The Legend of Big George

In Marshall, Texas, he was born,
A child of struggle, tough and torn,
The Fifth Ward streets his early stage,
Where hunger fueled a quiet rage,
Young George, a soul yet to transform.

A bully first, with fists unbound,
He roamed where law was seldom found,
But fate would shift, a spark ignite,
The Job Corps called him to the fight,
A boxer’s path on rougher ground.

At sixteen, gloves replaced despair,
Doc Broaddus shaped him, raw and fair,
Through wild swings and clumsy falls,
He rose within those gym-lit halls,
A power blooming, fierce and rare.

Mexico City, ’68,
The Olympics sealed his early fate,
A gold medal gleamed, his hands held high,
An American flag against the sky,
A champion born, no time to wait.

Pro rings soon felt his thunderous might,
Each jab a storm, each hook a blight,
Thirty-seven wins, no loss in sight,
Knockouts piled up night by night,
A heavyweight star burning bright.

Joe Frazier fell in ’73,
“Down goes Frazier!”—history’s decree,
Six times he crashed beneath George’s reign,
A second-round end to the Kingston’s gain,
The title his, a titan’s spree.

Two defenses swift and bold,
Roman down, Norton’s tale told,
Fifty seconds, two rounds flat,
His fists rewrote where records sat,
A fearsome king, unbowed, uncontrolled.

Then came the Jungle, Zaire’s heat,
Ali danced where giants meet,
Rope-a-dope wore George’s fire,
An eighth-round fall, a champ’s retire,
The crown slipped from his mighty seat.

Defeat stung deep, a bitter pill,
Yet faith arose, serene and still,
A vision struck in ’77’s gloom,
From ring to pulpit, he’d assume,
A preacher’s call on Houston’s hill.

Ten years gone, the gloves stayed cold,
A man reborn, his story told,
But need called back, the fire re-lit,
At thirty-eight, he’d not submit,
A comeback carved in sweat and gold.

The ring embraced his aging frame,
Each fight rebuilt his storied name,
Holyfield stood, twelve rounds endured,
Respect was won, though not secured,
A warrior’s heart still burned the same.

Then Moorer met him, ’94,
A decade’s wait, and something more,
At forty-five, a right hand flew,
The champ went down, the dream came true,
Oldest king the world ever saw.

Twice a champ, a tale so grand,
From youth’s rough edge to glory’s stand,
A record etched, 76-5,
With 68 stopped, none left alive,
A legacy across the land.

Beyond the ropes, a grill was born,
A lean, mean dream in kitchens sworn,
Millions sold, a household name,
From punches thrown to culinary fame,
George’s mark forever worn.

A troubled boy from Houston’s core,
Found peace in faith, and so much more,
The church his home, four times a week,
To guide the lost, the truth to speak,
A shepherd now on Heaven’s shore.

Five sons, all George, a quirky choice,
One name to bind them, one strong voice,
“If one goes up, we all ascend,
If one falls low, together bend,”
A father’s love, a shared rejoice.

Daughters seven, a brood so wide,
From marriages that time would try,
Natalia, Freeda, and the rest,
Each one a thread in life’s great quest,
A family vast, his heart’s true pride.

The ring once feared his shadowed glare,
A titan’s growl, a predator’s stare,
Yet kindness grew where fury reigned,
A gentle soul at last unchained,
A paradox so rich and rare.

A youth center built, his gift to give,
A place for kids to thrive and live,
From Fifth Ward roots, he’d pave the way,
To lift them up, to brighter days,
A champion’s heart, restorative.

Ten books he penned, his thoughts unfurled,
A preacher-boxer’s view of world,
From rage to grace, his tale unfolds,
In words as strong as blows of old,
A life’s reflection, wisdom pearled.

The Hall of Fame, his name enshrined,
Eighth-greatest puncher, stars aligned,
A journey vast, from dark to light,
Through every fall, he’d rise to fight,
Big George, a force of humankind.

Now March of ’25 draws near,
His tale complete, his voice still clear,
From fists to faith, from grill to lore,
A giant’s life we can’t ignore,
George Foreman’s song, eternal here.