Ghosts of Manila - Mark Kram [92]
After Manila, Joe Frazier, with his head shaved to a glistening point, heavy and slow, met George Foreman in June 1976. In training, Futch noted that Joe spent long parts of sessions on the ropes, where he’d go for rest, lie back and pick off punches, and often miss the one you did not see, then it’s over; this is where careers end. Eventually, fans grow tired of a fighter’s survival and want the seriously new to sweep out the old. George wasn’t new, but at least he’d dispatch a barnacled name once and for all. George dribbled him, then stopped him in the fifth, with most of the crowd shouting Ali’s name. Frazier came down with hepatitis, and five years later came back to fight to a draw against a barrel of congealed rust named Jumbo Cummings. “No, I don’t approve,” Futch said, refusing to work with him, opening the split between them that had been dormant after Manila. Joe was fond of saying: “I got mugged by the ref in the second Ali fight, and Futch took Manila away from me.” He particularly resented what Eddie had said after the third fight: “Ali’s too strong for him now, and Joe’s too small.” When Joe later took some of his fighters to North Carolina, Eddie was there and Joe just gave him a curt nod of acknowledgment.
Frazier’s life settled into the Broad Street Gym, a local fixture in the rough precinct where he had begun. His life fell into a groove, working with his fighters, checking into hotels, minding clocks and schedules. He had bought the gym from Cloverlay for $75,000 along with the remaining fighters under contract to the syndicate. Among his first fighters was a then-promising Duane Bobick, a white heavyweight; nothing more arouses ownership interest, and Faustian pacts are made in the endless search for one. Joe was getting him ready for a workout and slipped a right hand glove on his left hand. Accidental, but Bobick looked at him with disgust and said: “Yeah, and you want to be a trainer?” Bobick disappointed; white heavyweights invariably break your heart. But Joe learned that you can’t be friends with fighters, that he’d have to grow a new, tough hide in a new, subtle game. He’d adopt the method used by Yank Durham on him, clever but definitely not subtle. Yank insisted on obedience and punctuality, no lip and industry; even Yank’s voice scared Joe.
Frazier began to train his son Marvis; no problem with the dogma there. Marvis was a heavyweight, a good boxer who Joe tried to turn into a prototype of himself. Eventually, he’d get out of the ring with $1 million in total earnings. But Joe was having trouble with other young fighters. They didn’t want to be told what to do, when to do it. He lost a couple of good amateurs to others, and didn’t like it much; so much for loyalty, they didn’t even allow him to make an offer. He had not charged managers for training their fighters in his gym, now he would. “You don’t go to General Motors,” he said, “build a car and say it’s yours. Same thing at my gym. If you come here and learn, I want to make money back.” He had a young phenom, Bert Cooper, “a natural hitting machine.” Big things were ahead, then he lost Cooper to coke and the streets. Joe began to despise drugs, and would find how close to home they could touch.
One of his prizes was Chandler Durham, a light-heavy and the son of Yank. He threw