"That Left Hook Scared You."
by Mike Jensen
NOVEMBER 10, 2011 TAGS:
Larry Holmes got agitated. No, the former world heavyweight boxing champion was mad, thinking of the last years of Joe Frazier. The man should have been exalted, Holmes was saying. He won the Fight of the Century, the first duel with Muhammad Ali, a battle of unbeatens. Frazier fought in the Thrilla in Manilla, the last of the Muhammad Ali-Joe Frazier trilogy.
“You know what?’’ Holmes, himself a former heavyweight champion, told me Tuesday afternoon, railing at how Frazier’s hometown of Philadelphia hadn’t done enough to honor him. “They took his house, they took his goddamned gym, they took a car, they took his manhood. They put a [bleeping] statue up down there of Rocky Stallone. He never fought a [bleeper.] Joe didn’t get a statue.’’
Ali had been the star, captivating, sexy and glib. He was the outlaw, a counterculture hero, after he declined to fight in Vietnam even if it cost him his livelihood. Ali now belongs to the world, the most famous athlete in history.
Frazier, who died Monday of liver cancer, was the foil – the greatest foil in sporting history, but still the foil — assigned that role by Ali. So what does it say about us that we want to honor him now? That we want to put up a statue now?
I went up to see Holmes, on assignment for the Philadelphia Inquirer, because he had worked for Frazier (and Ali) as a sparring partner. He had watched the Thrilla in Manilla from the second row after fighting on the undercard. That Philadelphia wants to build that statue now ticked him off.
“For what?’’ Holmes said. “He didn’t see it.’’
The role Ali had assigned Frazier stuck through his life. Ali’s light blinded us all. Except the fighters, and those watching closely -- they knew the truth. Naazim Richardson -- trainer of the most accomplished active fighter, Bernard Hopkins – put it like this to boxing writer Thomas Hauser, “The body is different from the mind. Your body would rather lose a fight to Muhammad Ali than win a fight against Joe Frazier.’’
Holmes talked to me about how Frazier was the one man he feared getting into the ring with, even as a sparring partner.
“He used to call me the Rover,’’ Holmes said of those sparring sessions with Frazier before the second Ali-Frazier fight. “I did not stand still.’’
Of his mindset getting into the ring, Holmes said, “Scared as hell. I was afraid. Smokin’ Joe – that name scared you. That left hook scared you.’’
Holmes said he once stood still in front of Frazier for too long: “He caught me with the left hook and broke three of my ribs. He did not know it. After that, I ran even faster.’’
Ali himself knew the truth. After winning the Thrilla in Manilla, Ali said, “It was the closest I’ve come to death.’’
After he retired, Frazier had ups and downs. He opened a boxing gym in Philadelphia and produced both champions and working-man fighters. He had financial troubles, and eventually lost the gym. He also had a sense of humanity, of caring for his fellow man, which never left him.
A man named Paul Manion, now a corporate manager outside Philadelphia, e-mailed me the day after Frazier died, telling about how Manion once had a flat tire on I-95.
A college student at the time, in 1999, Manion was making his way through a trunk full of unwashed laundry, looking for the spare tire, when a car pulled up alongside and the passenger window went down.
“All I can see,” Manion explained, “is that driver is wearing a large full-brimmed hat made out of some sort of animal skin.” The man asked, “You got a flat?’’
“Yup, hit that pothole.’’
“You need some help?’’
“Uh sure. I have no idea what I’m doing.’’
“You got a jack?’’
“I think. That’s this thing, right?’’
The man did it all for Manion, who asked him if he used to work on cars.
“Yeah … You ever hear of Joe Frazier?’’
“Of course.’’
“You’re looking at him.’’
Only then did Manion notice the T-shirt the man was wearing under his leather coat which said, “Smokin’ Joe’s Gym.’’
Manion couldn’t believe it. He remembers saying, “Smokin’ Joe? What? Why? Thank you so much for stopping! Why would you do that?’’
“Ah, a lot of people don’t know what they’re doing, and I know how to. You gonna be OK getting home?’’
Joe Frazier the man remained embittered at how Ali had described him as a gorilla, an Uncle Tom, ignorant. He also never let that define him. Larry Holmes remembers how Frazier used to pick him up for training runs when Holmes was his sparring partner.
“I worked with a lot of fighters, a lot of champions,” Holmes said. “No one ever picked me up.’’
That’s how we choose to see Frazier now. What does that say about us?
Mike Jensen is a sports writer for The Philadelphia Inquirer.
“You know what?’’ Holmes, himself a former heavyweight champion, told me Tuesday afternoon, railing at how Frazier’s hometown of Philadelphia hadn’t done enough to honor him. “They took his house, they took his goddamned gym, they took a car, they took his manhood. They put a [bleeping] statue up down there of Rocky Stallone. He never fought a [bleeper.] Joe didn’t get a statue.’’Ali had been the star, captivating, sexy and glib. He was the outlaw, a counterculture hero, after he declined to fight in Vietnam even if it cost him his livelihood. Ali now belongs to the world, the most famous athlete in history.
Frazier, who died Monday of liver cancer, was the foil – the greatest foil in sporting history, but still the foil — assigned that role by Ali. So what does it say about us that we want to honor him now? That we want to put up a statue now?
I went up to see Holmes, on assignment for the Philadelphia Inquirer, because he had worked for Frazier (and Ali) as a sparring partner. He had watched the Thrilla in Manilla from the second row after fighting on the undercard. That Philadelphia wants to build that statue now ticked him off.
“For what?’’ Holmes said. “He didn’t see it.’’
The role Ali had assigned Frazier stuck through his life. Ali’s light blinded us all. Except the fighters, and those watching closely -- they knew the truth. Naazim Richardson -- trainer of the most accomplished active fighter, Bernard Hopkins – put it like this to boxing writer Thomas Hauser, “The body is different from the mind. Your body would rather lose a fight to Muhammad Ali than win a fight against Joe Frazier.’’
Holmes talked to me about how Frazier was the one man he feared getting into the ring with, even as a sparring partner.
“He used to call me the Rover,’’ Holmes said of those sparring sessions with Frazier before the second Ali-Frazier fight. “I did not stand still.’’
Of his mindset getting into the ring, Holmes said, “Scared as hell. I was afraid. Smokin’ Joe – that name scared you. That left hook scared you.’’
Holmes said he once stood still in front of Frazier for too long: “He caught me with the left hook and broke three of my ribs. He did not know it. After that, I ran even faster.’’
Ali himself knew the truth. After winning the Thrilla in Manilla, Ali said, “It was the closest I’ve come to death.’’
After he retired, Frazier had ups and downs. He opened a boxing gym in Philadelphia and produced both champions and working-man fighters. He had financial troubles, and eventually lost the gym. He also had a sense of humanity, of caring for his fellow man, which never left him.A man named Paul Manion, now a corporate manager outside Philadelphia, e-mailed me the day after Frazier died, telling about how Manion once had a flat tire on I-95.
A college student at the time, in 1999, Manion was making his way through a trunk full of unwashed laundry, looking for the spare tire, when a car pulled up alongside and the passenger window went down.
“All I can see,” Manion explained, “is that driver is wearing a large full-brimmed hat made out of some sort of animal skin.” The man asked, “You got a flat?’’
“Yup, hit that pothole.’’
“You need some help?’’
“Uh sure. I have no idea what I’m doing.’’
“You got a jack?’’
“I think. That’s this thing, right?’’
The man did it all for Manion, who asked him if he used to work on cars.
“Yeah … You ever hear of Joe Frazier?’’
“Of course.’’
“You’re looking at him.’’
Only then did Manion notice the T-shirt the man was wearing under his leather coat which said, “Smokin’ Joe’s Gym.’’
Manion couldn’t believe it. He remembers saying, “Smokin’ Joe? What? Why? Thank you so much for stopping! Why would you do that?’’
“Ah, a lot of people don’t know what they’re doing, and I know how to. You gonna be OK getting home?’’
Joe Frazier the man remained embittered at how Ali had described him as a gorilla, an Uncle Tom, ignorant. He also never let that define him. Larry Holmes remembers how Frazier used to pick him up for training runs when Holmes was his sparring partner.
“I worked with a lot of fighters, a lot of champions,” Holmes said. “No one ever picked me up.’’
That’s how we choose to see Frazier now. What does that say about us?
Mike Jensen is a sports writer for The Philadelphia Inquirer.
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