Ghosts of Manila - Mark Kram [36]
“Please don’t say that,” George said hoarsely. “I’m not a trail horse. Not for anyone.”
One of the best people in boxing with too much heart and no dimension, Chuvalo had been stopped for the first time in his career. That night, George sat in a darkened hotel room on Eighth Avenue, the shadows of cars from below riding around the walls. “Felt like I was being hit by four hands,” George said. “He looks easy to hit, but he isn’t easy. Everything moves, his head, shoulders, his body and legs, and he keeps punching and putting pressure. He fights six minutes every round. He doesn’t let you live. Whoever get him from here on will catch hell.” Durham had come by the dressing room to see how George was, and returned to Frazier, saying, “What a mess. Go look at him. If you ever stop bringing that smoke, you’ll look like that. A catcher. Damn.”
Why were catchers like Chuvalo such open, gracious men? The glovemen, the dancers who moved like a clarinet glissando, were strung tight, the megaton punchers moody and secretive like big cats. “Maybe catchers ain’t got no sense,” Ali joked once. Balling his fist, he said, “You sayin’ I ain’t gracious.” The old trainer, Freddy Brown, Chuvalo’s this time out, dwelt upon the subject. His face looked like crushed, old peanut shell. “’Cause catchers,” he said, pausing to disclaim being gracious himself, “they get all that hooman meanness punched out of ’em. ’Cause catchers sit in automats over old coffee all alone waitin’ for someone to say hello, ’cause the only people understand ’em are cut men and their doctors and drunks who know what it is to get worked over and not know it. The one thing a catcher hates is a mirror. Who needs a catcher…they’re a lotta work and messy with all that blood.”
“I want Clay,” Joe said to Yank.
“Clay. What Clay? I don’t see a Clay.”
“Come on, Yank…you know.”
“Clay’s gone. He don’t exist.” He paused and said: “Think he’s gonna be Chuvalo, do ya? Clay moves. And your feet don’t. Not the way I want. Fuck Clay. I hope he’s out there and gets the clap.”
But Yank was certain he had the best heavyweight in the business now. To match his optimism, he made a bold move. He stayed out of the WBA heavyweight elimination tournament, an effort to crown its own champion. He threw his lot in with the powerful Madison Square Garden, which wanted its own king. On March 4, 1968, Frazier won the New York heavyweight title by knocking out an old rival, an elusive and timid Buster Mathis, in the eleventh. Jimmy Ellis, Ali’s favorite sparring partner, won the WBA title. He was a natural middleweight, quick and wise, and he had had some wars in that division. But the climb in weight was too much for him, and when it came time to unify the title few thought he could handle Joe, who was now out once more against Bonavena.
Oscar bothered Joe, first because of the first outcome with him, rather ragged, and second because he was certain the Argentine was a racist. Whenever Joe was in the same room with him, Oscar sniffed, acted like he smelled bad air, made a face as if to say, “You niggers all stink.” Frazier controlled him this time in defense of his title, taking a decision in fifteen rounds. “Jesus,” Joe said. “It was like bumpin’ into a refrigerator all night. I was tryin’ to bust that sniffin’ nose of his, it was like poundin’ into concrete.” By February 1970, two months later, Ellis felt like a feather, and Joe floored him in five; he was the heavyweight champion. Or was he? The press tried to goad him about Ali, his claim to the real title. “Clay ain’t got no title,” Yank cut in. “You talkin’ to the title right here.”
Frazier bought a new house for $125,000, had six cars in the garage and a Harley-Davidson bike that infuriated Durham. He had had it for a while, and twice took bad spills on it, injuring his feet and scraping his arms another time. Durham said to him: “Man, look. You got a Chevy, and you wrecked that, then you knocked a Cadillac to pieces. Now it’s a motorcycle. You’ll get killed. What do I have? Stupid fighters.