George Foreman
In the years we were together Joe made a few appearances on Late Night With David Letterman.
I’d usually wait out the show in his dressing room or the green room, but one time, a few minutes before the show started, I stepped into the hall to watch Letterman’s staff hustling about in preparation for taping. Joe wasn’t around—probably in makeup or already on stage as he was sitting in with the band that night—so I hung back, close to the wall where I’d be out of the host’s way if he passed by. (They instruct you to do that when you arrive—adamantly, every time.) Dave didn’t pass by, but the dressing room door to my left opened and out walked George Foreman.
The renowned heavyweight boxing champion stood inches away, adjusting and smoothing his checkered shirt over and over, as if it were new and he hadn’t quite made up his mind about it yet. That must’ve been the case because moments later he stepped into my line of sight and asked with complete sincerity, “Does this shirt makes me look fat?”
I was a little taken aback. George Foreman was not a slender or even squarely built man, but he was one of the greatest boxers of all time, fit and fierce in his forties, actively competing and winning most of his fights.
“Not at all,” I assured him. “It’s flattering! Doesn’t make you look fat at all.”
“You sure?” he pressed, and I nodded emphatically. “Okay, then. Good, good…thank you for that.” George smiled and turned away, shoulders relaxed as he strode down the hall, hands at his sides, not fidgeting at all.





