Ghosts of Manila by Mark Kram

Author:Mark Kram
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2011-12-06T06:24:41+00:00

On March 8, 1971, according to Muhammad Ali, the planet would stumble in its axis, billions would hold their breaths, including every last ice-covered Sherpa and sand-swept Bedouin, an ecumenical constituency that he claimed as his alone, in contrast to Joe Frazier, “a little old nigger boy who ain’t been anywhere ’cept Philly, never done anything for nobody ’cept rich people that back him and politician crooks, never had a thought in his dumb head ’cept for himself.” Frazier was up North, yet his shadow rolled heavily over the sun-streaked walls of the Fifth Street Gym in Miami. Celebrities like Sammy Davis Jr. and Elvis Presley, to the sound of whirring cameras, moved in and out of his glow as if seeking reaffirmation of their own rank. “You cool, brother?” Elvis asked, embracing him. “Cool as you.” Ali smiled. “And gittin’ cooler.”

Frazier was training up in the frigid Catskills at the Concord Hotel, sterile and with an emptiness swept by constant wind that bothered him; he could never get warm, loose. He got some bad news from Dr. Finton Speller, the family physician. He had been feeling tired and losing energy. Speller told him he was suffering from high blood pressure, the condition evolving from the anticipation of the fight with Ali and the dogged training. He began to feel better after daily vitamin E and C shots, and then moved the camp back to Philly. Once, according to Ali, he showed up at the Broad Street Gym in disguise to watch Joe work and left unimpressed. “What disguise?” Joe said. “He turn white or somethin’? Wouldn’t be hard for him. Hey, who’s gonna miss Clay, even if he’s dressed like Moses?”

But there was an exchange between the two at Broad Street. The Garden sent George Kalinsky, their photographer, to get some shots that would simulate them in the ring. Ali clowned, Joe kept a fixed stare. When Ali had been in early exile, he had always engaged in sham battle with open hands, and Joe had come to believe that he was trying to measure Joe’s strength and reflexes. The adrenaline had pumped at the Fairmount Park incident; this time Joe aimed to transmit a signal. In the ring, with Kalinsky nervous, Joe said: “Let’s go at it.” Ali was confused, and Joe banged him harder. Ali returned with a shot, and Joe dug a left hook to his belly. “That’s it,” Ali said, nearly pulling his trunks up to his chin. “Son of a bitch can really hit,” Ali announced. After Ali left, Joe said to Kalinsky: “You see his face when I buried that hook in his belly?”

Hecklers piled into Frazier’s gym, and Yank Durham, reasoning that Philly wasn’t known for generosity to its local names, told one crowd: “You’re all welcome. I hear anything I don’t like, and you’re out the door.” A big young guy called him on it: “You too old to throw anybody out a door.” Durham said: “I can start with you. If you don’t shut up.

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