The Fight by Norman Mailer Page A

would be cut. Bundini had boasted that he was working the magic to make a cut. Then Foreman was cut. But a week too soon. If Ali and Bundini had been employing powers, their powers proved misapplied. Were they now being laid on closer? Much to think about in the week of this fight.

6. OUR BLACK KISSINGER
    N’ GOLO WAS a Congolese word for force, for vital force. Equally could it be applied to ego, status, strength or libido. Indubitably did Ali feel deprived of his rightful share. For ten years, the press had been cheating Ali of n’golo. No matter if he had as much as anyone in America, he wanted more. It is not the n’golo you have, but the n’golo you are denied that excites the harshest hysterias of the soul. So he could not want to lose this fight. If he did, they would write up the epitaphs for his career, and the dead have no n’golo. The dead are dying of thirst — so goes an old African saying. The dead cannot dwell in the n’golo that arrives with the first swallow of palm wine, whisky, or beer.
    Ali’s relations with the press were now nonstop. Never did a fighter seem to have so much respect for the magical power of the written word. His villa with the High Schlock furniture was open to many a reporter, and in the afternoons at Nsele after training was over for both men, Foreman would ride back to the Inter-Continental and Aliwould lie about in his living room, legs extended from a low armchair, his valuable arms folded on his chest, and answer more questions from the reporters sitting with him, his iron endurance for conversation never in question. He ran a marathon every day with his tongue, strong, sure and never stumbling over anyone else’s thought. If a question were asked for which he had no reply, he would not hear it. Majestic was the snobbery of his ear.
    He was, of course, friendly to Black correspondents — indeed, interviewing Muhammad was often their apprenticeship. With no other famous Black man were they likely to receive as much courtesy: Ali answered questions in full. He answered them to microphones for future radio programs and to microphones for reporters with tape recorders, he slowed up his speech for journalists taking notes, and was relaxed if one did not take a note. He was weaving a mighty bag of burlap large enough to cover the earth. When it was finished he would put the world in that bag and tote it on his shoulder.
    So in the easy hours of the afternoon that followed his knockout in training by Roy Williams he returned to his favorite scenario and described in detail how he would vanquish Foreman. “Just another gym workout,” he said. “The fight will be easy. This man does not want to take a head whipping like Frazier just to beat you. He’s not as tough as Frazier. He’s soft and spoiled.”
    A young Black named Sam Clark working for BAN (Black Audio Network), which offered Black news to Black-oriented stations, now asked a good question. “If you were to advise Foreman how to fight you, what would you tell him?”
    “If I,” said Ali, “give the enemy some of my knowledge, then maybe he’ll have sense to lay back and wait. Of course I will even convert that to my advantage. I’m versatile. All the same, the Mummy’s best bet is to stand in the center of the ring and wait for me to come in.” With hardly a pause, he added, “Did you hear that
death
music he plays? He
is
a mummy. And,” said Ali chuckling, “I’m going to be the Mummy’s Curse!”
    Topics went by. He spoke of Africans learning the technology of the world. “Usually you feel safer if you see a white face flying a plane,” he said. “It just seems like a white man should fix the jet engine. Yet here they are all Black. That impressed me very much,” he said. Of course when he was most sincere, so could he mean it least. In a similar conversation with friends, he had winked and added, “I never believe the bullshit that the pilots is all Black. I keep looking for the secret closet