A bit of mixed feelings on the career of Michael Moorer. At light heavyweight, he looked like an executioner. You’d see his pictures in the magazines, fists up, eyes dead, some poor bastard crumbling beneath him. They swore up and down he was the next great knockout artist, the next Tyson, the next Hearns, the next name to make trainers salivate.
Then came the heavyweights. And at first, he looked like he belonged. That scrap with Alex Stewart was a war. The fight with Smokin’ Bert Cooper? Pure chaos, the kind that makes people remember your name. You’d think he was built for this. But something changed. Maybe it was those slugfests, maybe it was something else. Somewhere along the way, he got gun shy.
I remember a guy at work saying, “I never saw anyone do so little to win a championship.” He was talking about Moorer’s fight with Holyfield. A fight he won, but never really took.
And then came Foreman. That old man’s right hand. And now Moorer was just a footnote in Big George’s comeback.
But he had his moments. He could punch, and his shots came from angles that looked impossible. Watch that right uppercut against Alex Stewart—it’s like he reached into another dimension and brought it back with him.
Later on, he was a nightmare to root for. Too much baggage, too little fire. The kind of guy who left you shaking your head, wondering why he didn’t just go all in.
But he gave us Teddy Atlas losing his mind in the corner, screaming about the choices we make in just living and surviving or fighting to win. And if nothing else, that made it all worth watching.
His documentary is below :