“Do you think I care about this house? Do you think I care about another hat or shoes? Billy, I want to know if you love the Lord.”
“Oh, Mama,” Joe would say, tears welling in his eyes. “I work so hard. . . .”
“Do you think I care about money? You can keep your money!”
Dannette laughed as she retold that exchange years later. “Lord, that happened all the time,” she said. “All she wanted to know was, ‘Are you in good standing with the Lord?’ That woman was never one to cuss, but she sure could fuss. And she did not like having all those people around. Of course, if Uncle Billy was bringing them down to be saved, that would have been another story.”
Though he was no longer champion, Joe remained in demand in the immediate aftermath of what he called his “mishap” at the hands of Foreman. Twice crisscrossing the country, he showed up at banquets, judged two beauty contests, gave a lecture at Millersville State College, and appeared on Today and other television talk shows. He attended the Ali-Norton bout in March in San Diego, where his erstwhile sparring partner upset Ali and broke his jaw; he boxed an exhibition in Seattle; and he dropped off his Lincoln Continental in Detroit for a paint job. Publicly, he professed an eagerness to get back into the ring with Foreman. Although Durham had a handshake agreement with Sadler for a quick return bout, neither he nor Futch was particularly dismayed when Foreman found himself caught up in litigation with a Houston promoter, Ludene Gilliam, who claimed to have an agreement with him to present his first fight as defending champion. Instead, Durham worked out a date with Hungarian-born Joe Bugner, the British and European heavyweight champion who had acquitted himself well in losing a twelve-round decision to Ali that February. Frazier declared that he had recommitted himself to the rigors of training.
A crowd of some fifteen thousand jammed into the Earls Court Exhibition Centre in London on July 2, 1973. Again, Frazier found himself at an anatomical disadvantage. At six foot four and 221 pounds, Bugner was four and a half inches taller and thirteen pounds heavier than Joe, who had trimmed down to his lowest weight (208) since the Ali bout. With the grim perseverance of an axman with a dull blade, he chopped down Bugner across twelve rounds with an unyielding array of body shots, which Bugner would say years later “saw me pissing blood for a week. . . . He would just bore into your body and tear you to pieces. I had serious kidney and liver problems afterwards.” Frazier cornered Bugner in the tenth round and stunned him with a left hook to the side of the face. For a second or more, Bugner seemed to hang there as he began to sag down the padded ring post to the canvas. But Frazier did not step in with what surely would have been the finishing blow, which enabled Bugner to beat the count and come back later in the round and stun him with a right hand. Although referee Harry Gibbs would score the bout 6–3–3 in favor of Frazier and thus award him the decision, the talk later centered on the inability of Frazier to vanquish Bugner when the opportunity presented itself in the tenth round. With his left eye swollen shut, Frazier later said he expected Gibbs to stop it. Of Bugner, he told reporters, “The guy was really helpless, believe me.”
He would soon be thirty. Talk of retirement had grown louder in the press, which had wondered in the wake of the Bugner bout if Frazier still possessed his “killer instinct.” But Joe wavered when the question of his exit came up. Early in his career, he seemed to have a clear picture of when he would get out. He said prior to his victory over Quarry in June 1969 that he would quit after “five more fights.” He had said then, “Maybe four and a half years. I’ll be twenty-nine. That’s a good time.” But as he found himself astride that age, he would not allow himself to be pinned down. With the exception of the Foreman bout, he cleaved to the guidance of Durham, who, with Futch, had not just chosen his bouts carefully but had spaced them out with an eye toward preserving his health. While others were beginning to see an incremental erosion in his ability—Futch had observed that he was “a split-second late” in his exchanges with Bugner—Joe still loved the physicality of the sport, the attention it garnered him, and, as he would say, yeah, “the money paid the rent.” But no one could predict what the years or even days ahead would bring, as he would be reminded again in August 1973 as he sat playing cards at the plantation and received a phone call from Philadelphia. Someone told him, prematurely, that Yank was dead.
“We were all sitting around playing Rummy 500 or something,” said Lisa Coakley, his niece. “When the call came in, Uncle Billy was devastated and distraught. I remember him saying, ‘No way Yank can be dead. I was just with him the other day.’ He flew out the door, got on his motorcycle, and jumped on a plane to Philadelphia.”
Durham had collapsed with a massive stroke and was on life support. Only days before, Joe had been with him in New Mexico as he prepared Bob Foster for his bout against Pierre Fourie. As Frazier remembered later, Durham had a problem with high blood pressure. He had been hospitalized with it in May 1971, which coincided with the diagnosis of one of his four children with sickle cell anemia. When Frazier arrived in Albuquerque, he said Durham sent him out for Bufferin. “He was always using it,” Joe said. “When I would go in his suitcase for something, there would always be two or three bottles of the stuff.” The last time Joe saw him was when Durham dropped him off at the airport and said he would see him back at the gym on North Broad Street. He appeared fine. Hours before he collapsed on Tuesday morning, August 28, he had complained of a headache.
Joe sat with Yank by his bedside at Temple University Hospital. He rubbed his hands and shoulders, “trying to put the warm touch onto him,” as he later explained to Stan Hochman. But the hands were cold and the strong shoulders he had once climbed upon in search of a place in the world were now limp. Gazing upon the tangle of tubes that covered Yank, who had undergone emergency surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain, Joe picked through their eleven years together, which now seemed to have ended. More than a boxing manager and trainer, Durham had become at once a father figure to Joe and a repository of his trust. In a profession teeming with connivers, he was a shield that repelled any deal that was less than top dollar and protected Joe from potential trouble, be it a strange face that suddenly showed up in the gym or a plate of uninspected food in some restaurant. There were no secrets between them. Even when it came to the safe-deposit box they shared for what Denise Menz called “all the scams they had going on the side,” Joe had never asked for the number on the account, only because he could not envision a day when Yank would not be around to open it.
Nothing could be done for Yank. Three days after he fell ill, he slipped away at age fifty-two. The funeral was held a week later at the Bright Hope Baptist Church, where would-be fighter turned tailor Billy Johnson joined in the crowd of mourners on the pavement out front. He appreciated the favor Durham had done for him by giving an honest appraisal of his ability and not leading him on. Johnson told Philadelphia Bulletin columnist Claude Lewis, “He could have milked me for a few pro fights and made some money.” Inside the church, Joe sat in the front pew and wiped away tears, thinking back to how Yank used to give him hell. He would even challenge him to “lace on the gloves,” only to reconsider as they approached the ring and say with a twinkle in his eye, “We’ll do it another day, now let’s talk.” Joe could be the same way with his own son Marvis—harsh yet loving.
Immediately after Yank Durham’s death, Joe was so inconsolable that observers speculated that he would retire. But with the passing of a few days, he announced his plans to hand over the reins of his career to Eddie Futch, who had been with him since the Memphis Al Jones bout in Los Angeles in 1966. He had come to value Futch for the depth of his knowledge, his quiet yet pointed manner, and his scrupulous attention to detail. With just over a year remaining on his second extension with Cloverlay, Joe looked forward to avenging his loss to Foreman and winning back his championship. Were he to do that, it seemed likely that he would give Ali that return bout and then retire, win or lose. No one was better equipped to navigate t
he end chapter of his career than Futch, who had what he called a “firm relationship” with Yank. From the day they began working together, Futch found Yank to be astute, jovial, and a pleasure to work for. Aware that his health was spotty, Yank had pulled Eddie aside a month before he died and told him in that gravelly voice: “If something ever happens to me, I want you to take care of my boy.”
* * *
Five days before Joe and Ali were scheduled to face each other on January 28, 1974, Denise Menz stood in the lobby of 30 Rockefeller Plaza and looked out at the passersby bundled in winter coats and hats as she waited for her ride. For the better part of the evening, she had been up in the Rainbow Room on the sixty-fifth floor going over the menu, guest list, security, and other details for the party Cloverlay planned to hold after the fight, which would have the trappings of a celebratory event regardless of the outcome. Spotting the burgundy Cadillac rolling up to the curb, she hurried outside and came upon her reflection in the tinted rear window. The door clicked and opened from the inside.
Joe scooted over in the back seat to give her room as she slid inside. Up front, Eddie Futch sat in the passenger seat as the driver wheeled the car across midtown, through the Lincoln Tunnel, and onto the New Jersey Turnpike. As Denise cuddled up to Joe and reported on her day, it occurred to her that he was oddly withdrawn. When he spoke, his words were clipped, not in a way that she perceived as angry or annoyed, but weary. Otherwise, he just stared out the window at the passing lights. Neither Futch nor the driver said much, either. Not until the following morning, when the phones in the gym began ringing with calls from reporters and others, would Denise realize what had happened in the hours before Joe picked her up and what accounted for the mood in the car: At a taping over at ABC with Howard Cosell for Wide World of Sports that was scheduled to air that Saturday, Joe and Ali got into a scuffle that ended with them wrestling on the floor.
“What in the world happened yesterday?” Denise asked.
Joe shrugged and replied, “We kind of got into it. I had enough of his shit. Don’t worry about it, baby. I’ve got something for him Monday night.”
To preview what was being billed as Super Fight II, Cosell wanted to have Joe and Ali in the studio together and go through the first fight round by round, with each providing commentary. Publicist Bob Goodman remembered that when he approached Frazier with the idea, Joe was “a little reluctant.” Futch told Goodman, “Look, Bob. You know Ali as well as we do. Ali is going to keep jabbing at Joe.” Goodman agreed that Ali would undoubtedly try to “ignite the situation,” both as a promotional ploy and in an effort to get his opponent worked up. Goodman had seen it before, how “Ali could turn it on and off,” pretend he was angry and “not care a bit.” Frazier was not that way. Goodman observed, “If Joe got upset, he was upset.” Goodman turned down the request.
Cosell would not take no for an answer. He called Goodman back and, with Futch on the extension, “guaranteed” them that he would keep control of the show, and “nothing would get out of hand.” With that assurance, Futch said, “Okay, we’ll do it.” According to Goodman, Cosell promised them that he would sit between Joe and Ali. But when they arrived at the studio, Goodman saw that Cosell had the chair on the end of the dais and Joe and Ali were seated side by side. Goodman pulled Cosell aside and said, “Hey, Howard. This is not what we agreed to.” Cosell told Goodman not to worry. “Everything will be all right,” he said. “I’ll be right here.” For all the good that did, he could just as well have been poolside back in Jamaica sipping a cocktail with a tiny umbrella in it.
Almost immediately, Ali zeroed in on Joe. Clad in a three-piece brown pin-striped suit, Ali claimed he had been denied victory by a “racist” panel of judges, one of whom had awarded Frazier eleven rounds on his scorecard. Only “white bigots” believed that he lost, Ali opined; “all the black people know I won.” Evenly, Frazier replied that he had “won fair and square.” As Cosell tried to steer the conversation to the action on the screen, Ali told Joe that the black fans did not like him because he had “too many white followers.” Wearing a casual suede ensemble with an open collar, Joe said, “The world is made up of a variety of people.” Again, Cosell intervened and asked the two to avoid personal jibes. But the sniping continued and, as Goodman remembered, it was even worse during the commercial breaks between rounds. “Off the air, Ali kept digging at Joe and calling him ignorant,” said Goodman. By the tenth round, the wheels came off the cart as Frazier wandered into an area that both agreed would be off-limits: who sent who to the hospital and for how long. Ali became quickly annoyed.
“I went to the hospital for ten minutes,” Ali snapped. “You went for a month. Now, be quiet.”
Grinning yet agitated himself, Frazier replied, “I was resting. In and out.”
“That shows how dumb you are,” Ali said. “People don’t go to a hospital to rest. See how ignorant you are?”
“Why do you think I’m ignorant?” Frazier seethed. “I’m tired of you calling me ignorant all the time. I’m not ignorant.”
Joe unhooked his earpiece, rose from his seat, and stood over Ali.
“Why do you think I’m ignorant?” Frazier said. “Stand up, man.”
“Sit down, Joe,” Ali said, as his brother Rahman stepped onto the set. Joe turned to him and said, “You in this, too?” Futch came up behind Frazier and reached out to pull him away, but Joe brushed his hand away. Again, Ali said, “Sit down, Joe,” only now he was in motion, leaping out of his chair and grabbing Frazier by the back of his neck. From the carpeted platform, they rolled onto the concrete floor, where they ended up beneath a pile of arms and legs as Frazier was joined by his brother Tommy, who went after Rahman. Futch shouted, “Joe, don’t! What are you doing?” As the scuffle unfolded, Cosell reported the action from his seat on the set, uncertain if the scene before him was a promotional exercise or actually “real.” He decided that Ali was “probably clowning but there is no question in my mind that Joe Frazier is not clowning.”
Goodman jumped into the fray in an effort to pull the two apart. “Joe had Ali by the foot and was twisting it,” he said. “I tried to pry his hand loose. I said, ‘Joe! Joe! There won’t be any fight! You’ll bust his ankle!’ Finally, they broke it up and Joe stormed out of the studio. He was so upset. But Ali was unfazed. He got up off the floor, looked around, and said, ‘Give me my comb.’”
Cosell was apologetic on the air. Off it, Futch unleashed his vitriol upon him. “Oh, God, yes,” said Goodman. “He hammered him. He told Cosell that he had double-crossed him.” Futch told Cosell in parting, “You are an unprincipled man.”
One thousand and fifty-six days would separate the actual sanctioned fights between Joe and Ali. From deep in the Pocono Mountains at his rural training camp in Deer Lake, Pennsylvania, where he secluded himself among log bunkhouses and big boulders with the names of the great heavyweight champions painted on them, Ali chopped wood, pumped water from a well, and ate food prepared by his aunt Coretta. Since Frazier had beaten him, Ali had fought a total of 139 rounds across thirteen bouts, losing only a split decision to Ken Norton that he quickly avenged. Though Norton had broken his jaw in their first fight, Ali claimed that he would be “78 percent” of his former self when he tangled with Frazier again, although it was unclear how he had landed on 78 and not 77 or 79. Even as he insisted that “the white man” had robbed him of the victory he claimed he had earned, Ali conceded that he had given away rounds in the first fight by clowning. There would be none of that in their second fight. “No more poems, no more tassels on the shoes,” said Ali. “Nothing but boxing.” Trainer Angelo Dundee said, “We’re working on speed. Speed is what’s gonna lick Joe Frazier.”
From his gym on North Broad Street in Philadelphia, the interior of which he had done over with the help of Denise and pronounced to be “nice and homey,” Frazier dispelled any concerns that he was less than sound. When Futch took over for Durham, he insisted that Frazier undergo a thorough physical ex
am, which Eddie said he passed with “flying colors.” Evidence of his stamina could be found in his sparring sessions, which remained as combative as any main event. “He goes six tough rounds and is not breathing hard enough to blow out a candle,” said Futch. With just twenty-two rounds in four bouts under his belt since his victory over Ali, Frazier also pledged to get down to business in his preparation for their rematch, forgoing his excursions with the Knockouts and keeping to himself in a downtown apartment. On January 12, Frazier celebrated his thirtieth birthday—Ali would turn thirty-two five days later—yet Futch seemed to think that the intervening years between the two fights would weigh heavier on Ali because of his swashbuckling style. “I have been watching Ali for years and got a good look at him against Norton last fall,” he said. “The legs are gone.”
Neither Joe nor Ali was a champion now, yet the fight held an irresistible public appeal, given the spectacular savagery that had unfolded in their first meeting. With the option he held for the rematch, promoter Jack Kent Cooke had hoped to bring it to his arena in Inglewood, California—the Forum—only to encounter hard pushback from Durham whenever the subject came up, swearing he would never agree to fight again in California. (Although Durham would say it was because of “personal reasons,” it was rumored that Frazier could not pass the eye exam in California, which Frazier himself disputed.) Ultimately, New York prevailed in the bidding for the event, but not before it offered a more digestible state tax bite and refunded Joe and Ali some three hundred thousand dollars each that had been withheld from their purses from the first fight. Now that both had been shorn of their apparent invincibility—Frazier by Foreman, Ali by Frazier and Norton—few expected their second encounter to generate the same level of intensity that was produced by the Fight of the Century. Nor was the guarantee for Joe and Ali as lucrative: $850,000 plus 33.5 percent of the net receipts. Still, it remained a big New York moment, the same way it always was when Sinatra swung through town and sailed onstage. Moreover, there were some hard feelings in the wake of the scuffle in the TV studio, for which both Ali and Frazier were fined five thousand dollars by the New York State Athletic Commission for behavior “demeaning to the sport of boxing.” Ali said, “I can see two guys down in Waycross, Georgia, one of them saying, ‘Ernie, we got to see this fight now.’” Frazier said he would have acrimony in his heart when he stepped into the ring.
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