You cannot fool all the people all the time, goes the saying, and the Africans—no fools—responded by embracing him. George Foreman was the polar opposite in his persona, but actually he needed nothing. Watching footage of his brutalizing Joe Frazier and Ken Norton, I am reminded of how here I have read comments saying Foreman in his time—which I was too young to remember—was every bit as feared as Mike Tyson was during his own fearsome heyday, which I remember vividly. Consequently, Ali’s courage was amazing. Foreman’s fists seemed like murderous horns, exploding bombs, in easily tearing through the best fighters the world had to offer. And, through it all, George glowered, a huge, frightening, unstoppable monster. Now it was Ali’s turn. The reason I remembered the Champ is because the sublime triumph of the Rope-a-Dope and the bull moose’s victory are—at heart—one and the same: the story of courage, skill and experience over anything life has to offer. They are parables that must encourage each and every one of us. How could Ali actually stand at the ropes, with nowhere to go, and taunt George Foreman to hit him? The worst of all ring nightmares! Like taunting cancer, war, injustice, hunger, the myriad miseries of man on earth. Like coming up to your greatest challenge, your life’s great sorrow, and calling out, “You can’t hurt me! What’s the matter? Can’t you hit? You disappoint me! They told me you hit hard! That’s not hard!” And through the bombardment, you are throwing back like Ali coming off the ropes, a flashing one-two, straight home to rattle the Foreman head, a twinkle in the eye, a gleam, a radiance from head to toe, the look on the face of deep concentration and binary satisfaction of a man who, as the African saying goes, has crossed great rivers, knows himself and his world, and, with his God by his side, knows there is no worthy goal he cannot achieve, no dark challenge he cannot overcome. The Champ was only a moose. We are but human beings in this huge, silent cosmos. But an animal can show courage and he transcends his circumstances. Last night I was privileged to dine with an old, much younger friend I hadn’t seen in a while. As I gave him a pep talk to try and perk him up under his present circumstances of unemployment and depression, I suddenly saw the glimmer of hope appear in his eye, the sudden triumph of faith over despair in his heart. Man, too, can transcend his misery, with a little courage, a little wit, a little faith that do not quit. With his God by his side, there is no monster that will not fall. This is what I learn, for life, in the boxing ring.
