Gene had been an executive with the Philadelphia Eagles and was now with MGM. Through his many contacts, Gene was able to bring Ali to the attention of Richard Fulton, who handled college lecture tours. Fulton booked Ali for speaking engagements at colleges all over the country, including Yale, Harvard, and Howard. The usual fee for Ali, now a hot property because of the growing "unrest" of the 1960s, was between $2,000 and $3,000 an appearance. And, said Gene, calling him "a good, decent human being," after each appearance Ali would hurry down to the Western Union office to wire home the money to his mom and dad. (Back in 1962 the famous William Morris Talent Agency had Cassius Clay under contract but let him go thinking he had no future. And now, six years later, a poll found that only Senators Edmund Muskie and Edward Kennedy were more sought-after speakers on the college circuit than Ali. How ironic!)
Ali's college appearances gave him a platform and widened his audience, his one-time racial politics becoming the social politics of the late 1960s as more and more young men and women were becoming disillusioned with America's involvement in Vietnam. With the counterculture revolution going on, they held Ali up, not so much as a spokesman but as a symbol for standing up to the system. And stand up he did, never with a touch of self-pity, but with a strength of character vowing to "stick to my religious beliefs 1,000 percent regardless of what happens."
His college tour continued to keep Ali's name in the news and got him several offers for appearances, one of which was the lead in the short-lived Broadway show, Buck White. Another offer that came his way was to star in the movie Heaven Can Wait, a remake of the 1940s movie with Robert Cummings starring as a boxer who dies in an accident and comes back to life to win the championship. But the Nation of Islam turned the role down, and although the movie was ultimately remade, it was Warren Beatty starring as a football quarterback instead of Ali as a boxer.
Another "appearance" made by Ali was on the cover of Esquire, posing as the martyr Saint Sebastian, complete with arrows piercing his body to signify his martyrdom. But this presented a problem not dissimilar to the one in the Heaven Can Wait offer. Before the photo shoot, Ali, studying a museum postcard of the painting that hung in the Metropolitan, blurted out, "This cat's a Christian!" George Lois, who was then in the process of setting up the photo shoot, could only answer with a "Holy Moses, you're right, Champ." And before Lois could affix any arrows to his body, Ali made a beeline to the phone to call his religious advisor, Herbert Muhammad. After explaining the pose, Ali expressed his concerns about using a Christian saint to represent his martyrdom. After a long discussion about its propriety, Ali hung up and said it was okay. A resounding success, the cover was ultimately reproduced and sold as a protest poster.
The only "fight" Muhammad was able to get during his exile was a computerized one against Rocky Marciano. The fight had come about because of a computerized elimination tournament conceived by Miami businessman Murray Worner that matched sixteen heavyweight champions of different eras against one another. But when Muhammad lost in the very first round to old-timer Jim Jeffries, he sued Worner, saying, "I've never been defeated, and they won't let me fight to earn a living anymore. My name is all I've got. Now somebody is trying to ruin that, too."
Faced with Muhammad's suit, Worner came up with another idea: instead of the tournament being staged (good word, that!) on radio, why not film it and show it on television? Better yet, why not in theaters on closed-circuit? And so he put together a "reel" fight called The Superfight between Muhammad and former heavyweight champion Rocky Marciano—sort of a "Rocky Marciano–Muhammad Ali Fight of the Century." The "fight" was 70 one-minute rounds, head shots pulled, but body shots fair game, with seven different endings played out against a blank background in a Miami studio with my brother Chris as the referee (in patent leather shoes!). And, just like old times, yours truly was in Muhammad's corner with an announcer dubbing in the blow-by-blow "action" afterward. And although Rocky was to say, "It's all bullshit," overflow crowds in 850 closed-circuit locales bought it lock, stock, and ending—which, in the United States, had Rocky winning by a knockout and, in England, Muhammad stopping Rocky on cuts. For all this Muhammad was paid the generous amount of $999.99!
Throughout it all there were rumors of a potential Joe Frazier–Muhammad Ali fight. I had heard rumors of Kilroy, Herbert Muhammad, and even Harold Conrad and Mike Malitz of Main Bouts crisscrossing the country in search of a place where Muhammad could fight a real fight, where he could get a license to fight Joe Frazier—or anyone for that matter.
Getting a license, however, was no guarantee of a fight. It was almost as if Muhammad had become radioactive—every time a license was granted he suddenly became untouchable. In Mississippi, one of the few states not belonging to the WBA, Governor John B. Williams had issued a license to Muhammad to fight in Jackson with plans to donate the live gate to the Salvation Army. But later Williams would deny he had issued a license, even though Muhammad had it in his possession. In Charleston, where Muhammad was supposed to fight an exhibition for charity, the local City Council called it off. In Seattle, threats of a boycott by the local chapter of the American Legion, which claimed that "even if that unpatriotic slacker is given a license, no one would show up," forced the cancellation of a scheduled fight. It was like that all over the country as the American Legion, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, and White Citizen Councils lined up to proclaim that they would boycott any fight of Muhammad Ali's and would shut down any arena that dared to stage such a fight. In all, it was estimated that the efforts of those seeking to stage a fight for Muhammad had been turned down more than seventy times, even after a license had been issued. As Harold Conrad said, "Every time we were finished with the preliminaries, word would leak out and we were dead."
Suddenly there was a breakthrough and in the heart of the south—Atlanta, Georgia, of all places. There the head of a spice-processing firm, whom Ali described as having "the right complexion and right connections," called upon a friend of his, Senator Leroy Johnson, who, not incidentally, was of the black persuasion. Johnson, who had become the first black politician to be elected to office in Atlanta in ninety-two years and helped put the current white mayor of Atlanta in office, went to the mayor and got the "okay" to hold an Ali-Frazier fight in Atlanta. There was no Georgia State Boxing Commission, and Atlanta didn't have one to speak of. Or to. A sponsoring group called "House of Sports" was formed, Muhammad Ali was issued a license to fight in Atlanta, and a date was set for October 26, 1970.
Only then was Frazier's camp contacted. Frazier's manager, Yank Durham, first complained that "nobody ever talked to us about money." Then, skeptical of Ali's chances against his fighter after a three-and-a-half-year layoff, he said, "Prove you're ready for us, then we'll fight you." Durham's turndown, plus the fact that Frazier had already committed to a title fight against light-heavyweight champion Bob Foster, meant that an alternative had to be found. And quickly. As luck would have it, they found one in "Irish" Jerry Quarry, the number one–rated contender to Frazier's title.
Harold Conrad, somehow finding the silver lining in lining up Quarry instead of Frazier as Ali's comeback opponent, said, "Why Quarry is even better than Frazier. Whitey's got to have someone to pull for, and Quarry, let's face it, is paler than Joe." And Ali, showing he was in his old verbal, if not fighting, form added: "Great! You got it! Nigger and draft dodger against the Great White Hope. That'll sell a lot of tickets."
For Ali, it was his return to the ring, his coming out of exile, his "Second Coming"—a triumphal march led everywhere by Bundini Brown who, in that amped-up voice of his, led the parade screaming, "PRETENDERS, GET OFF THE GODDAMN THRONE! THE LAMB'S COME TO CLAIM HIS OWN!" For Ali's fans it was a coming-out party, a rite of passage as black America entered the mainstream. Everyone who was anyone was there, lending a festive Mardi Gras air to the fight. They had come to Atlanta to cheer their idol on. To them he was forever twenty-five years old, and they had come to see him recycle those electric-quick
skills that had made him "The Greatest" forty-three months before.
All during the week of the fight Ali had mingled with his well-wishers, giving out autographs and greetings. One policeman assigned to "protect" our group came over to us and said, "Champ, if you don't mind, we're going to double the guards around you." But I had seen some of those guarding Ali shove some of those wanting autographs away, almost starting a fight, and told him, "There's no fence around Ali. There's no barrier. He takes to the people and the people take to him." Ali and the people were one that week.
Ali tirelessly glad-handed his fans, handing out autographs and greeting one and all. Forty minutes before the fight, when he should have been over at the arena preparing for Quarry, he was standing in front of the Regency Hyatt Hotel giving out passes to people without tickets and helping to load them onto the buses.
Unable to renew his unrenewable youth, Ali's skills had declined during his enforced layoff. You could see it from the opening bell. Little things, but things that nonetheless told me he was a little bit rusty and no longer the Ali of old. His timing was off, his jabs and uppercuts weren't there, he had openings he saw but couldn't capitalize on, he couldn't quite pull the trigger, and, by the end of the third, he was bordering on exhaustion. Still, two right hands had inflicted a deep gash over Quarry's left eye, a gash that went right down to the bone, causing the fight to be stopped at the end of the third. Despite reporters at ringside falling all over themselves writing that Ali was "back," I knew he would need a lot more work before he faced Joe Frazier. As famed writer Budd Schulberg said, "He may have gone back a step ... but he was good!" But just being "good" wasn't good enough for Frazier.
After the Quarry fight, Ali quickly became licensed in states that had previously denied him one. One of those was New York where Ali challenged the New York State Athletic Commission's denial by arguing that their decision was a violation of his Fourteenth Amendment rights and that the commission had licensed an assorted group of felons, from murderers to military deserters. The judge hearing the case found the commission's refusal to grant Ali a license "astonishing" and ruled in Ali's favor.
Having his license reinstated, the way was now clear for Ali to fight in New York, at the Garden, against the ponderous and awkward Argentine bull Oscar Bonavena—nicknamed "Ringo" because Garden publicity head John F. X. Condon had heard him singing "I Want to Hold Your Hand." Bonavena was one tough customer, a rough barrel-chested do-anything-you-can-to-win fighter who had twice gone the limit with Joe Frazier, even knocking Joe down twice in their first fight.
The fight was scheduled for Madison Square Garden for December 7, a date which didn't sink in initially. We would soon realize that not only was it the "day that would live in infamy," but it was also a day that would be as controversial as Muhammad Ali himself. Letters poured in, all carrying messages like, "You're making a mockery of the day you helped disgrace" and "They should put you in jail on December 7, not in the ring."
A New York State legislator went on record denouncing the fight and calling for the mayor of New York to stop what he called "a disgrace to the people of New York to allow a draft dodger to perform on the anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor." And one newspaper's editorial even called for "War veterans to finish the job of destroying the Garden," saying that "any place which harbors such an insult to those who died at Pearl Harbor isn't worth keeping."
Harry Markson, the Garden's director of boxing, was concerned that "they" as he put it, whoever "they" were, "threaten to boycott us unless we kill the fight." Nevertheless, two weeks before the fight every seat in the house was sold out. It was to be the biggest gate ever for the Garden, threatened boycott or no.
The night of the fight, with the largest force of security guards in Garden history patrolling the streets surrounding the world's most famous arena—and even inside where every seat was searched after bomb threats were received—we decided to stay in our hotel until it was time to go over. There Ali received several fans and made drawings of his prediction—a KO in nine rounds.
As we made our way over to the Garden, wouldn't you know it, Ali decided to get out of the cab and take a subway the rest of the way. And when he finally arrived at the fighters' entrance, he turned to the crowd that had followed him and personally escorted each and every one in through the door as his personal guest while thousands were being turned away at the front entrance.
In the dressing room we went over last-minute details. All I did was make Muhammad aware of what to look for, like reminding him of what Yank Durham had warned us about Bonavena, namely that he would throw elbows, butt heads, hit below the belt, behind the head, and do anything he could not just to win but to "muss" him up. But Muhammad would handle it on his own. I never programmed him.
As Bundini put on Ali's robe, Ali turned and said, "Bundini, don't shout so loud out there," which may have been a futile request since Bundini, who took a B12 shot before every fight to calm his nerves, was incapable of calming himself once the bell rang.
As we made our way down the aisle to the roar of the crowd, something odd struck me. Maybe I was wrong, but I could swear I hadn't heard the playing of "The Star-Spangled Banner." I found out later they hadn't played it, probably fearful that because of the commotion over the fight being held on December 7 it might set off the crowd.
Once the bell sounded, Bonavena came rushing out of his corner. With virtually no balance and little style, he threw punches from everywhere except his ass. And, at times, it seemed as if he was throwing them from there, too. Ali danced away, but Bonavena kept coming, again with that unorthodox style of his, which was really no style at all, just bullying his way inside. Awkward and rugged, it seemed as if Ali had underestimated him and his strength. Ali's timing was off as he missed punches he usually connected with. He was fighting the wrong fight. Then, in the predicted round, the ninth, Ali went all out. But it was Bonavena who hurt Ali in that round, shaking him up with a desperation left that gave Muhammad a "buzz" he hadn't felt since the first Cooper fight. The twelfth and final round came, and Bonavena's corner, sensing he was behind, sent him out to score a knockout. Instead, as he kept his head up in harm's way, an Ali left hook caught him solidly—one Ali told me later even jarred him—and Bonavena went down. Now Bundini was screaming, "Take him out! Take him out! Take the wrinkles out of his face!" And Ali, almost standing over the fallen Bonavena, floored him twice more to end it all. It was the first time in his career of fifty-four fights that Bonavena had been knocked out.
Now only Joe Frazier stood between Ali and his crown.
NINE
"The Fight": March 8, 1971
Copyright © 2008 by Angelo Dundee and Bert Randolph Sugar Click here for terms of use.
Ali-Frazier! But was Ali ready, really ready for Frazier?
After viewing him against Jerry Quarry and Oscar Bonavena, one writer thought that, at least for one minute each round, he was the Ali of old—the 1967 model. Another thought he was great, but not the man Budd Schulberg had called "a genius fighter" before his forty-three-month exile. Looking at the two fights I thought he could once again be the Clay-Ali of old, the super-talented boxer who had defied description, the one with the specialized intelligence and radar-like moves no heavyweight ever had. But, I wondered if the hinted-at March date, just three months after his bruising fight against Bonavena, would give us enough time to rejuvenate those once-great talents diminished in part by time and inactivity, talents he would need to beat Frazier.
I would have liked more time to hone those skills and, if possible, make the new Ali as close as possible to the old Ali. But the wheels had already started turning with both Herbert Muhammad and Yank Durham shopping the fight around. One of those who answered was talent agent Jerry Perenchio. Realizing the value of the fight, Perenchio decided that since the two participants wanted $6 million, $3 million apiece (and by his figures he thought they were worth $4 million), he would offer $5 million for "the outright purchase of a
ll rights to the fight—down to the trunks and gloves."
Perenchio's offer was not only listened to but also encouraged by the managements of both fighters. With the backing of financier Jack Kent Cooke and the inclusion of Madison Square Garden, the deal was signed, sealed, and to be delivered at a press conference at Toots Shor's.
And so there I was, twenty-two years after I had first visited Toots Shor's, back in the old watering hole again at the press conference for what Madison Square Garden Vice President Alvin Cooperman had already called "The Fight." As I looked around the room, I could identify many of the same newspapermen I had once shared tables, drinks, and stories with—Shirley Povich, Jack Cuddy, Bob Waters, Al Buck, and others. Only now, associated with Muhammad Ali, I was no longer their "go-to" guy for stories. Instead, I was their second banana, a mere footnote. In ten years I got one interview. After the kid got through with them they were dead, there was no paper left in their notepads after he rope-a-doped them with his quotes, so I never got a word in edgewise.
After giving me a quick "How-ya-doin', Angie," they clustered around the table at the front of the room trying to get close enough to hear the nonstop quote machine drop a few their way. They needn't have worried 'cause you could hear him across the room, for no cover charge, mouthing pet phrases like, "Now we'll see who the real champ is" and "Look at me, I'm pretty, not a mark on me," and "If he whups me, I'll crawl across the ring and kiss his feet." If I had a dollar for every time I had heard those lines, I'd have been a millionaire. At least Ali's mouth was in shape.
My View from the Corner Page 18
