Ghosts of Manila - Mark Kram [69]
In the meantime, Frazier had lost his title, in January 1973, to George Foreman in Jamaica, a poorly selected opponent if there ever was one. If someone had consulted the holy dictionary of styles, big George would have leaped out as an unfortuitous choice. Might as well have placed Joe up against a wall. He was too small for George, who, before future modification, was a reclusive, semihomicidal sociopath in study. George had no arsenal of punches, and giving him Joe—always there, not hard to locate—was like throwing meat under the door. To the surprise of only those who thought Joe was invincible, Frazier was clubbed to the floor six times in the opening two rounds. But what was more interesting was what went on behind the scenes. Nobody in Joe’s camp wanted Foreman—except Joe, who approached the bout with a camp full of doubts about what was left of him and concern for his well-being. His attitude, highly anomalous for him, was that of a yacht owner ready to dive into the sun and fun. Yank was worried about him and had sought to cut his gloves off for good.
“I think it’s over, Joe,” Yank said. “Too much damage. I don’t want to play with your life. You shouldn’t either. You got a nice family.”
“I gotta hear this from you, too?” Joe said. “That’s all I hear at home from Florence.”
“Joe, you got enough money,” Yank said. “Look at me. Don’t turn away. You got enough money. Damn it, give it up. What’s to gain?”
“I’m world champ,” Joe said. “You think I’m gonna walk just like that? All the work and sweat. Climb a mountain this high, pain all the way, and come down by plane. You hittin’ that juice you used to make?”
“I’m not gonna be around forever.”
“You wanna walk then? Walk out on me?” He thought for a second. “You sick?”
“Naaaah, just some high blood.”
“You takin’ the medicine? Take the pills!”
“When I think of the shit…” Yank said.
“Take it every day,” Joe said. “We’ll be all right, Yank. I’m in good shape. Just keep takin’ them pills. Promise, Yank?”
“Yeah, cocksucker,” Yank said.
Futch was puzzled by Yank’s diminishing zest for life, but he agreed about Joe. “He had lost something,” Futch said. “Ken Norton had worked with Joe for three years, and Joe always handled him, and here in Jamaica Norton was taking it to him. So I told him, ‘Ken, you’re not working with him anymore. Have a nice vacation here.’” Norton said: “He seems to have lost his drive.” Eddie nodded, for there was no intensity in Joe. Away from the gray-iron grasp of the gym and weather in Philly, he had been lulled by the soothing balm of the island. “The atmosphere,” Eddie said, “was one big party and distraction. I changed what I could.” He also had an eye on Durham. “For the last year,” Eddie said, “he’d say time after time…‘Eddie, if something happens to me, promise you’ll take over Joe. Look after him.’ I told him that he was just a young man, about fifty-two, and that I was sixty-three.”
Ali’s fight with Joe Bugner, from England, was of considerable interest because he was now open about his dealings with women. It would be a desultory victory over the distance, significant only in that Ali had a floor full of women at his Vegas hotel the night before. It was 3 A. M. when Harold Conrad came down to the casino, shaking his head and saying, “I don’t know how he does it. He’s a cum freak.” Two nights before Norton III—a fight