Ali's eyes are
shiny and vacant, two rain-streaked windows in an abandoned building. He's
wearing black pants and a black sport shirt—like the one he wore when he came
to the stadium on Oct. 30, 1974 in Za�re—no socks and high-lop sneakers with
one of the laces undone. He keeps interrupting Foreman to sweet-talk a pretty
girl from ABC.
Foreman spots the
unlaced sneaker, leans forward to tie it, catches himself and pulls back. McKay
introduces Ali, and Foreman notices the shirttail of the man who once humbled
him hanging out like a puppy's tongue.
His hands reach
out—he can't stop them this time—and tuck the shirt in, and Ali walks onstage
to the roar of the crowd.