Come Out Smokin' Page 14

  Nobody moved.

  Now the door swung open and a short, squat black man with a thin mustache stood there, begging the guard to let him in.

  “Let him in,” Frazier ordered, “he’s my brother.”

  Joe rose and Tom Frazier rushed to him and the two brothers embraced and for a fleeting instant they were kids again, back on the farm in Beaufort, South Carolina.

  “Did I do it?” Joe asked.

  The words came hard for Tom Frazier. When they did come, they were hoarse and choked with emotion and there were tears welling in his eyes.

  “You did it,” Tom Frazier said. “You are the greatest.”

  Dr. A. Harry Kleiman entered the room carrying his little black bag. He began to examine Frazier’s face, touching it tenderly to probe for broken bones, looking into his eyes to see if he could determine if there had been a concussion, asking him questions to see if there had been any severe head damage.

  “Can you get me a pill to stop the hurting, Doc?” Frazier pleaded painfully.

  Dr. Kleiman took out a small bottle and shook out several enzyme tablets to reduce the swelling and several dilone tablets to dull the pain.

  Frazier rose and began to move slowly, methodically, around the room, undressing painfully and going into an anteroom to examine his face.

  He stood there in front of the mirror, his lips moving slowly, the words practically inaudible.

  “I done whipped him,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “You flat-footed, you dumb, you ugly,” he droned in a monotone, mimicking Ali, his tormentor. “Hah,” he said, “we saw about that.”

  Then in a loud voice he asked, “Did Clay fall?”

  “You dropped him in the fifteenth,” somebody said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Frazier said happily. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “You know what this fight proves,” he said to a magazine writer. “It let people know I’m the best man, that I’m still the champ. Those people that yelled, ‘Ah-lee, Ah-lee, Ah-lee,’ they didn’t bother me none. When Clay went down, they didn’t come into the ring and help him up.”

  Just then, Frazier had a sudden thought.

  “Yank,” he called. “Hey, Yank, go get Clay. Go tell him to come in here and start crawlin’ on his hands and knees like he said he would.”

  “I should go tell him he fought a helluva fight,” Durham said.

  Moments later Yank Durham disappeared. He didn’t really go looking for Ali, but when he returned, he had a message for Frazier.

  “They took him to the hospital, Joe. They think he might have a broken jaw.”

  The news touched Joe Frazier, the inner man.

  “He gonna be all right?” he asked, the concern in his voice now very obvious.

  “Don’t worry about it, Joe,” said Eddie Futch, the assistant trainer. “It’ll be OK. But you should have some ice on that face of yours.”

  “Put some ice in the sink and I’ll soak my whole head in it,” Frazier said to nobody in particular.

  One of his entourage took a bucket of ice and dumped it into the sink and Joe Frazier walked over to the sink and buried his battered head in the ice. He kept it in there for several seconds, pulled his head out, then did it again, three more times.

  When he walked away from the sink, somebody handed him a bottle of champagne. Frazier took it and put the bottle up to his lips. Then stopped.

  “Can I drink it, Yank?” he asked, like a boy asking for his father’s approval.

  “Let’s see,” Durham said and he took the bottle out of Joe’s hand, lifted it to his lips, drew his head back and guzzled long from its contents. When he had finished, he was smiling. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s all right.”

  Durham handed the bottle back to Frazier and Joe took a small swallow.

  Now, the pain and the weariness were beginning to disappear. But with their disappearance a familiar melancholy came over him, the typical withdrawal that comes to an athlete when he begins the long fall from the competitive high that accompanies him before a big, important performance.

  Slowly, he finished undressing and walked to the shower. For fifteen minutes he remained there, allowing the hot water to cascade over his sore and tired body. The hot water was good. It seemed to wash the aches away.

  When he had finished showering, he returned to the main dressing room, a towel around his waist. He slowly removed the towel and a camp follower helped him get dressed.

  He knew he would have to make an appearance at his victory party in the Statler Hilton Hotel. Those $35 tickets had been sold on the basis of Frazier’s attendance and Joe would not disappoint his fans. He would make an appearance, but he would not stay long. His body ached and he would make a hasty exit and return to the Hotel Pierre, where he would vainly try for sleep. He would rest, he would lie on his bed and rest, but sleep wouldn’t come, not for a long time. Finally, when it did come, it would be a fitful sleep and Joe Frazier would toss and turn from the pain and from the withdrawal following his big night.

  It was more than an hour after the final bell had sounded when Joe Frazier, fully dressed, finally left Madison Square Garden accompanied by several New York City detectives who augmented the usual crowd around him.

  He ducked out into the cold night air and walked to the curb, where a limousine was waiting with its rear door open. He slipped into the back seat and closed the door. Outside, there was only a handful of fans. They pounded on the hood and peered into the window. Joe smiled and gave a little wave and then the car was thrown into gear and it disappeared into the night.

  Joe Frazier smiled to himself. He knew if things had been reversed, if he had lost and Muhammad Ali had won and if this were Muhammad’s limousine, there would be hundreds of people waiting outside.

  He didn’t care. He had won. He had what Muhammad Ali wanted. He was the heavyweight champion of the world.

  Epilogue

  One day less than a month after the big fight, Joe Frazier returned to South Carolina. He was going home, but this time it was at the invitation of the state.

  The governor, John C. West, had invited Joe to come home and become the first black man since the Reconstruction Era more than a century before to address the South Carolina legislature in Columbia, the state capital.

  His wife and two of his five children were there and so were one of Joe’s sisters and one of his brothers and his mother, Dolly, who kept thinking how proud her husband would have been if he could have been there; how proud Rubin would have been of his “special” son.

  Early in the day, the champion and his family were presented to Governor West, who gave Frazier a silver and black jewel box wrapped in gold paper.

  “Congratulations,” the governor said. “We’re all proud of you in South Carolina.”

  “All righty,” Frazier said as he unwrapped the package. “I appreciate that.”

  Later, as he entered the State House, Frazier was greeted with a thirty-second ovation by the legislators. Again, he was applauded when he was introduced.

  He was neatly dressed in a conservative gray suit with a thin blue stripe, a yellow shirt and a red, tan, and blue tie. The applause subsided when he reached the podium.

  “I want to thank the honorable Senator Gasque for that introduction,” he said, “and to thank Governor John West for inviting me to speak to this Assembly.

  “Today, as I stand before you, I will not deny that I am a proud and happy man . . . and yet somewhat sad, and a little hurt to know that I am one of the very few black citizen guests to address this General Assembly in almost a century . . .

  “With South Carolina being so big and beautiful and of course having so many wonderful black citizens, there must have been more black men or black women also deserving of this honor.

  “As I stand here and look around this cha
mber, I can see that South Carolina has come a long way since I left Beaufort eleven years ago.

  “I remember working on the farm when I was a boy. I’d say, ‘Good morning, boss,’ and he’d say, ‘To the mule.’ At noon, I’d say, ‘Lunch time, boss,’ and he’d say, ‘One o’clock.’ And in the evening, I’d say, ‘Good night, boss,’ and he’d say, ‘In the mornin’.’ ”

  There was a burst of laughter and spontaneous applause from the House chamber and Frazier paused, then continued.

  “I am proud to see the few black faces that have been duly elected to this legislature and it gives me great pleasure to know that finally white and black citizens are working together for the betterment of its people. . . . And also last week, to my great satisfaction, I read where a black student was elected president of the student body at the University of South Carolina . . .

  “But ladies and gentlemen, I am here today not as an orator or as a statesman, but as a young man whose boyhood dream was realized when I won the heavyweight championship of the world.

  “You can do anything you want to do if you really put your heart and soul and mind into it. When I started boxing, I had two jobs, a wife, a couple of kids, and I had to train. But if you put your right foot in front of you and the left behind, somebody will give you a hand.

  “Of course, being a black boxing champion is nothing new. There have been many great boxing champions of color, Joe Louis being one of the greatest . . . and all of us have been fighting for the same thing—progress.

  “And to prove once again to all humanity that if given the opportunity . . . what we can accomplish . . . we are making progress slowly . . . much too slowly, in fact.

  “But seeing the progress of the black man during my lifetime whether it be in South Carolina, where I was born twenty-seven years ago, or in New York City has suddenly become so much more important to me.

  “And every time I see a black young college graduate it makes me feel good because then I know we have struck another blow in the right direction—a blow at poverty, unemployment, and hunger—all of which still exist in my hometown of Beaufort.

  “I mean we must save our people . . . and when I say our people, both black and white . . . especially our youth . . . the future leaders of our great country that are being afflicted by drug abuse. We need to quit thinking who’s living next door, who’s driving a big car, who’s my little daughter going to play with, who is she going to sit next to in school. We don’t have time for that.

  “Let’s all pull together. . . . Let’s make South Carolina a nice place to live, and Philadelphia and New York, so that we can live together, play together, and pray together.

  “And let me remind you that the best help our youth can receive can start right here in every legislative chamber in these great United States.

  “We need to build our youth and care about our youth—for without them, there can be no future . . . boxing taught me that mostly tired people make mistakes . . . strong minds and healthy bodies seldom do.

  “So, in conclusion, let me say—it is us, you and me, all men together, we must fight and whip the problems of South Carolina and our great country.

  “It is true that we have come a long way . . . but, gentlemen, we still have a long way to go. . . . Let us try and go together. . . .

  “Thank you. . . .

  The speech took twelve minutes and as Joe Frazier, an uneducated black man, spoke to an august group of South Carolina lawmakers, many of them twice his age, there was rapt attention. And when it was over, the applause in the House chamber was deafening as Joe Frazier, heavyweight champion of the world, child of poverty, walked proudly down from the podium.

  * * *

  In the days that followed his great victory over Muhammad Ali, there was much talk about a rematch—most of it from Ali. The beaten champion began his campaign the very next day, insisting he had won the fight, that he had thrown more punches, scored more points, inflicted more damage. He supported his arguments with postfight pictures in the morning newspapers, pictures that showed Joe Frazier’s face, lumpy and beaten out of shape.

  “Look at me,” he insisted. “Look at my face. Except for this swelling, there’s not a mark on me.”

  The campaign grew in intensity, especially after Joe Frazier slipped into a Philadelphia hospital, where he stayed almost three weeks. First reports were ominous and rumors had the heavyweight champion of the world near death.

  His blood pressure had risen and he had a kidney ailment, but apart from that, what he needed was complete rest. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically exhausted.

  Still, there were rumors that Joe Frazier would never fight again, but four months after his fight with Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier was back in his gym in Philadelphia boxing, hitting the light bag, doing calisthenics and insisting that if Ali wanted more, he would be only too happy to oblige.

  No matter. Fight again or not, beat Ali again or not, Joe Frazier would never stand with the great champions of all time. He would never have the appeal of a Jack Dempsey or a Muhammad Ali. He would never become the second Joe Louis in public acceptance.

  But he worked hard and he provided well so that his children would have a better life than he did. And he became one of only twenty-four men in modern boxing history to hold the heavyweight championship of the world. That is one thing they could never take away from him. That’s all Joe Frazier ever really wanted.

  Appendix One: Joe Frazier’s Career Record

  Appendix Two: History of Heavyweight Championship Bouts

  (Courtesy of Ring magazine’s Encyclopedia and Record Book)

  Feb. 7, 1882—Paddy Ryan was knocked out by John L. Sullivan at Mississippi City, 9 rounds. Referees, Col. Alex. Brewster and Jack Hardy (2).

  July 8, 1889—John L. Sullivan beat Jake Kilrain, seventy-five rounds, Richburg, Miss. (last championship fight, bare knuckles). Sullivan scaled 198; Kilrain, 195. Referee, John Fitzpatrick.

  Sept. 7, 1892—James J. Corbett defeated John L. Sullivan at New Orleans, 21 rounds. (Used big gloves for first time). Sullivan weighed 212; Corbett, 178. Referee, Prof. John Duffy.

  Jan. 25, 1894—James J. Corbett knocked out Charley Mitchell, Jacksonville, Fla., three rounds. Corbett, 184, Mitchell, 158. Referee Honest John Kelly.

  Mar. 17, 1897—Bob Fitzsimmons knocked out James J. Corbett, Carson City, Nevada, 14 rounds. Corbett, 183; Fitzsimmons, 167. Referee, George Siler.

  June 9, 1899—James J. Jeffries knocked out Bob Fitzsimmons, Coney Island, N. Y., 11 rounds. Jeffries, 206; Fitzsimmons, 167. Referee, George Siler.

  Nov. 3, 1899—James J. Jeffries defeated Tom Sharkey on points, Coney Island, N. Y., 25 rounds. Jeffries, 215; Sharkey, 183. Referee, George Siler.

  May 11, 1900—James J. Jeffries knocked out James J. Corbett, Coney Island, N. Y., 23 rounds. Jeffries, 218; Corbett, 188. Referee, Charley White.

  Nov. 15, 1901—James J. Jeffries stopped Gus Ruhlin, San Francisco, 5 rounds. Sponge tossed in ring after bell ended the fifth round. Referee Harry Corbett.

  July 25, 1902—James J. Jeffries knocked out Bob Fitzsimmons, San Francisco, 8 rounds. Jeffries, 219; Fitzsimmons, 172. Referee, Ed Graney.

  Aug. 14, 1903—James J. Jeffries knocked out James J. Corbett, San Francisco, 10 rounds. Jeffries, 220; Corbett, 190. Referee, Ed Graney.

  Aug. 25, 1904—James J. Jeffries knocked out Jack Munroe, San Francisco, 2 rounds. Jeffries, 219; Munroe, 186. Referee, Ed Graney.

  Lack of opposition forced Jeffries into retirement in March, 1905. He then named Marvin Hart and Jack Root as the leading contenders and agreed to referee their fight at Reno, Nev., July 3, 1905, with the stipulation that he would term the winner the world heavyweight champion. Hart stopped Root in 12 rounds. Hart, 190; Root, 171.

  Feb. 23, 1906—Tommy Burns defeated Marvin Hart, Los Angeles, 20 rounds
. Burns, 180; Hart, 188. Referee, Jim Jeffries.

  Burns laid claim to the world title.

  Another claimant to the throne was Philadelphia Jack O’Brien, who, on Nov. 28, 1906, at Los Angeles, had fought Burns a 20 round draw, with Jim Jeffries as referee. Burns weighed 172; O’Brien, 163½.

  May 8, 1907—Tommy Burns eliminated Jack O’Brien by defeating him at Los Angeles, 20 rounds. Burns, 180; O’Brien, 167. Referee, Charles Eyton. Burns was generally acknowledged as world champion.

  July 4, 1907—Tommy Burns knocked out Bill Squires, Colma, 1 round. Burns, 181; Squires, 180. Referee, James J. Jeffries.

  Dec. 2, 1907—Tommy Burns knocked out Gunner Moir, London, 10 rounds. Burns, 177; Moir, 204. Referee, Eugene Corri.

  Feb. 10, 1908—Tommy Burns knocked out Jack Palmer, London, 4 rounds. Referee, Eugene Corri.

  Mar. 17, 1908—Tommy Burns knocked out Jem Roche, Dublin, 1 round. Referee, R. P. Watson.

  Apr. 18, 1908—Tommy Burns knocked out Jewey Smith, Paris, 5 rounds.

  June 13, 1908—Tommy Burns knocked out Bill Squires, Paris, 8 rounds. Burns, 184; Squires, 183.

  Aug. 24, 1908—Tommy Burns knocked out Bill Squires, Sydney, New South Wales, 13 rounds. Burns, 181; Squires, 184. Referee, H. C. Nathan.

  (These victories clinched world recognition for Burns.)

  Sept. 2, 1908—Tommy Burns knocked out Bill Lang, Melbourne, Australia, 2 rounds. Burns, 183; Lang, 187. Referee, Hugh McIntosh and Promoter.

  Dec. 26, 1908—Jack Johnson knocked out Tommy Burns, Sydney, New South Wales, 14 rounds. Johnson, 192; Burns, 168. Referee and Promoter, Hugh McIntosh. Police stopped fight.

  May 19, 1909—Jack Johnson and Philadelphia Jack O’Brien fought six rounds, Philadelphia. No decision. Johnson, 205; O’Brien, 161.

  June 30, 1909—Jack Johnson and Tony Ross fought 6 rounds, Pittsburgh. No decision. Johnson, 207; Ross, 214.