Some lives are so outsize they seem to punch through the fabric of reality itself, leaving a mark that’s impossible to ignore. George Foreman, who died on March 22 at 76, was one such figure — a man who didn’t just step into the ring but stormed it, twice claiming the heavyweight boxing crown, only to later conquer kitchens worldwide with a grin and a grill. From the mean streets of Houston to the pinnacle of pugilism and beyond, Foreman’s journey was a testament to reinvention, resilience, and the kind of charisma that could sell a million fat-reducing machines.
Born on Jan. 10, 1949, in Marshall, Texas, and raised in Houston’s rough-and-tumble Fifth Ward, George Edward Foreman didn’t start life with a silver spoon — or even a spatula. One of seven children, he grew up in poverty so stark that a single hamburger was split among siblings. As a teenager, he was a self-described “thug” who dropped out of school. But a lifeline came through the Job Corps, where a boxing coach named Doc Broadus saw potential in the hulking, angry child. At 19, Foreman turned that potential into gold, literally, winning the heavyweight title at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics with a second-round knockout of Soviet fighter Jonas Čepulis. It was the first hint that Foreman’s fists could rewrite his story.
Turning professional in 1969, Foreman became a wrecking ball in human form. His rise was relentless, a string of knockouts that culminated in 1973 when he faced the undefeated Joe Frazier in Kingston, Jamaica. The odds favored “Smokin’ Joe,” but Foreman dismantled him in two rounds, knocking him down six times — each fall punctuated by Howard Cosell’s iconic cry, “Down goes Frazier!” At 24, Foreman was the heavyweight champion, a scowling, Liston-esque figure whose power seemed unstoppable. He defended his title twice more, flattening Jose Roman and Ken Norton with ease. Then came 1974, and a night in Kinshasa, Zaire, that would define him as much as any victory.
The “Rumble in the Jungle” pitted Foreman against Muhammad Ali, the brash poet of the ring. The undefeated Foreman was the favorite — his devastating punches were expected to crush Ali’s comeback. But Ali, employing his “rope-a-dope” strategy, absorbed Foreman’s onslaught until the eighth round, when a flurry of blows sent the champion crashing down — Foreman’s first professional loss. It was a defeat that shook him to his core, and after a 1977 loss to Jimmy Young, followed by a near-death experience in the dressing room, Foreman walked away from boxing. He found God, became a preacher, and traded his gloves for a Bible, tending a small congregation in Houston.
A lesser man might have faded into obscurity, but Foreman’s second act was as improbable as it was triumphant. In 1987, at 38, he returned to the ring — older, heavier, and with a smile that disarmed doubters. Critics scoffed, but Foreman kept winning, his sledgehammer right hand still a force. In 1991, he challenged Evander Holyfield for the title and lost, but his grit won hearts. Then, on Nov. 5, 1994, in Las Vegas, wearing the same trunks he’d worn against Ali, Foreman faced Michael Moorer. At 45, trailing on the scorecards, he landed a thunderous right in the 10th round, knocking out Moorer to reclaim the heavyweight crown — becoming the oldest champion in history. The crowd roared as Foreman sank to his knees in prayer, a moment of redemption 20 years in the making.
That era — Foreman, Frazier, Ali — remains boxing’s high-water mark, a collision of titans whose ferocity and flair may never be matched, cementing Foreman’s name among the sport’s eternal giants. Yet for all his ring heroics, Foreman’s legacy might rest more on a kitchen appliance than a knockout punch. In 1994, he lent his name to the George Foreman Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine. With his affable charm and a slogan so perfect it would’ve made Don Draper jealous — “It’s so good I put my name on it!” — he turned a simple grill into a cultural juggernaut, selling over 100 million units and earning him an estimated $200 million, dwarfing his boxing purse. (As a sports fan, I’m a little ashamed to admit that growing up in the ‘90s, I knew about George Foreman, the Meineke and grill pitchman, long before I knew about George Foreman, the boxing champion, but I imagine that I wasn’t alone in this regard.) Foreman retired for good in 1997, finishing with a 76-5 record, 68 knockouts, and a fortune built on faith and burgers. A doting father of 12 — five of his sons were named George — he once quipped that his children kept him young, or at least on his toes.
Foreman lived long enough to see his legend grow, celebrated as much for his warmth as his wallops. Asked once about his longevity, he chuckled, “I ate a lot of cheeseburgers — grilled, of course.” Foreman left behind a life that didn’t just defy the odds — it cooked them to perfection.
Daniel Ross Goodman is a Washington Examiner contributing writer and the author, most recently, of Soloveitchik’s Children: Irving Greenberg, David Hartman, Jonathan Sacks, and the Future of Jewish Theology in America.
