Ghosts of Manila - Mark Kram [62]
But Yank Durham thought of Frazier as his own. So what if Cloverlay had his contract, merely a matter then of insufficient funds. He had been there through his ring infancy, he had his heart and mind, had hacked his way through all the nonbelievers. He and his trainer, Eddie Futch, had gone first class with the fighter, did things the right way, produced a machine as carefully as he used one of his old welding torches. Yank had got his chance, too, and proved he was more than just an amateur who specialized in turning street layabouts into prelim boys. He was a cagey old schemer, but not like most of the pickpockets on their way out; he had a trust and, though soaring in a fantasy present, the future intruded on the edge of consciousness. If Joe won, then, maybe, there was a fight or two left in him. If he lost, he’d have to set him down, close him out; it wouldn’t be easy. Fighters like Joe climbed to the top out of breathtaking will, got there inch by inch, leaving mounting pain on each rung. He’d have enough money to quit. Yank didn’t want him hurt, he was not a fighter of longevity. He knew Ali was going to be a mean night. Too mean, the kind of fight that might cut Joe to a scrap, and he’d have to shut him down. His nerves, he said, jumped at the sad prospect.
When Frazier broke camp five detectives rode shotgun with him to New York, underlining how serious they had taken the many threats to the fighter’s life. Joe didn’t say much, said one, and “he looked so distant we joked that he was sitting there waiting for us to give him the menu for his last meal.” Not unusual for a fighter; muteness is helpful when reels are turning so fast in the mind, though some become unusually garrulous, making one wonder what visions they are trying to muffle. The group rolled out of the Holland Tunnel and were joined by a small fleet of New York police for escort into Manhattan. Durham and Joe checked into the City Squire on Seventh Avenue, then suddenly left when the hotel fielded a bomb threat. To protect himself from the crushing mob on the streets, Ali put up at the Garden. On the night before the fight, Joe was now at the Pierre Hotel, and Joe says in his book Ali called him.
“Joe Frazier, you ready?” Ali asked.
“I’m ready,” Joe said.
“I’m ready, too, Joe Frazier. And you can’t beat me.”
“You know what?” Joe said. “You preach that you’re one of God’s men. Well, we’ll see.”
“You sure you’re not scared, Joe Frazier?”
“Scared of what I’m going to do to you?”
“Ain’t nothing you can do,” Ali said. “See you.”
“I’ll be there,” Joe said. “Don’t be late.”
With his entourage streaming out before him, Ali went down and settled into his dressing room, a place that he could turn on the quickest whim into dramaturgy. He’d rouse Bundini to the point of crying, jump on one of his comments and purposely misinterpret it. He’d taunt other members, calling up a bungled chore. He’d joke with Pat Patterson, who had his water bottle under lock and key, and try to guess on what part of the body the inventive bodyguard was packing his iron. You never knew if he was going to show up hysterical or with a calm that nearly rocked everyone else to sleep. Now, he just watched Angelo Dundee float in the room as if he were a priest arranging details for a high mass. They never talked over plans; Ali never worked from notes. He lay on the table and drifted into a half-sleep under Luis Sarria’s hands, the buzz of Bundini far off: “Oh, mercy, we gotta big one tonight.” “Shut that nigger up,” Ali mumbled. Butch Lewis, from Joe’s camp, came in to watch the taping of Ali’s hands. He then shot up from the table, started to pirouette through the room with volleys of punches. He shouted to Lewis: “Take this back to your dumb chump!”
There were only a handful of people in Frazier’s room, Durham, Futch, an assistant, Les Peleman,