of
Conversations with Ogotemmêli
by Mercel Griaule, a fine book. Ogotemmêli looked on the gift of speech as analogous to weaving since the tongue and teeth were a warp and woof on which the breath could serve as thread. Given reflection, the idea was not so unsound. What, after all, was conversation if not a psychic material to be stitched by the mind to other psychic cloth? If most conversations ended in rags, so did most textiles.
Foreman spoke with a real sense of the delicacy of whathe might be weaving, a fine tissue, strong in its economy, a true cloth to come out of an intelligent and uneducated man who happened to be Champion.
Samples
:
Reporter: “Your eye looks all right to me, George.”
Foreman: “Looks all right to me, too.”
Reporter: “What do you think of your weight?”
Foreman: “Once you’re a Heavyweight, your weight speaks for itself.”
Reporter: “Do you think you’ll knock him out?”
Foreman (in utter relaxation): “I would like to.”
On the ripple of humor this created, Foreman offered a smile. When the next questioner wondered what he thought of fighting at 3 A.M. , Foreman gave a longer reply. “Once you’re in good condition,” he said, “you’re able to do a lot of things you’re not able to ordinarily. Good condition makes you more flexible. I really have no concern about the hour.”
“Ali claims he’s met more tough fighters than you have.”
“That,” said Foreman, “may be a factor for me. I got a dog who fights all the time. He comes home whipped.”
“Do you expect Ali to go for the eye?”
Foreman shrugged. “It’s good for anybody to go for anything they can as long as they can. The crow will go for the scarecrow but run away from dynamic people.”
“We hear you’re writing a book.”
“Oh,” Foreman said in his mildest voice, “I just like to keep an account of what’s going on.”
“Do you have a subject for the book?”
“It’ll be about me in general.”
“Plan to publish it?”
He was thoughtful, as if contemplating the uncharted lands of literature that lay ahead. “I don’t know,” he said, “it may be just for my kids.”
Reporter: “Do Ali’s remarks bother you?”
Foreman: “No. He makes me think of a parrot who keeps saying, ‘You’re stupid, you’re stupid.’ Not to offend Muhammad Ali, but he’s like that parrot. What he says, he’s said before.”
They asked him if he liked the country of Zaïre and he looked uneasy and said, first hint of uneasiness to his voice, “I would like to stay as long as possible and visit.” If boxers were good liars, maybe he was no boxer.
“Why are you staying at the Inter-Continental instead of here?” Foreman replied even faster, “Well, I’m accustomed to hotel life. Although I like this place in Nsele.” He was rescued by another query. “We hear President Mobutu gave you a pet lion.”
Foreman brought back his smile. “He’s big enough not to be a pet. He’s a serious lion.”
“Do you enjoy being Champ?” It was as if reporters had the license to ask any stupid question, any whatever. The trouble was that every reason existed for stupid questions. That was when the subject might reveal himself most. “You enjoy being Champ?”
“I think about it every night,” said George, and added with a rush of compressed love for himself that he could not quite throttle into that soft voice, “I think about it and I thank God, and I thank George Foreman for having
true
endurance.” The inevitable schizophrenia of great athleteswas in his voice. Like artists, it is hard for them not to see the finished professional as a separate creature from the child that created him. The child (now grown up) still accompanies the great athlete and is wholly in love with him, an immature love, be it said.
But Sadler, Moore and Saddler had been teaching him to recover from mistakes. So his voice was quiet again and he added quickly, “I don’t think I’m superior to any
Conversations with Ogotemmêli
by Mercel Griaule, a fine book. Ogotemmêli looked on the gift of speech as analogous to weaving since the tongue and teeth were a warp and woof on which the breath could serve as thread. Given reflection, the idea was not so unsound. What, after all, was conversation if not a psychic material to be stitched by the mind to other psychic cloth? If most conversations ended in rags, so did most textiles.
Foreman spoke with a real sense of the delicacy of whathe might be weaving, a fine tissue, strong in its economy, a true cloth to come out of an intelligent and uneducated man who happened to be Champion.
Samples
:
Reporter: “Your eye looks all right to me, George.”
Foreman: “Looks all right to me, too.”
Reporter: “What do you think of your weight?”
Foreman: “Once you’re a Heavyweight, your weight speaks for itself.”
Reporter: “Do you think you’ll knock him out?”
Foreman (in utter relaxation): “I would like to.”
On the ripple of humor this created, Foreman offered a smile. When the next questioner wondered what he thought of fighting at 3 A.M. , Foreman gave a longer reply. “Once you’re in good condition,” he said, “you’re able to do a lot of things you’re not able to ordinarily. Good condition makes you more flexible. I really have no concern about the hour.”
“Ali claims he’s met more tough fighters than you have.”
“That,” said Foreman, “may be a factor for me. I got a dog who fights all the time. He comes home whipped.”
“Do you expect Ali to go for the eye?”
Foreman shrugged. “It’s good for anybody to go for anything they can as long as they can. The crow will go for the scarecrow but run away from dynamic people.”
“We hear you’re writing a book.”
“Oh,” Foreman said in his mildest voice, “I just like to keep an account of what’s going on.”
“Do you have a subject for the book?”
“It’ll be about me in general.”
“Plan to publish it?”
He was thoughtful, as if contemplating the uncharted lands of literature that lay ahead. “I don’t know,” he said, “it may be just for my kids.”
Reporter: “Do Ali’s remarks bother you?”
Foreman: “No. He makes me think of a parrot who keeps saying, ‘You’re stupid, you’re stupid.’ Not to offend Muhammad Ali, but he’s like that parrot. What he says, he’s said before.”
They asked him if he liked the country of Zaïre and he looked uneasy and said, first hint of uneasiness to his voice, “I would like to stay as long as possible and visit.” If boxers were good liars, maybe he was no boxer.
“Why are you staying at the Inter-Continental instead of here?” Foreman replied even faster, “Well, I’m accustomed to hotel life. Although I like this place in Nsele.” He was rescued by another query. “We hear President Mobutu gave you a pet lion.”
Foreman brought back his smile. “He’s big enough not to be a pet. He’s a serious lion.”
“Do you enjoy being Champ?” It was as if reporters had the license to ask any stupid question, any whatever. The trouble was that every reason existed for stupid questions. That was when the subject might reveal himself most. “You enjoy being Champ?”
“I think about it every night,” said George, and added with a rush of compressed love for himself that he could not quite throttle into that soft voice, “I think about it and I thank God, and I thank George Foreman for having
true
endurance.” The inevitable schizophrenia of great athleteswas in his voice. Like artists, it is hard for them not to see the finished professional as a separate creature from the child that created him. The child (now grown up) still accompanies the great athlete and is wholly in love with him, an immature love, be it said.
But Sadler, Moore and Saddler had been teaching him to recover from mistakes. So his voice was quiet again and he added quickly, “I don’t think I’m superior to any
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