My Buddhist nature wanted to tell him that all misery, all sorrow, lies in the past, that there is only becoming. To live today one must release the past?
A sheen of sadness covered Joe Frazier, an impenetrable gloss holding in a darkness blind to everyone else, a constant squeezing that caused his breath to come in short whispers. He sat in a corner behind a small table, a wide brimmed hat on his head, a cigar pinched between his lips. Two pens rested on a napkin. A whisky, tan and glistening, brushed against his hands, hands that had earned him a world?s Heavyweight championship and powered by a pit bull?s heart and murderous determination.
He was the guest at the Legend?s Casino in Toppinish, Washington?a big boxing star at a small boxing show. Fans moved in cautiously and haltingly asked for an autograph. Other people kept their distance cowed by the once vicious beast. He was as big, as black, and as powerful as Sonny Liston, but without the reputation for evil. Once asked for an autograph, would he spring forward with vicious intent, or sit back and smile?
Generally he did neither. He remained stoic and removed, a man caught in deep thought or some kind of dream. He was neither friendly nor unfriendly. He just ?was.? Occasionally he grinned a bit, especially at pretty women. He signed bits of paper, napkins, old boxing magazines. He seemed reluctant to talk as if his voice might not go the distance.
Mentioning Muhammad Ali pained him more than a hard right cross and he flinched backward and shook his head trying to regain his senses at the very sound. That, he would talk about, a low guttural moan, the words prying through clenched teeth as they whistled into the air. His eyes rolled back. His nostrils flared. His fists clenched and his breath emerged in quirky whirlwinds of destruction. Joe Frazier hated him.
This was not a momentary hatred. This hatred had spiked itself to his ribs and grew by constantly feeding off his memory and emotions. Frazier was stuck in the past, caught in a time warp with Ali?s verbal abuse.
The old saying, ?Sticks and stones may break my bones but names can never harm me? did not apply to Frazier. Just the opposite applied. He could be hit with boulders, tree trunks, iron railroad tracks, even the freight trains on the tracks, nothing physical hurt him. It was words that broke him down, tore him apart, left him cocooned in anger and sadness.
I came prepared to talk to Frazier, a bundle of cigars in my hand: Montecristo, CAO, H. Upmann, Partagas, Romeo Y Julieta, and Perdromo. Cigarettes are the currency of street people, cigars of boxers. James Tony once stretched my bank account to the limit smoking the best cigars he could find, as long as I bought.
I offered my hand, and the cigars to Frazier. The rough knobby knuckles were in contrast to his palm, a slightly cool touch and remarkably soft like pampered glove leather or a society lady who had never known work, not the stiff boot leather of a heavyweight champion. He took the cigars, gave them a brief smell, then laid them out in order of size, stiff little soldiers ready for inspection.
This great boxer had fought the best of the era: Oscar Bonavena, Eddie Machen, Doug Jones, George Chuvalo, Buster Mathis, Jerry Quarry, Jimmy Ellis, Bob Foster, George Foreman, and Muhammad Ali, all remarkable heavyweights. I pulled the names randomly as if from a hat. ?Were you bothered by the slickness of Bob Foster?? He shook his head no. Would Machen have given you ore trouble had he been in his prime?? ?Not really.? ?Was George the hardest hitter you ever faced?? ?No.?
Dragging anything from his was pure torture. ?So, who was the hardest hitter?? A shrug. ?What did Ali say that hurt you so much?? It was time to stand back as a fury of words, fired by anger, flamed from his mouth. Ali was no gentleman. Foreman had helped him on many occasions; and how did he repay him? Disrespect. Total disrespect. He went on and on, the whiskey going down in gulps, the cigar smoke in a forest fire of flame.
My Buddhist nature wanted to tell him that all misery, all sorrow, lies in the past, that there is only becoming. To live today one must release the past. Forman could not do that. He had gripped the past so tightly it had almost become ingrown.
I think he was drunk the entire time we were together, but I could not say for sure. Some people hold their liquor better than others. One thing was certain, no amount of drink could drown Ali?s words.
I left him several days later as I had found him, sitting in the corner, a whiskey in one hand, a cigar in another. I don?t remember much about Ali?s nasty words to Frazier. I do remember their three great fights. That is a part of the past I want to remember.
