Ghosts of Manila - Mark Kram [70]
After his loss to Foreman, Frazier also took on the earnest Bugner, a one-man rehabilitative stop for name fighters. Frazier had just enough to win against a heavy that traversed the ring like a trolley with scheduled stops. Yank brought up retirement again. “Damn it, Yank,” Joe said, “you too nervous. I see your eyes every day, and they say quit. Let me be. Just stay on your medicine. I’m worryin’ more about you than fightin’.” Back in South Carolina in August of 1973, Joe was working on his vast spread that resembled a plantation when he got the news. Yank was down with a stroke, and dying. He raced his Harley to Charleston, took a plane to Philly, but he was too late. As Red Smith wrote: “Those organ tones are still.” Fighters don’t find point men like Yank, who preferred the high road but, if he had to, wouldn’t back down from a game of chicken on the low road. Except for formal learning and no interest, he had the stuff to be a first-rate politician.
“Eddie,” Joe called Futch. “He’s gone. What are we gonna do?” Eddie had been the genius behind Yank, the wizard of tactics and preparation; not even Joe was aware of how deep was his contribution. Never wanting to court press favor or shorten Yank’s shadow in any way, Eddie whispered to Yank, who passed it on to Joe. Yank took the heat and the praise and loved being out front just a shade more than the sound of his voice, a velvet treble that he sharpened with work on tape. Critics faulted Durham for Joe’s lack of evolution, for seeming to be the same fighter who first walked into the gym. That overlooked the obvious, that he was set in a mold, performed to his body type, endomorphic, and could never be other than he was. Durham straightened out his footwork, sharpened his natural rhythm, and built him into a windmill volume puncher. Without light legs and with a disposition for battle, an intractable aggressor without fear, he could have been ruined so easily in lesser hands. Joe was stunned by his passing. He stood over his body, saying: “Yank, Yank, I told you to take the medicine.” As an afterthought he added their term of endearment: “Cocksucker.” An incident later underscored their bond. After the Mathis fight, they each bought gold-plated guns, not for protection, but as a symbol between them. After Yank died, Joe’s bodyguard Tom Payne showed up with the same gun; he had married Yank’s widow. “Where you get that?” Joe asked, and then he fired Payne.
Cloverlay immediately put Futch in charge, with no complaint from Joe. He was a marked contrast from Yank, reserved, soft-spoken, and a ring scholar. His two interests were keeping fit and a love for the work of nineteenth-century poets that he had studied over a lifetime. He had begun as a lightweight in Detroit, became close to Joe Louis, who insisted that Eddie be a sparring partner because of his speed and cleverness. A heart ailment eventually ended Eddie’s career, not his work with fighters. Perhaps, because Ali had passed Louis in memory or because he really did see what others didn’t (including me), he broke Ali down thusly, his view differing from popular analysis: “You may not believe it, but there’s a lot of things Ali can’t do. He throws a sub par uppercut. His left hook is adequate, not that great, mainly because of his eighty-two-inch reach. He wants no part of inside fighting. On the plus side, his speed is remarkable for a heavyweight, and he is difficult to corner. He’s bold, and not afraid to change his game in a blink. His chin and heart are absolutely superb. Underestimate them and you’re in harm’s way. His jab and straight