by Jonathan Eig
Cosell hadn’t asked if anything was broken. In his nervous lie, Pacheco had revealed the truth: Norton had broken Ali’s jaw, perhaps as early as the first round.
Norton kept jabbing, forcing Ali into the ropes. At one point, when Ali grabbed Norton around the neck and tried to hold him, Norton bear-hugged Ali, hoisted him off the ground, and quickly dropped him again, a gesture that seemed to say: I’m stronger than you! I’m younger than you! I’m beating you!
In the eleventh round, Norton wobbled Ali. Chairs scraped the floor. The audience got up, stomped their feet, clapped, screamed. In the twelfth and final round, Norton knocked Ali around with no evident fear of reprisal. Blood poured from Ali’s mouth.
When the bell rang to end the fight, Ali went to his corner. He rubbed his lopsided jaw solemnly, as if it were a math problem he couldn’t solve. He combed his hair, same as he always did after a fight, because even after combat — and even after combat in which he had fared poorly — he wanted to look good for the cameras.
The ring announcer declared Norton the winner. Ali congratulated his opponent and departed in silence.
After the fight, Ali went to Clairemont General Hospital where he underwent surgery on his jaw. Belinda went to the hospital too, but not to visit her husband. She traveled by police ambulance because she had become hysterical after the fight. Belinda was so angry — angry about her husband’s performance in the ring, about the prostitutes, about things buried deep in the intimate folds of marriage that she declined to discuss even decades later — that when San Diego police officers approached and tried to calm her down, she attacked them.
“I put three cops in the hospital,” she recalled proudly. “Bundini said, ‘We should’ve put her in the ring!’ ”
In the chaos after the fight, a reporter asked Dundee if he thought this loss would mark the end of Ali’s career.
“I think you’re a jerk,” Dundee said.
It was not a stupid question. Ali was thirty-one, and longevity was neither the rule nor a blessing for boxers. Rocky Marciano had retired at thirty-two; Joe Louis, at least initially, at thirty-four. Ali had been fighting since age twelve with a style that depended on speed. He still possessed enough speed to remain competitive with the world’s finest heavyweights, but it was not enough speed to avoid getting hit and getting hurt. Now, he had lost twice in twelve tries. More troublingly, some of the men in his corner believed that he had never fully recovered from the damage inflicted on him in his fifteen-round clash with Frazier in 1971.
Then there was the matter of the boxer’s jaw. Pacheco said a broken jaw was as serious for a boxer as a broken hand for a pianist. The analogy wasn’t exactly right. A pianist needs his hands to perform precision work; a boxer needs his jaw to do the blunt work of absorbing punishment, like a car needs a bumper. Still, Pacheco was right about the seriousness of the injury. Ali had suffered a badly swollen jaw against Frazier, and now the same jaw had been broken. It was not unreasonable to think that such an injury might compel a fighter to consider retirement.
Perhaps, as the newspaper columnist Lee Winfrey wrote, Ali was losing his relevance as well as his boxing skills. This was the Age of Nixon, not the Age of Aquarius, Winfrey wrote. The loudmouthed fighter had been entertaining when he had come along, a breath of vitality for a dull, thuggish sport. He really had shaken up the world. He had made people think, made them angry, made them reimagine what a young black athlete could say and do. But that was then. Now, in Winfrey’s view, Ali was a boxer past his prime, a relic of the 1960s. “He’s no different from Chubby Checker,” the columnist wrote. “People don’t want to dance to his music anymore.”
PART III
37
A Fight to the Finish
Ali parked his gray Rolls-Royce a few feet from the entrance of the Roosevelt Hotel in New York and told one of his pals to keep an eye on the car so he didn’t get a ticket. He stepped out of the car, into the warm sun, and then into the hotel, where he and Ken Norton were to hold a joint press conference announcing their intention to fight again September 10 at the Forum in Inglewood, California. But instead of marching to the front of the room where reporters and photographers had assembled for the press conference, Ali slipped into a seat in the back and waited for reporters to come to him. Of course, they did.
For Ali, it was an attempt to show humility. It was such a good acting job, in fact, that one reporter said Ali should have been given the Academy Award that Marlon Brando had recently turned down for The Godfather.
“Best thing ever happened to me,” the new, supposedly unpretentious Ali said, referring to the beating Norton had given him.
He still had some of the wires in his mouth from surgery on the broken jaw. Doctors said he would be fine, but Ali claimed that losing to Norton and suffering a severe injury had forced him to reevaluate his life, to slow down, take his phone off the hook, and spend more time with his children.
“I needed that,” Ali said, rubbing his jaw and looking at Norton. “Thank you very much.”
Ali, wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, vowed that he would be less arrogant from now on. He would work harder to prepare for the next fight. If he lost again to Norton, he said, no one would care if he fought Frazier or Foreman. Norton would be next in line for a shot at the championship, and Ali would be an afterthought.
“Losing that fight was just what I needed,” he said. “It made me humble. I’m going into the woods and train at my camp in Deer Lake, Pennsylvania, then I’m going to arrive in Los Angeles a few days before the fight and stay at a private home, no more hotels, no more of that stuff. That’s all over. No more fooling around.”
If anything good resulted from his broken jaw, it was this: Ali went four and a half months without getting punched in the head. Until mid-August, he worked himself into shape without sparring. Only then, with the fight three weeks out, did Ali let his sparring partners swing away. Afterward, he shared the good news with reporters: the jaw was fine. In another encouraging sign, he said, he had slimmed down to 211 pounds, 10 pounds fewer than he had weighed for the previous fight.
The older he got, the more difficult it became to focus like a champ. At Deer Lake, Ali woke every morning at 4:30 and rang an eight-hundred-pound church bell that he had purchased from a local antiques dealer, sending a signal to everyone in camp that he was up early and hard at work. Ali loaded the place with antiques. He wanted the camp to feel rugged. When Belinda visited, they would sit in an old wooden surrey and scan the skies for the mothership Elijah Muhammad talked about in his sermons.
Ali hired a man to haul boulders to the property, and Ali’s father painted the names of great former fighters on the stones, the first two going to Joe Louis and Rocky Marciano.
There was nothing remotely fancy about the place. There were metal folding chairs, wooden rocking chairs, plywood tables, and plain wood floors. The gym’s walls were decorated with photos and magazine covers depicting Ali. There were lots of mirrors, too. When Ali wasn’t training, the log-cabin dining hall was the center of activity, the place where everyone gathered around long tables to eat, talk, and tell jokes. The kitchen had two stoves, a double sink, two refrigerators, a chopping table, and two coffee machines. On the wall opposite the door, Ali’s father painted a big sign that read:
Rules of My KYTCHEN
1. PLEASE TO KEEP OUTE except on express permission of cooke
2. COOKE shall designate pot scourers pan polishers peelers scrapers and COOKE has supreme AUTHORITY AT ALL TIMES.
3. NO REMARKS AT ALL WILL BE TOLORATED concerning the blackening of toast the weakness of soupe or the strength of the garlic stewe.
4. What goes in stews & soups is NOBODY’S dam business.
5. If you MUST sticke your finger in something stick it in the garbage disposal.
6. DON’T CRITICIZE the coffee you may be olde and weak yourself someday.
7. ANYONE bringinge guests in for dinner without PRIOR NOTICE will be awarded thwacks on sku
ll with a sharpe object.
8. PLEASE WAITE Rome wasn’t burnt in a day and it takes awhile to burne the ROASTE.
9. IF YOU MUST pinche somethinge in this KITCHYN PINCHIE the COOKE!
10. this is my kitchen if you don’t belive it START SOMETHING.
The compound had no gate. Most of the doors had no locks. Visitors came and went as they pleased. Ali was entirely accessible. “The camp was like a revolving door of celebrities and entertainers, people who wanted to be boxers, people who wanted to be somebody,” recalled Bob Goodman, the boxing publicist. That’s how Ali liked it. When he made new friends, he would invite them to come work at the camp. When a fresh face arrived, the regulars would ask: “What’s he do?” Ali didn’t care. He assumed his new employees would make themselves useful or get bored and leave.
“Every guy that shakes hands with Muhammad, they’re his manager, they’re his agent . . . they’re the ones that can do everything for you,” an exasperated Angelo Dundee said.
At one point, Ali estimated that in the six-week buildup to a typical fight, he paid members of his entourage about $200,000, including $50,000 for Dundee, $5,000 for Rahaman, $10,000 for Gene Kilroy, and on and on. Kilroy was one of the few with a clear role. He arranged the travel. When the phone rang, Kilroy answered and decided which callers were worthy of Ali’s time. When Marlon Brando or Ted Kennedy wanted to meet the champ, Kilroy made it happen. When Ali saw a TV news report saying that a Jewish old-folks’ home was closing its doors because it couldn’t make the rent, Kilroy made the phone calls, arranged for a quiet visit from Ali, and took care of getting the old folks the money they needed. Pat Patterson, a former Chicago police officer, handled security. Walter “Blood” Youngblood, who later changed his name to Wali Muhammad, also provided security. Lloyd Wells, a former journalist, arranged for women to visit the camp, for the pleasure of Ali and anyone else seeking casual sex. C. B. Atkins served as a driver and advisor. Lana Shabazz cooked, serving up lamb shanks, steaks, and bean pies with heaping bowls of ice cream for dessert. Bundini ate, drank, motivated, and entertained. Howard Bingham and Lowell Riley snapped pictures. Ralph Thornton parked cars and swept floors. Booker Johnson helped in the kitchen. Luis Sarria, the masseuse, doubled as Ali’s exercise guru, putting the fighter through hours of sit-ups and squats.
Belinda and the children visited Deer Lake but usually did not stay long. Ali’s parents came around often. Rahaman was a mainstay; he was also Ali’s best sparring partner. Angelo Dundee arrived only when fights were approaching and training got serious.
Conflict was inevitable, fistfights not uncommon. The only thing that held this motley bunch together was Ali, whose happiness was contagious. “These people are like a little town for Ali,” Herbert Muhammad once said. “He is the sheriff, the judge, the mayor, and the treasurer.” When bored, Ali would suggest a visit to a children’s hospital or a stroll through a crowded hotel lobby where he knew he’d be recognized. Sometimes he would open a phonebook and call numbers at random to see how strangers would react to receiving a phone call from Muhammad Ali. When Kilroy’s mother suffered a heart attack, Ali called the hospital, spoke to the nurses, and said he wanted Mrs. Kilroy to receive the best care possible. “They treated her like the Queen of Sheba,” Kilroy recalled. And when Mrs. Kilroy recovered, Ali visited the hospital in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, to thank those who had cared for her.
“We all loved Ali,” said Lowell Riley, the photographer who’d been hired by Herbert to take pictures for Muhammad Speaks. “We didn’t have no grudges. I think all of us just wanted to be with Ali because he was who he was . . . We didn’t even know how much we were going to get paid. After the fight, Herbert and Ali would sit down and you’d get a check. We didn’t have no contracts.”
Ali lost one of the more colorful characters in his circle. In the summer of 1973, Major Coxson and his wife were murdered, execution-style, in their New Jersey home. Rumors circulated that the Black Mafia of Philadelphia did it. Even without Coxson, the camp was a carnival, with reporters coming and going so quickly Ali never bothered to learn most of their names. Some of the men who called themselves managers or agents had tricks to make side money. One of them told reporters that interviews with Ali cost fifty dollars — and pocketed the cash, of course. Once, a member of the entourage introduced Ali to a black man wearing a Dodgers cap and seated in a wheelchair. The man, whose legs had been amputated, identified himself as Roy Campanella, the former Dodger, and said he was in desperate need of money. Everyone in the camp, including Ali, knew the man was not really Campanella.
Nevertheless, Ali pulled out a wad of cash and gave it to the man.
Later, Angelo asked Ali why — why give money to an obvious con artist?
Ali replied, “Ang, we got legs.”
Despite the distractions at Deer Lake, Ali worked hard to prepare for Norton. Dundee pronounced his fighter in the best shape of his life.
Ali, no longer feigning humility, agreed: “I’m a sight for the world,” he said.
He continued, “Norton don’t stand a chance, because I will be dancin’ all night long! Oh, man, I’m gonna have no fat, no fat at all, I’m at my dancin’ weight. Come one, come all to the Muhammad Ali Dance Ball.”
“You the boss with the hot sauce,” Bundini shouted as Ali crossed the ring to meet Norton in the first round.
Norton came forward, right hand by his chin, left hand wagging out in front. Ali assumed the same stance, but with his hands noticeably lower than Norton’s. Their left feet were inches apart as the first punches flew, a short left by Norton followed by a short right by Ali.
All around, there were shouts and sharp breaths.
Ali danced, as promised, and that was enough to excite the crowd at first. This was the Ali they had paid to see, even if no great punches had yet to land and no blood had yet to pour.
Norton acted as if Ali’s blows weren’t hurting him, that he would gladly take the jabs so long as he had the opportunity to retaliate, which he did.
In the fifth round, Ali slowed down by the slightest bit. He was still on his toes, still moving, but Norton advanced more easily. At the end of the round, Norton got inside and stayed there, driving punch after punch deep into Ali’s gut.
“I own you!” Norton shouted at the round’s end.
In the sixth, both men landed hard shots, and the skin under Norton’s right eye began to puff. Norton’s confidence seesawed. In the seventh, Norton knocked Ali around the ring with thunderous punches. He continued his assault in round eight, landing an uppercut that made Ali’s eyes go wide in pain or shock. In the ninth, the men traded their biggest punches, cannon fire at short range. Television announcers shouted with excitement. The crowd hollered for more.
Going into the twelfth and final round, it was difficult to say which man had the edge. They were both exhausted, both damaged. Barring a knockout, the decision would be in the hands of the ringside judges.
Ali came out dancing again, no doubt trying to show off for the judges that he was still fresh, still strong, even if he wasn’t. He threw the first good punches of the round, and he kept throwing. He poured over Kenny Norton, flooding him with blows, making it impossible for Norton to think or fight back. The twelfth round was a test of wills, and Ali won it. When the bell rang, he was so stoked with adrenaline — or perhaps so angry that he had failed to take command of the fight earlier — that he marched to his corner and threw an errant punch at Bundini Brown. Then Ali leaned on the turnbuckles, quietly waiting for the judges to determine his fate.
The announcement came quickly: Ali had won it in a split decision.
He didn’t gloat. He didn’t jump around the ring and declare himself “the Greatest.” He smiled grimly and offered a confession.
“I’m tireder than usual,” he said as he stood center ring. He paused and added, “because of my age.” He was four months away from his thirty-second birthday.
Four and a half months after beating Norton, Ali got his
second crack at Joe Frazier. With no championship on the line, and with Frazier having been battered by George Foreman, the fight lacked the drama of their first encounter. Even so, the winner of this contest would get a chance to face Foreman and win back the crown. Also, there was no question that Frazier lit a spark and brought out some of Ali’s basest traits.
Ali had always taunted opponents. Interestingly, he had usually harassed his black opponents more than the white ones. With white opponents, he tended to joke. Sometimes he even praised them for their intelligence and toughness. Perhaps with the white opponents he didn’t feel he needed to work as hard to sell tickets. But with his black opponents, he flashed real anger. He tried to dehumanize many of the black men he fought, just as white supremacists had long tried to do. Ali had branded Sonny Liston an ugly bear, Floyd Patterson a rabbit, and Ernie Terrell an Uncle Tom. Some said he did it out of insecurity—because he came from a relatively stable family and a relatively comfortable neighborhood, unlike some of his opponents who had risen from more humble circumstances. Such behavior was especially perverse given Ali’s longtime dedication to the uplift of his race. Now, in anticipation of his second go-round with Frazier, Ali was at his worst. His attacks were meaner, more personal, and more scornful, suggesting that Ali, for once, may have felt genuinely threatened.
Ali had convinced himself that he’d really won the first fight with Frazier and that the judges had erred in their decision. In the run-up to the rematch, Ali worked to convince the press and boxing fans of the same. He also resurrected his old complaints about Frazier, calling Joe too ignorant and too ugly to be champion. In one interview after another, Ali referred to Frazier as stupid and undeserving of respect from black fans. While other opponents had managed to brush off or laugh at Ali’s condemnations, Frazier couldn’t. He was hurt, and it showed. Frazier went on the defensive, citing his credentials as a man of the people and reminding reporters that he’d always been good to Ali, had always liked Ali, had even tried to help Ali during his exile from boxing.
