Come Out Smokin' Page 12

  Across the country and in thirty-five nations around the world, theaters were filling up with the 300,000,000 people who would witness this spectacle—in the Far East, where it was the middle of the workday, and in London, where it was pushing toward four o’clock in the morning, in Hong Kong and the Honduras, in Indonesia and Italy, in Uruguay and Yugoslavia, in Thailand and Switzerland and New Zealand.

  Inside, the still-new arena was quickly filling up, a glittering fashion parade, the marchers unaware of the two preliminary fighters in the ring, aware only of each other. In Givenchy gowns and simmering hot pants, peek-a-boo blouses and pants suits, white satin tuxedos and mink jump suits, they promenaded peacock-proud as photographers popped their flashes at faces in the crowd, the kind of heterogeneous crowd seen only at a heavyweight championship fight, people who have come as much to be seen as to see.

  Heads swirled as celebrities entered, were spotted, and then the word quickly spread.

  “There’s Mayor Lindsay . . . isn’t he handsome?” squealed the young suburban housewife to her husband, who was too busy to notice, preoccupied with perilous hot pants and plunging necklines.

  Count Basie entered, a facsimile of a Navy captain’s cap perched jauntily on his head. Later, he was scheduled to lead his band at what had been brazenly advertised before the fight as a “Joe Frazier Victory Party,” at the Statler Hilton Hotel, admission $35 per person.

  There was Diahann Carroll, arriving with her escort, David Frost. Ed Sullivan was there and Senator Hubert H. Humphrey and Alan King and Joe Namath sporting a goatee and George Raft and Pat O’Brien and writers Norman Mailer and William Saroyan and Budd Schulberg and George Plimpton; and Playboy’s Hugh Hefner, sitting with his current Playmate, Barbi Benton, semiattired in black silk pants and a see-through chiffon blouse and getting the major share of attention from photographers. At ringside, in the first row of the working press section, was camera buff Frank Sinatra, one camera strapped around his neck, another in his hands, waiting to click the photographs that would appear in a national magazine.

  Upstairs, in a room usually reserved for the working press during ordinary fights, basketball games and hockey games, Muhammad Ali slept peacefully on a cot. At 9 p.m., he was awakened and he walked out where he could see the ring and watch his brother, Rahaman Ali, in a six-round fight against Dan McAlinden of Coventry, England. He saw Rahaman lose for the first time in seven fights as a professional and it did not occur to him, as it did to others, that this might be an omen.

  When his brother’s defeat was certain, Ali turned and took the elevator down three floors to his dressing room, where he would go through the calisthenics that were a part of his prefight routine, where he would lie on a training table and his body would be rubbed by the strong, sure hands of a Cuban refugee named Luis Sarria, who had been with Ali since he became a professional, where he would have his hands taped by the veteran trainer, Chickie Ferrara, and where he would wait—the last, endless waiting—until he was called to enter the ring.

  Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier had done a lot of waiting in the five days before the fight.

  The New York State Athletic Commission had turned thumbs down on Ali’s plan to rip open the envelope and read his prediction before the fight. Instead, it was decided he would do it in his dressing room. His message would be taped and played back for the television audience to fulfill the promise he had made “to all the little people in the world.”

  With actor Burt Lancaster handling the commentary, Ali ceremoniously tore open the envelope, pulled out the piece of paper he had placed in there a week before and read his message:

  “FLASH. I Predict, First of all, that all the Frazier fan’s, and Boxing experts, will be shocked at how easy I will beat Joe Frazier, who will look like a Amateur Boxer compared to Muhammad Ali, and they will admit I was the Real Champion all the time,

  “FRAZIER FALLS IN 6.”

  Down the hall, about 100 feet from Ali’s room, Joe Frazier pranced nervously around his dressing room. He jogged in place, laboriously lifting one foot, then the other, and threw left hooks at an imaginary target to loosen his muscles.

  It was slightly past ten thirty when a deputy commissioner of the New York State Athletic Commission knocked on the door of each dressing room and announced: “It’s time.”

  No more talk, no more boasts, no more promises, no more threats, no more poetry. Now it was time to put up or shut up. Joe Frazier was ready.

  There was an air of excitement, a hum of anticipation, a tangible tension hanging over the arena. The preliminaries were over and the parade of champions had passed in and out of the ring—Joe Louis, Jack Dempsey, Gene Tunney, James Braddock, Sugar Ray Robinson, Willie Pep, each name, each face, each form evoking memories of a time long gone.

  Suddenly the hum turned to a loud buzz of excitement and then a steady roar as first Joe Frazier, then Muhammad Ali, made his way down different aisles leading to the ring. Ahead of them, clearing the path, was the usual battery of special police, deputy boxing commissioners and aides, the impassive, young, black faces in Ali’s case. Their way was clogged with people who sprang to their feet and scurried to the aisle to shout last-minute words of encouragement to their heroes.

  “Go get him, Joe.”

  “Kill him, Joe.”

  They arrived at ringside almost simultaneously and the roar was bedlam now. Yank Durham held two strands of rope apart and Frazier climbed through first and began to move his compact body, jostling his muscles loose in plodding, graceless motion. The body was covered with a resplendent robe, a robe that was the center of much interest.

  Several designers had submitted models for this special robe and this was the one Frazier, himself, had selected. It was green and gold brocade with the names of the five Frazier children in gold on the back. The trunks were of the same material.

  Moments later, Muhammad Ali sprang through the ropes to the accompanying chant of “Ah-lee, Ah-lee, Ah-lee. . .” He wore a white satin robe and, underneath, red velvet trunks with a white stripe down each side, and white shoes adorned with red tassels. “My Ali shuffle shoes,” he called them.

  Like a charged-up engine, Ali was all motion from the moment he climbed through the ring ropes, bouncing, dancing, shuffling, spinning, running, back-pedaling, pirouetting, firing pistonlike jabs, rolling, all to the accompaniment of shouts and cheers and chants of encouragement.

  He moved around the ring with a ballet dancer’s grace, incredibly smooth, amazingly coordinated of hands and feet for such a big man. Now he danced into Frazier’s corner until they were inches apart and he playfully, condescendingly reached out with his right hand and patted Frazier on the head the way a father would tap his little boy and said, “Chump.” He meant to demean his opponent, to show how small he was, to indicate he would play with him as he would play with a baby.

  Frazier just glowered as Muhammad deftly and quickly danced away.

  Ring announcer Johnny Addie, elegantly attired in tuxedo and blue formal shirt, was in the middle of the ring, microphone in hand and the bell was clanging repeatedly in a halfhearted effort to quiet the charged-up crowd. Finally, the roar simmered down to an expectant buzz again and Addie half-shouted into the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. In this corner, wearing red trunks and weighing two hundred and fifteen pounds, from Cherry Hill, New Jersey, the return of the champ . . . Muhammad Ali.”

  Roars. Wild, raucous roars, and, once more, the now-familiar chant that had become a battle cry.

  “Ah-lee . . . Ah-lee . . . Ah-lee . . .”

  “And in this corner,” Addie continued when the roar subsided, “wearing green and gold trunks, weighing two hundred five and one-half pounds, also from Philadelphia, the heavyweight champion of the world . . . Joe Frazier.”

  Cheers. Not wild, but insistent. And exhortations.

  “
Get him, Joe.”

  The bell clanged several more times and referee Arthur Mercante summoned the two men to the center of the ring for final instructions, instructions that would not be heard, not by Muhammad Ali and not by Joe Frazier.

  Standing there in the center of the ring, their handlers surrounding them, the physical differences between the two men became apparent for the first time. It was shocking. Muhammad Ali towered over Joe Frazier, looked down on him, and as he peered down into the smaller man’s eyes, Ali continued a nonstop verbal barrage.

  Frazier broke his own silence just once. He stared up into Ali’s eyes and through clenched teeth blurted out one concise sentence. “I’m gonna kill you.”

  Mercante concluded his instructions and Ali issued one last challenge.

  “I’ll beat your ass,” he said through his mouthpiece, then turned abruptly on his heels and swaggered back to his corner, leaving Frazier standing there alone. Anger and determination in his eyes, Frazier returned to his corner to await the signal that started the war.

  The crowd was at peak excitement now, and through the din could be heard the sound that told everyone in the arena and 300,000,000 people around the world that the time had come, the waiting was over.

  “Clangggg . . . .”

  The Fight

  “Clanggg . . . .”

  Facing his corner, his arms outstretched, palms upward in his prefight prayer to Allah, Muhammad Ali suddenly pivoted at the sound of the bell and danced gracefully out to the center of the ring, to be met there by a plodding Joe Frazier, who had lumbered from the opposite corner.

  An expectant hush fell as Ali shot a left and a right at Frazier, then deftly danced away. And just as quickly, he danced back, shot a right and a left, then danced away again. Muhammad moved in close again, too close, and he was clipped with a left hook to the head. His expression changed, his face becoming a mask of fear and pain, but just as quickly returning to deadpan, and he bounced three quick jabs off Frazier’s head as Joe helplessly took them and fired a wild left that missed.

  Ali had not been hurt. He was play-acting and now he bounced around the ring, his red tassels flopping on his white shoes as he floated around the ring, floated like a butterfly. Frazier was chasing him all around the ring now, chasing but never catching Ali. And Muhammad was moving first this way, then that, moving and leaving Frazier swinging at air.

  The contrast in the two men, in their styles, in their speed, was startling. Frazier looked as if he were nailed to the floor as Ali moved around him, peppered him with jabs, then was away again, leaving Joe swinging in wild frustration and hitting nothing.

  The bell rang and Ali turned abruptly and headed for his corner, leaving Frazier standing there bewildered. As Ali got to his corner, he asked Dundee, “Who won the round?”

  Angelo didn’t have to tell Muhammad he had and nobody had to tell the crowd, a crowd that was strongly for Ali. They roared their approval and if some wondered how long he could keep this up, could he stick and move, stick and move, stick and move for fifteen rounds, most of them had no doubts. He was Muhammad Ali. He could do anything.

  He had won the first round, won it big. He was doing what he promised he would do, make Joe Frazier look flat-footed and ugly, handle him like a little baby.

  The second round was a carbon copy of the first, Ali popping and moving, pop . . . pop . . . pop, beating Frazier to the punch, hitting him with right-hand leads, dancing and outpunching him four, five, six to one.

  “Look how pretty,” said one ringsider.

  “Beautiful, baby, beautiful,” said another. And from the corner came the familiar, insistent pleas of his aide, Drew Brown, the man they called Bundini, the one who originated the slogan: “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”

  “Come on, champ,” he said. “Thassa boy, champ, thassa boy. Rumble, young man, rumble. All night long, champ, all night long.”

  Late in the second round, Frazier drove a hook against the side of Ali’s face, a stinging punch, and there was a gasp from the crowd as Ali smothered Frazier and clutched at him, forcing him into a clinch, forcing him to stop punching. In the clinch, his head visible over Frazier’s, Ali looked down at ringside and shook his head from side to side, indicating he had not been hurt, not at all. When the bell rang, Muhammad stood there facing his opponent and waved his right hand at Frazier derisively as if to say, “You can’t hit.”

  Between rounds, Ali refused his stool and stood in his corner to show his utter disdain for Frazier. He was moving across the ring even before the bell rang for round three.

  It is difficult to determine when it started to change. It happened slowly, subtly, almost imperceptibly. One moment Ali was bouncing around, dancing and flicking jabs, beating Frazier to the punch and getting out of there before Joe could retaliate, piling up points with his guerrilla tactics and using the entire ring, leaving Frazier slow and flat-footed and swinging in wild frustration; and the next moment Muhammad was no longer on the balls of his feet, he was no longer dancing and using the entire ring, he was no longer hitting and moving, but was flat-footed most of the time himself, fighting in flurries, clutching and holding. Frazier’s long, wild, looping lefts were not missing by quite so much now. And then they were not missing at all.

  Between the third and fourth rounds, referee Mercante warned both fighters to stop their talking and late in the fourth round one of those long, wild lefts smashed into Ali’s face with a crunch and there was blood trickling from his nose.

  Now it was Frazier’s turn to grin at Ali through clenched teeth.

  The spring was gone from Muhammad’s legs in the fifth; the red tassels lay limply on his white shoes. He stood there in center ring, inches away from his opponent, not moving, as if forty-two months of inactivity were finally taking their toll, the months of rust gathering around his once supple muscles. Frazier pounded a hard left and Ali shot back with a hard right and the crowd loved it; they tossed away their inhibitions and their preferences and howled as the two men took turns beating up on each other.

  Perhaps it was the fifth round in which it changed. At least it had changed in the mind of Joe Frazier. Convinced now that he could take Ali’s best shots and suffer no damage, he lowered his hands to his sides and waded into his man. Ali bounced a series of punches off Frazier’s granite head, but Joe kept moving in, flicking the punches off and moving relentlessly forward like some impenetrable late-late-show monster from outer space. His hands were at his sides, the blows raining on his head and he was laughing, sneering in Ali’s face. Now Joe Frazier was the taunter and Muhammad Ali was the taunted—and that’s when it became Joe Frazier’s fight.

  As the bell ended round five, Frazier showed his disdain for Ali. Their roles were reversed. The round over, Joe reached out and cuffed Muhammad across the top of his head and when Frazier returned to his corner, he was smiling the smile of confidence.

  Now, Frazier was in complete command. He attacked Ali in the sixth, driving his hammerlike left into the body with awful-sounding thuds and then bringing up the left and the right to the head. The crowd was swinging to Frazier, or, perhaps, the Frazier legions, skeptical at first, were awakening to the fact that their man was taking command. They joined in Frazier’s derision of Ali and they did it with their voices while Joe was doing it with his fists. Ali tried to fight back, but his flurries were ineffectual swats against an inexorable foe.

  Round six passed and Ali’s reputation as a seer went with it. He had predicted “Frazier Falls in 6” and he was wrong. Frazier was still standing, still punching, still moving in. Muhammad Ali had come to war, not to dance, abandoning his usual ballet to fight Frazier’s kind of fight. It was a mistake. He was trying to rumble with a street fighter and that, too, was a mistake. He had come in his dancing shoes, it’s true, but that wasn’t Guy Lombardo music they were playing, it was hard rock, the music
of the streets, it was the music of West Side Story. This adagio turned into a rumble and Joe Frazier was proving the better rumbler.

  As the seventh round began, Frazier came flying across the ring and drove a powerful, long left hook to Ali’s head. There was a gasp from the crowd, part fear, part shock, part anticipation, but Muhammad shook his head as if to assure his followers once again that he was all right. Frazier pressed his advantage, driving Ali into the corner and for the final minute of the round, Ali stood there, not throwing a punch, letting Frazier whale away with both hands at his body as ringsiders looked on in stunned disbelief. It was reminiscent of one of Ali’s favorite training gimmicks, standing there, back against the ropes, letting his sparring partners pound him to the body. It was supposed to be for the purpose of toughening himself against body blows.

  It was a good device . . . in training, when sparring partners sometimes pull punches. But this wasn’t a sparring partner and Joe Frazier wasn’t pulling his punches.

  As they awaited the bell for round eight, a loud chant went up. “Ah-lee . . . Ah-lee . . . Ah-lee . . .” and Muhammad raised his arm and looked across the ring at his opponent and pointed to the crowd as if to say, “I’m the one they’re cheering, not you; I’m the one they want to win. I’m the real champ.”

  Again, Frazier burst out of his corner and landed the first punch, a devastating left hook to the head, and once more Ali shook his head “no,” telling his disciples that he wasn’t hurt. Again, Frazier drove Ali into the ropes and whaled away and Muhammad let him punch without retaliating. It was a mysterious way of fighting, but Ali, the supreme egotist, seemed to be saying, “Look, I can take his best shots.” He must have thought it was his fight, for he did not punch back; instead he tapped Frazier’s glove to upset his rhythm. He was playing, toying with Frazier, toying, in fact, with the heavyweight championship of the world.