At 7:30 on a muggy Houston morning, George Foreman, the heavyweight boxing champion of 15 years ago, is bundled in a military shirt and heavy work pants, plodding up and down a freeway embankment in the piney woods near his home. Foreman isn't just climbing the steep hill. He is maneuvering up it backward -- up and back, up and back -- a modern-day Sisyphus, sweating and straining in the heavy grass. As he moves, the old fighter hurls jabs and uppercuts at the blazing sun with his prodigious arms.
Strange as the sight might seem, Foreman's goal is even odder....
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