High life
Boxing stupid
Taki
New York By far the best night of last week was Saturday night, when I stayed home in front of the telly and watched George Foreman strike a blow for every fat, bald guy over 45 knocking out Michael Moorer to win the heavyweight title. I was as amazed at Foreman's feat as I was at my preference for home and telly. I guess that's what old age is all about.
Of all the great heavyweight fights I've seen, Jersey Joe Walcott knocking out Ezzard Charles in the 7th in 1951, Rocky Marciano putting Jersey Joe to sleep in the 13th round in 1953, Ali rope-a-doping Foreman to defeat in the 8th in 1974, this was the most dramatic, and tell you why. Unlike the other fights mentioned above, this was no contest. Moorer was suing Foreman for target practice, his right jab finding the mark for nine rounds. One thing, however, was obvious throughout the fight. Moorer was circling to his left, which for the southpaw that he is, should have been suicide. but Foreman was too slow. He pawed the air, missed by a mile, and was content to try to block Moorer's rat- tat-tat jabs off his swollen face.
Then Moorer got careless. It happened in the 10th round, and old George nailed the younger man with a short right. That's all he needed. It didn't look devastating, the good ones never do. Just a short swivel of the hips and shoulder, and bang, lights out. The punch travelled about twelve inch- es, c'est tout.
Foreman's brother, Roy, was so sur- prised he fainted as he jumped into the ring. Moorer was even more surprising because unlike the bums of today who dis- grace a noble art by bragging and posturing on the air, he admitted the better man won that night and made no excuses. All of us experts, of course, were surprised to be eat- ing humble pie. I'm happy for Big George, who is not half as cuddly and nice as he pretends, but I've got to go with the 46- year-old, way over the hill, fat and out of condition underdog. It makes one believe in fairy tales. Foreman may also have res- cued boxing with his feat.
And speaking of rescues, boxing, the fashion world, Hollywood and the Big Bagel all need rescuing from the egregious Mickey Rourke, the IRA supporter whose antics have even shocked Donald Trump throughout Fashion Week, as soi disant chic New York named the last seven days Rourke spent the week dropping in on his estranged wife, Cane Otis, while she was showing the Spring and Summer collec- tions. Rourke is up on charges of beating up la Otis in Los Angeles, but this did not cramp his style. He was accompanied by Tupac Shakur, the black rapper who is also up on charges of rape and gun posses- sion. The beautiful duo were in a ghastly nightclub called Expo, where I bad the bad luck to be on Saturday night following the fight. Then in came Otis, and I was sure that the Foreman-Moorer fight would take second place as far as violence was concerned. Rourke was dressed in a tank top, with boxing shorts over his jeans. With a three-day stubble and a large cross hanging from his neck, he looked like someone an insane asylum would think twice before admitting. The paparazzi went wild. I went home. Rourke went back to trash his room at the Plaze, and was eventually evicted after being handed a bill of 20,000 greenbacks for the damage. According to the Plaze. 'It was the worst damage the hotel has ever seen.'
Well, I ain't so sure. Accepting his reservation must be worse. I once almost came to blows with Rourke, at Elaine's and although he thinks himself a tough guy — he is a good amateur boxer — fancy my chances, especially after what old George did to young Michael. This week promises to be almost as good. Fergie is in town, fresh from Hollywood, as is Lady Thatcher. The only one missing is Mohammed Fayed. He is probably prepar- ing a suite for Mickey at the Paris Ritz.
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