At the bell ending the second, Ali stood in the corner, mouthpiece still in place, listening as I gave him instructions and told him to quit his "grandstanding," while Bundini, who had spent the entire round screaming at Ali, uncharacteristically remained quiet while I talked.
Round Three was different. Instead of circling, Muhammad met Frazier in his corner and then retreated into the ropes where Frazier began to work him over, connecting with a right to the body and launching long left hooks that missed their mark as Ali, as in times of old, pulled his head back at the last second. Ali tried to move, but Frazier, having pinned him on the ropes, wouldn't let him. A left hook by Frazier landed to Ali's face, but Ali had seen it coming and rolled with the punch. Ali came off the ropes with Frazier pursuing, throwing vicious punches. But Ali shook his head no, as if to tell the crowd he wasn't hurt. The crowd laughed and applauded, but to me it was no laughing matter. He even took time to talk to Frazier, one time telling Frazier, "God wants you to lose tonight." To which Frazier snorted, "Tell your God He's in the wrong house tonight."
The momentum of the bout had changed; Frazier was making the fight and Ali was throwing mostly pitty-pat punches. Now Frazier was the one smiling, and his fans smiled and laughed with him. The round ended where it began: with Ali on the ropes.
The fourth and fifth rounds were more of the same with Frazier moving Ali to the ropes and banging away with what they call "mean intentions," his murderous punches landing. Afterward, Ali sat on his stool for the first time, his breathing heavy and labored.
In the sixth, Ali got up on his toes, moving more and throwing jabs. But Frazier was still there, cutting off the real estate and coming in flat-footed to get near Ali. Ali began to throw uppercuts to meet the advancing Frazier and moved back to throw jabs. The momentum had swung again, this time back in my guy's favor, and continued throughout the seventh.
By the eighth, both men seemed tired. Ali again went to the ropes where Frazier teed off, almost all his jabs missing their mark. Ali dropped his hands, daring Joe to hit him, and Joe dropped his in response. Ali accommodated him, throwing a one-two that caught Frazier flush. Now it was Frazier who laughed, pushing forward and trapping Ali on the ropes where he lashed out again, forcing Ali to hold on. During one of the many clinches, as referee Arthur Mercante separated the two, he accidentally poked Joe in the eye. But Joe didn't even seem to notice, wading back into Ali with more of the same, body punches and lefts to the jaw.
Ali came back to his corner after the round, and I gave him a what-for, telling him to "quit fooling around"—and fooling himself as well. He couldn't see that every time he invited Frazier to come in and punch, Frazier did just that, and Ali wasn't doing much to respond. "For cryin' out loud," I shouted. "Stop playing. Do you want to blow this fight? Do you want to blow everything? You're giving away rounds and letting him build not only a lead but also his confidence."
Ali responded in Round Nine, dancing beautifully, floating like Bundini's butterfly, almost as if he had found what they call a "second wind." All the while, he snapped jabs in Frazier's face. It was now Ali's fight.
But in Round Ten Ali reverted to the form he had shown in Rounds Three, Four, and Five, as he retreated to the ropes while Joe went to work again. A wicked left hook landed to Ali's body, a right to his forehead. Ali just rested while Joe worked. Then, with twenty seconds left in the round, Ali suddenly came alive again, throwing one ... two ... three jabs, all direct hits, and then a left-right combination. The fight was two-thirds over, and Ali was seemingly in command once more, with the so-called "championship rounds"—Rounds Eleven through Fifteen, to go.
Everything changed in Round Eleven. Ali once again retreated to the ropes, and Frazier was on him, throwing a left hook from hell that caught Ali on the button. For a second Ali's knees went rubbery and his shoulders sagged. Frazier was back on the attack, raking my guy's body with vicious punches. A second left hook and Ali's legs buckled like a drunk's, his eyes glassy. Ali began to play games, wiggling his hips, pretending he was hurt worse than he really was, momentarily halting Frazier's attack as Joe stopped to consider whether his opponent was playing possum or not. Then it was back to the attack, just as the bell sounded.
As Ali walked slowly back to the corner, Bundini was up on the ring apron spritzing him, along with those in the nearby ringside seats, with water. Ali plopped down on the stool. This time there was no split glove to save him, only advice. I tried, shouting into his ear to "get back on your toes," to "get off the ropes," to "use your jab," to do anything to turn the tide of battle, all the while massaging his legs to bring them back to life.
Slowly Ali rose from his stool for Round Twelve and, trying on unresponsive legs to recover from the beating he had absorbed the previous round, moved away from Frazier, all the while holding his right hand close to his cheek to avoid Frazier's savage left hooks. Another Frazier round in the bank.
Round Thirteen began the same as Round Twelve had ended, with Frazier backing Ali up, beating on him, dealing out more punishment. For the full three minutes he showed no signs of stopping as long as his energy held out as he pounded away at Ali, who spent most of the round with his back to the ropes, almost as if some strange magnetic force kept him pinned to them.
Ali managed to change the course of the fight one more time in the fourteenth, connecting with a vicious left hook to Frazier's head and then a right. Pushing Frazier back, he hit him with a one-two combination and then exploded with several more punches to Frazier's head. Finally off the ropes, Ali was a moving target, one the slower Frazier couldn't catch.
Last round! As the fighters came center ring and touched gloves the crowd rose to their feet. The outcome still seemed in doubt, with no one sure who was winning—especially after Ali's offensive outburst the previous round. Ali moved deliberately, with Joe almost on top of him, trying to reach him. Then, as Ali went to move straight back, he moved his left foot as if he was getting ready to throw a punch, and Joe started a left hook of his own. Only Joe pulled it back, reloaded again, and then almost leapt off the floor to launch it, getting every ounce of his 2051/2 pounds behind it. The left hook exploded to Muhammad's jaw, sending his legs skyward with the red tassels on his shoes shooting upward and accentuating his fall as his eyes rolled back and went white. For only the third time in his career Muhammad Ali crashed to the canvas.
Joe Louis once landed a similar crushing blow just eighteen seconds into his fight with Eddie Simms, and Simms, although able to get back to his feet, turned to the referee and asked to go for a "walk on the roof." When Tommy Loughran was coldcocked with a single punch by Jack Sharkey, he asked the referee for "a place to sit down." But Ali's eyes somehow refocused the second his butt hit the ground, and he made it back to his feet by the count of "three." He then took the mandatory eight-count, the right side of his face ballooning up to the size of a misshapen pumpkin where Frazier's bomb had exploded. (Afterward Bundini would say, "That's the blow that did it ... that blew out the candles.") Trying to survive the remainder of the round, Ali desperately held on to Frazier, hoping to avert a knockout. The final bell rang, and Frazier playfully cuffed Ali across his head. But Ali's head was hung low as if to acknowledge what the crowd already knew.
The reading of the judges' scorecards was a mere formality—eleven rounds to four, nine rounds to six, and eight rounds to six, one even, all Frazier.
The scene in the dressing room after the fight was different than that of any of Muhammad's previous ones. The usual backslapping and boisterous hollering was replaced by an almost wake-like quiet as the few well-wishers who were allowed in commiserated with Ali. One, Diana Ross, was crumpled on the floor in front of Ali, crying. But Ali was uncharacteristically humble—even once, when Bundini started in, calling him "Champ," he quickly quieted him down with, "Don't call me Champ ... Joe's the Champ now." And then, through swollen jaw, he said, "I'm not crying; my friends should not cry."
Superstitions and boxing go hand in glove. Wil
lie Pastrano always tied his wedding ring on his shoes. José Napoles would burn candles and pray before every fight—one time gutting his room in Los Angeles. Sugar Ramos had a trainer named Kid Rapidez, an expert in Santeria (Cuban witchcraft), who would perform rituals for Ramos before every fight. Kid Chocolate always tied his shoelaces behind his shoes. Joe Louis always put on his left glove first. Jake LaMotta wouldn't enter the ring without his leopard robe. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera—the et ceteras could go on for at least six more pages.
For me it was always a trip to the hair stylist the day before a fight. When my hair began to thin on top, I'd have the stylist spray goo on top to make it look like I had a full head of hair. Well, one time the heat from the overhead lights melted the goo, making it run down my face. That scared the hell out of my fighter so I stopped having my hair sprayed and decided to go au natural from that point on.
That wasn't the only thing I gave up. After the Frazier fight I "lost" my sweater with Muhammad's name emblazoned on the back. Well, I didn't really "lose" it, I knew where it was, but it would stay there. See, it was only the second time in my entire career that I had worn a sweater with the name of my fighter on the back. The first time had been Luis Rodriguez's return bout against Emile Griffith in Madison Square Garden, and he had lost that one, too. So, in a bit of reverse superstition, from that day on and forevermore, I would never wear a sweater with a fighter's name on it. It was bad luck!
Taken to the hospital for x-rays of his swollen jaw after the fight, a proud Ali refused to stay overnight, saying, "It makes me look like Joe Frazier put me in the hospital ... that's not true!"
He asked to be taken back to the hotel, and Dr. Ferdie Pacheco and I helped him down the hall and into the elevator. As the doors closed, he said softly, "The Greatest is gone."
TEN
The Path from "People's Champion" to World Champion (Again)
Copyright © 2008 by Angelo Dundee and Bert Randolph Sugar Click here for terms of use.
The ability to take the bitter with the sweet, defeat with victory, or basically how they react to adversity is an essential element in the psychological makeup of fighters. Many fighters have been ruined by one setback. They become so accustomed to winning that when they meet defeat they don't know how to accept it. Instead of trying to learn from it, they lose confidence in themselves.
I remember, back in 1949, just after I'd come to New York, there was a kid from Omaha, or someplace in the Midwest, named Vince Foster. He couldn't miss. He was a rough, tough, good-looking kid with great credentials. I think he had thirty wins. Anyway, they brought him to the Garden for his New York debut and he got knocked out in one round by Charlie Fusari. It broke Foster's heart, and he never got over it. He took to drinking, and two months later, while driving drunk, he was killed in an auto accident.
Not so Muhammad Ali. By the very next day he was not only coming to grips with his defeat, he was acknowledging his mistakes. "When you get as big as I got in this game," he said, "you get intoxicated with so-called greatness. You don't think you just have to run three miles a day. That's all I did for this fight. And I didn't properly rest, didn't train as hard as I used to. You convince yourself you'll get by on talent alone, that it will all just explode in there. But it don't."
And then, almost without switching gears, he was back to the Ali of old, his voice rising a decibel, his face parting in a half-smile through his swollen jaw as he said, "Get me Frazier. No man ever beat me twice. I'll straighten this out.... Joe, you hear me?" Now, with the volume turned up to a full-throated shout, "Joe, if you beat me this time, you'll really be the greatest."
Muhammad Ali was hardly going quietly into the good night. Nor was he saying, "Good Night." He would be back.
In the hearts of his millions of fans, Ali had never gone. He was still a champion, if not the champion. You could see it in their faces when they spotted him. You could hear it in their voices when they called out his name, "Al-li!" And you could read it—as in the graffiti that adorned the wall on the subway station underneath the Garden the night of the fight, "Ali Lives!" To them he was, as he now called himself, "The People's Champion."
Being the "People's Champion" was one thing. Owning a piece of the heavyweight title another. And although the Supreme Court had upheld Muhammad's contention that he was a conscientious objector and overturned his 1967 draft conviction, they couldn't restore his title. Seeking a title, any title, Ali now looked to win the vacant North American Boxing Federation (NABF) heavyweight title against his former sparmate, Jimmy Ellis.
A matchup between Ali and Ellis gave me problems—or, as they say in New York, tsouris. With Muhammad I was the trainer, only part of the team. With Jimmy, I was the team. Jimmy paid me one-third of his purse for my services, and he was entitled to them.
So I went to Muhammad and explained my dilemma. Muhammad understood and respected my decision to work Jimmy's corner that night. Some of the newspapers took literally Muhammad's remarks about this being the end of our relationship and that he had found someone far better than yours truly to work with. He also told the press that he would take me back if I didn't talk too much. Imagine that! You've got to know Muhammad and understand his offbeat sense of humor to appreciate that, as well as his ability to hype a fight by now directing his remarks at me.
For only the second time in his career—the first being his debut—I was not in Muhammad's corner. Instead, I was in his opponent's. Nevertheless, I was 100 percent behind Jimmy. I didn't let my personal feelings for Muhammad interfere one little bit working Jimmy's corner.
Know what? It really didn't matter. Ali was too good, too strong, and too much for Jimmy. With only fifteen seconds left in the fight, the referee stepped in and stopped it, awarding the fight and the NABF belt to Muhammad.
After the fight, the two boyhood friends from Louisville were reunited. As for me, I was back in Muhammad's corner for his next fight—and every fight thereafter throughout his career.
The only way back to the top is to fight your way back, and for Ali that meant taking on all the top heavyweights. After defeating Ellis, Ali made an exhibition tour of South America. Then, beginning in November 1971, he embarked on an almost-every-month campaign, fighting ten times in twenty-three months in five countries, meeting and beating Buster Mathis, Mac Foster, Joe Bugner, Bob Foster, and Al "Blue" Lewis as well as repeating his earlier wins over Jerry Quarry, Floyd Patterson, and George Chuvalo.
Measured against the yardstick of his performances before his exile, there were some flashes of the Muhammad Ali of old, some pockets of the old brilliance, but more often than not he looked like he was going through the motions without the emotions, as if on autopilot, content merely to win. He seemed to be missing that old piss and vinegar, that certain "something" that gave him his psychological edge. The only time he looked motivated was when he predicted how a fight would end, as he did against Mac Foster, coming down the aisle of the Tokyo arena to the ring carrying the round card for Round Five, his predicted round. However, when the fifth round ended without the promised result, the Japanese fans began to yell "Taoshite Kure," which, I was told, roughly translated into something like, "Come on, sucker, knock him out." But Ali was less interested in knocking Foster out than in going on his merry, carrying the action and winning twelve of the fifteen rounds in a workmanlike manner, but hardly the Ali of old.
What Ali needed was something to psyche him up, another Joe Frazier fight. What he got instead was one against Ken Norton, a little "home television show" before going for "Smokin' Joe." (There I go again with my rhymes.)
Ali had sparred with Norton a couple of times. But when Muhammad had wanted to spar with Kenny another time, Norton's trainer, Eddie Futch, said that the only way Kenny would fight Muhammad again was in the ring, for real.
I knew, just knew, that Norton would be a tough opponent for Muhammad, that it would be no walk in the park, so to speak. The winner of twenty-nine of his thirty fights, with twenty-three of
those coming by way of knockout, Kenny was a finely tuned, finely sculpted fighter. Stealing a page from Muhammad's book, I labeled him "Hopalong Cassidy" because, with that lurching, herky-jerky splay-footed movement of his, you just couldn't time him. He promised to give Muhammad as much trouble, style-wise, as Joe Frazier had given my guy trouble, physical-wise. But Muhammad, with his usual unshakable self-assurance, thought he could handle Norton and didn't put his all into training. It would prove to be a mistake that would cost Muhammad.
From the opening bell Norton was all over Ali, coming in behind that strange swaying style of his with his arms crossed in front of his face in what Archie Moore called an "armadillo defense." Midway through the first round, Norton pinned Muhammad on the ropes and let fly with a devastating punch, one that Ali felt and would tell us between rounds had cracked his jaw. But despite his broken jaw, Ali was in the fight the whole way, courageously coming back time and again, only to lose a close split decision, more to Norton's finishing kick in the twelfth and final round than to the broken jaw.
When I took him to the hospital to have his jaw wired, I was almost in tears. But Muhammad consoled me, telling me, "Don't worry. We'll be back."
With his jaw wired and his voice somewhat stilled—though he could still mumble a couple of Ali catchphrases every now and then through clenched teeth—Ali repaired, if that's the right word, to his new training camp in Deer Lake, Pennsylvania, to convalesce.
Deer Lake had come about because of one man, Gene Kilroy, the same Gene Kilroy who had helped Ali get college speaking engagements and a few commercials during the difficult days of his exile. Gene had been instrumental in making order out of Ali's chaotic financial mess, teaching him how to balance his expenses against his income, how to pay his bills, and how to file his taxes by taking him to an accounting firm. But perhaps Gene's biggest contribution came the day he visited Ali, sometime before the Mac Foster fight, at the 5th Street Gym. Looking around the gym and making a crack about the place being in such sad shape the termites would call it junk food, Gene said, "This is crazy. You should have your own place ... a training camp." Besides, he added, "It would be a tax write-off."
My View from the Corner Page 20