Ghosts of Manila - Mark Kram [12]
“Right here’ll do,” Joe said. “And it weren’t no fun for me. Showin’ me up like that. Right here in my hometown. Callin’ me names.”
The Muslims drew in closer to Ali. Joe said to them: “Them guns don’t mean shit to me.”
Ali said: “Just fun, Joe. That’s all. Gotta keep my name out there. Don’t mean nuthin’ by it.”
“Coward? Uncle Tom? Only one I’ve been Tommin’ for is you! Names like that ain’t just fun. Those sorry-ass Muslims leadin’ you on me. It gonna stop right here.”
“Don’t talk about my religion,” Ali said. “I can’t let ya do that. Go home and cool down.”
“Ain’t ever gonna be coolin’ down now. Fuck your religion. We’re talkin’ about me. Who I am.” Joe extended his hand, saying, “This is black. You can’t take who I am. You turn on a friend for what? So you impress them Muslim fools, so you be the big man.”
Ali said, “We finished talkin’.” He turned back into the house.
Frazier snapped, “That’s it, get the fuck outta here. Hide behind your shooters. You and me, it’s comin’. But I’ll die before ya get an even split.”
On the way back to the car, Gypsy asked, “You feelin’ better?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “For now.”
True contempt is seldom visible in sports. While greed, envy, and smallness run through games like congealed blood, they are commonly concealed, if for no other reason than they are disruptive to the supposedly idyllic code of sportsmanship that athletics promotes; such contempt is far too personal. Although true contempt is viewed by and large bad for business, Oakland Raiders owner Al Davis always has been a lone exception as a career-long sustainer of uncomely passions.
Of the various levels of contempt, two are of interest in relation to Ali-Frazier. The contempt that Ali held for Frazier during the final third of his career and in retirement was at the level of “Hobbesian indifference,” which William Ian Miller, author of The Anatomy of Disgust, points out, is designed to render the target invisible or nonexistent. But Ali was not always Hobbesian. Early on, as Cassius Clay, he had an insolent contempt, a promiscuous spray of disrespect that indicates someone trying to secure rank by mere display; a rather mean fool. When he became champ, he accelerated the contempt that shames and humiliates, especially against those he saw as threats to his superiority and rank among blacks, particularly the much-loved Floyd Patterson and later the implacable challenge of Frazier. Joe’s contempt, ceaseless and unsparing, was a different sort from the outset. His was that of the “blood-feuder,” and remains so today. Besides responding to the pain and humiliation Ali caused him, he wanted and wants to reduce his rank, to show him that he failed, that he never measured up, that he claimed much more for himself than he was. Ali has sat in Frazier’s gut like a broken bottle.
That psychic unrest erupted when Ali lit the Olympic flame in Atlanta, when a sentimentality so often seen in sports poured down on him. Frazier could barely control his rage, saying, “I hope he falls in the flame.” In the low church theocracy of sports, this was seen as poor form. Contrary to opinion, the sports press likes to fling incense, be part of the show, create stars, and to that end prints and televises a fraction of what it knows. Heroes fuel circulation and ratings: ride the star, retain access. Unless, of course, his image is corrupted by too many trips to the police blotter; he is caught in a sexual fumble, or he beats his wife. Prime examples are Dennis Rodman and the overrated Mike Tyson, both of whose talent has been overshadowed by their determination to be behavorial retards. While he did not have the tattoos or the dyed hair that Rodman adopted, Ali was easily in his league when it came to brainless exhibitionism.
By the time Frazier wished for Ali’s incineration, it had long been fashionable to beatify Ali. How could Frazier nurse such a grudge for so long, dispense such violent talk and personal malice? Give it up, Joe, it’s embarrassing went the general view. Joe later was even more inflammatory