?I like chasing crooks. I drive through town at eighty miles an hour, my red light flashing and my shotgun on my lap. It?s dangerous, but it?s fun??
There?s a constant hissing whilst he talks. Oxygen is being provided through a nasal cannula. It?s getting to that stage when you complain as often as you forget, energy is nowhere, and there?s the danger of welling up if you dig too deeply into yesteryear.
In a small home at Albuquerque, New Mexico, it doesn?t work like that.
Seventy-five-year-old Bob Foster may be crossing that bridge from old age to fossilization, but time can?t dull the spirit. Whether it?s stories about Joe Frazier drinking like a fish or fracturing someone?s skull in the tenth grade for stealing a comic, Bob chuckles at things which make people gasp. Small-talkers would falter; they may ask if he?s serious. Bob would probably laugh again.
He speaks openly, fantasy fights starring Bob Foster only go one way, and everything comes in on that deep voice. His 6?3? frame now carries around 250 lbs. It?s still not huge; the same frame that used to tip the scales at 175 lbs. Bob?s more famous incarnation, long and wiry, was a grave warning.
I tend to find those sinewy horror characters more threatening; Count Orlok in Nosferatu, the hybrid offspring in Alien Resurrection, and whatever the hell that gangly thing is at the end of REC. They?re big enough to intimidate but have that arachnid quality. Take a gander over some of Bob?s photos. From standing over his prey at the weigh-in to lurching above their horizontal end, it looks like the Grim Reaper has regenerated and ditched the scythe.
In motion too there was a stalking manner about him. The hands were held low, as if heavier than normal. A surprisingly quick jab came from the waist and back to its original position in a wink. He took his time (counterpunching was an underrated talent). Once he got opponents going it wasn?t pretty. There were a few occasions when KO was too subtle a definition. AK for ?almost killed? fits better.
Vintage Bob is branded into the history books, ominous and proud. Hard to believe he made it after so many hiccups.
?Always keeps yourself a job.??Ma?s wisdom.
Pulling your weight was crucial for any black youth in the 1950?s. Throw in a wife, four kids and you better start graftin?. Bob had a neat idea; he was going to fight his way into the good life. The U.S. Air Force came along after high-school, and that?s where Bob slipped those big dukes into gloves. He wasn?t half bad, winning the silver medal at the 1959 Pan Am Games. The chance to represent the Stars n? Stripes at Rome?s 1960 Olympics Games was within reach. A brash kid called Cassius Clay got the job instead.
Coach wanted Bob to get down to middleweight?no longer an option.
That chasm between heavyweight and light-heavy is a doozy. Today?s cruiserweight division arguably exists as a bunker; for those who concede they?re too small and for those who can?t take the heat at 175 lbs. Considering the men Bob fought, the theory of him as a flimsy heavyweight isn?t fair, but tangling with the big boys is what should have derailed his career.
1962. Two years and ten fights as a pro brought him to Doug Jones. Zora Folley was supposed to take Bob?s corner but had come down with a virus. If Bob lost there would be an ugly irony to the event; not so long ago he had taught the New Yorker. Doug was two fights away from giving Clay a good workout.
Decked in the first, that was no flash knockdown. Foster got to his feet and showed everyone there were plenty of guts inside that slim body. His blows sounded good but pinged off Doug. Whenever Foster copped one his body made different shapes. Referee Teddy Martin spotted a funny turn in the eighth and intervened. Less than two years later Bob was again saved from a hazardous Ernie Terrell. A handful of knockouts followed, including two notable scraps with Henry Hank, but Folley handed Foster his fourth defeat. This drifting contender didn?t even fight well and still won easily.
?I?ll never fight a big man again,? sighed the loser.
Aching all over, and with little money, Bob started working at a bomb factory in a York, Pennsylvania. A year passed before he was in the ring again, thanks to a certain somebody. There were shades of Felix Bocchicchio helping ?Jersey? Joe back on his feet when a bloke called Morris ?Mushky? Salow guaranteed Foster a shot at the big time. The bomb job was dropped quicker than a right hand. Like Bocchicchio, Salow had some questionable ties, but that seems to be the rule for securing important fights.
The fight against middleweight legend Dick Tiger was like some kind of evil arrangement. Salow knew he was too small, Foster agreed to the point he made a prediction (four to five rounds), and the champion was the strict underdog. Coming to the end of his career and engaged in civil warfare, Tiger may not have been ?all there,? but he definitely wasn?t when Foster crushed him with a left hook.
Bouncing up and down like a pogo stick, Foster knew the family unit was sorted. Once the moment of joy had subsided the light-heavyweight division had no choice but to greet its coldest champion. A few months later Tommie Smith and John Carlos famously raised their fists at the ?68 Games. Muhammad Ali was also in the news for his political stance and beliefs. Foster concentrated on smashing.
The only problem was that desire to succeed at heavyweight had not died.
Four defenses down and Bob fancied a pop at heavyweight champion Joe Frazier. Little needs to be said about this blowout. Go ahead and name a light-heavyweight who would have beaten that version of Smokin? Joe?
?71 of course was the year Frazier left hooked his way to immortality, but Foster did the right thing when big fights are scarce?he stayed active. Five fights and another four defenses maintained his scary reputation at 175 lbs. Rattling speed balls, hurtin? sparring partners, and checking his form in the mirror; the champion was in the zone.
Venezuela?s Vicente Rondon did something silly and irritated Foster. The WBA title had fell into his hands after Bob was stripped for missing a defense deadline. Not only did Rondon enjoy referring to himself as champion but come the weigh-in he was unprofessionally two pounds over.
Foster measured him from the first bell, flicking that jab, observing patterns. In the second he launched a right followed by a short hook which dropped Vicente. The slashing punches that came his way were lethal. Rondon still had the audacity to hit the real champion on the break. That was it for Bob. He later expressed a desire to punish him over fifteen but a cross and double-hook knocked him silly.
Indeed, Bob had been fighting with the intent (not desire) to kill.
Looking for signs of compassion, a British reporter asked if he noticed Rondon?s twitching body.
?No way. Then I just thought about kicking him.? Laughter wasn?t far away.
The reporter headed the article: Foster cold, clam and menacing
From Miami Beach to Las Vegas, unbeaten Mike Quarry had the crowd behind him. The younger brother of Jerry hoped to finally bring world honors into the bloodline. Foster stalked like always, flashing the jab. A wide stance was rooted for power. A few caught the champion but there was also some good head movement. Things were warming up nicely as the fourth neared completion. With a second to go Bob threw a hook off a right. The last punch obliterated.
As he walked away he cranked his neck.
?What was that?? Brian Kenny would later ask.
?What was what??
?You see the little neck twitch you gave there? What was that??
?Where??
?Ah forget it.?
Kenny?s rapid-fire questioning lost the champ, but I know what the gesture was; Tyson did it after demolishing Spinks. It means ?Next.?
Specifically, that was England?s Chris Finnegan.
Fourteen tough rounds ended with Finnegan dumped on his butt, totally spent. He had just waged one of Britain?s finest. In turn Bob had proven there was much more to him than TNT. It had been far from easy. A few pops got through in the early goings. Then they came in bunches. As the fight neared double figures Chris brought the fight. This was more like it, though Foster was never ruffled, landing heavy counters. Eventually he made a hole with that sneaky right, and like a true technician, once the problem had been solved it was disposed of.
A brilliant 1972 concluded with one last leap of faith. Muhammad Ali was on the comeback trail after losing to Frazier. His predicting wasn?t what it was though the fact he managed to stick to eight rounds suggested the king of light-heavyweights was exactly that. No more, no less. Cutting Ali?s left eye made for some classic trivia.
With your wife constantly telling you to retire, and your bank account loaded, there often comes a time when retirement opens its arms and fighters lose their edge. Being a deputy police officer went a long way in suppressing this urge. Foster?s downtime was high-octane. That?s only half the story. He once forced his wife to sign a speeding ticket or it was off to jail!
?I like chasing crooks. I drive through town at eighty miles an hour, my red light flashing and my shotgun on my lap. It?s dangerous, but it?s fun.?
A daredevil attitude is why Foster had no qualms about going over to South Africa for their first ever white vs. black fight. Pierre Fourie was already well beaten in August of 1973. As Bob put it, ?Nobody calls me boy and gets away with it.? That time he was permitted the luxury to punish over fifteen. Many thousands of segregated fans watched the rematch. It was full of clinching, and closer. A decision kept the title in America but, unlike his bomb making stint of ?66, opponents really were drying up.
A draw against Jorge Victor Ahumada in ?74 ended his championship run. A record 14 defenses had been made. Back-to-back defeats in ?78 confirmed he didn?t have the energy he used to. It was time to become a detective for the Bernalillo County Sheriff?s Department. Training young hopefuls was another priority. One day there wasn?t enough energy to fill out reports or hold the pads.
Now settled at Albuquerque, surrounded by threatening photos (of himself), Foster is engaged in ?Not too much these days.? Occasionally someone will knock on the door. A more recent visitor was Ring magazine.
Many obvious questions came his way, though Bob still answers with enthusiasm. Some things need reiterating. It was he who put Albuquerque on the map, not Johnny Tapia. Forget number 8 in the list of 100 greatest punchers, he?s number 1, oh, and John Ruiz is terrible. To conclude he?s asked who in the modern era has caught his eye. After naming a couple he puts emphasis on Kostya Tszyu. ?Man, that sucker was bad.?
Inevitably he recalls the Judah fight and can?t stop laughing.
For once it?s okay to join in.
