After Frazier Kept the Belt

Good. November 14, 2011 After Frazier Kept the Belt, a Long Shot Withstood the Blows By DAN BARRY OMAHA The ex-fighter known around here as the Butcher, affectionately, has a signed photograph of Joe Frazier that he keeps like a laminated Mass card in his wallet. He has other personalized mementos, too, including a couple of scars on his fist-dented face, the handiwork of Smokin’ Joe. The Butcher knew Frazier as well as anyone can in the public intimacy of a boxing match, where exhausted men hold each other in sweaty, slow-dance clinches. But he did not go to Frazier’s funeral in Philadelphia on Monday, attended by boxing’s elite. Among other reasons, the Butcher drives a school bus now; he had to make his rounds. Besides, Frazier is forever with the Butcher. It has been this way for nearly 40 years, since May 25, 1972, when Frazier, the heavyweight champion of the world — the world — came to Omaha to fight an obscure long shot from the neighboring Iowa city of Council Bluffs: a challenger with a steel-driving punch and a penchant for bleeding by the name of Ron Stander, also called “The Bluffs Butcher.” Or, simply, the Butcher. “If,” the Butcher says, past bridgework that he often pops out with his tongue as a joking but startling reminder of his brutal past life. His hair is gray, his gut is pronounced, and his mind is sharp enough to know the toll that the Butcher has taken. “If,” he says. “The biggest word in the dictionary.” The Butcher’s “if” moment — if he wins, he becomes world champion — took place on national television and before nearly 10,000 fans in the Omaha Civic Auditorium. Nearly all of them were chanting, “Go, Big Ron,” for the boxy man in red trunks, with a mop of dark hair and sideburns that didn’t know where to stop. The Butcher, a beefy 27, was 23-1-1, with a wow knockout against the powerful Earnie Shavers, an uh-oh loss against a forgotten nobody, and a reputation for patiently taking beatings until he could unload his knockout punch. He lacked discipline, liked his beer, and had virtually no chance of winning. Not even his wife at the time gave him a shot; she famously said: You don’t take a Volkswagen into the Indy 500, unless you know of a hell of a shortcut. “And in this corner, the world heavyweight champion,” trumpeted the ring announcer. “Weighing in at 217 and one-half pounds. Unbeaten in 28 fights, 25 by knockouts, World Champion Joe Frazier.” Out jogged Frazier, a rock-solid 28, his face a mask of all business. He had beaten Muhammad Ali a year earlier, and was looking forward to the big payday chance to do it again. For him, the Bluffs Butcher was merely a human tuning fork. Imagine sitting on that stool a few feet away, in front of everyone you’ve ever known in your life, about to challenge a world heavyweight champion known for a left hook that could knock you into tomorrow. And just to make it fun, a pug named Mighty Joe Young had recently broken your nose while sparring. “It was bothersome,” the Butcher says of his sore nose. The two men tapped their gloves in center ring. “You ready?” Frazier asked, as the Butcher recalls. He says he winked, went back to his corner, and said a quick prayer. If. If only the Butcher had capitalized on his first-round punch that buckled Frazier’s knees — a blow that had the television announcer shouting that “Stander is carrying the fight to Frazier.” If only he had connected with that uppercut that just missed Frazier’s jaw, just. If only his own jaw had not met a Frazier uppercut that Jell-O-jiggled his brains. “I was out on my feet,” the Butcher recalls. “But I wasn’t going down.” In Omaha, at least, that is what is most remembered: the Butcher never went down. But the blood seeping from cuts to the bridge of his nose and his right eye could not be stemmed by his corner men. “I couldn’t look up,” the Butcher says. “I tried to follow him around by his feet.” By the fourth round, the television announcer was shouting a sad ballad for the Butcher: “Stander with the crowd behind him, but Frazier doing the dynamite. ... Stander going for broke. ... And a cut over the eyebrow, but look at this kid battle. ... And the claret continues to flow ...” DING! DING! DING! DING! In the auditorium, Toddy Ann Leytham, who had gone to high school with Ronnie, as she called him, became so upset by the bloodbath she was watching through binoculars that she tumbled onto the concrete floor. She spent the next several hours in the hospital with a concussion. Meanwhile, Dr. Jack Lewis, the attending physician, was telling the Butcher he was done. “Hell, he couldn’t see me!” Dr. Lewis recalls. “He didn’t know where Joe was. He was just swinging.” Soon the announcer was again at center ring, his Kleenex-white tuxedo in sharp contrast to the blood just shed. “The winner, by a technical knockout after the fourth round, and still heavyweight champion of the world, Joe Frazier! Frazier!” The greatest opportunity of the Butcher’s life lasted 12 minutes — or a split second, if you just count that missed uppercut. The crowd cheered their gladiator, while commentators made his gruesome loss sound epic. He received 17 stitches to his puffy face, and then he went off somewhere and broke down. Joe Frazier continued on. He lost his championship; lost two rematches to his tormenter, Ali; made and lost millions; and died of liver cancer last week at the age of 67. He ranks among the very best fighters of all time: a lunch-pail warrior who never gave up. All business. As for the Butcher? He kept on fighting for another decade, barreling away in boxing rings from Hawaii to South Africa, but his career effectively ended that night in Omaha. You might say he left more than his blood on the mat. Divorced, remarried, divorced, with four children all told. Bought a bar called the Sportsman Inn (“Come See the Butcher and Friends”), drank too much, and had a few run-ins with the law. Drove a cement truck. Worked as a bodyguard for celebrities; you can find his name among the credits on the Eagles album “Hotel California.” Worked as a machine operator for 13 years, but lost that job when the plant closed. Worked now and then as a boxing referee. Received a perfect-attendance certificate at a heating and air-conditioning school, only to find no work. Quit a lousy maintenance job at an apartment complex. Did odd jobs around town. Collected cans. Gave up drinking, but still drinks a little. A scramble of a life, it turned out, always looking for that one clear shot at security. But as the Butcher says, more than once: “You can’t change destiny.” Three years ago, the Butcher attended his 45th high school reunion in Council Bluffs. Who was there but Toddy Ann Leytham, the only one to be carried out after the Frazier-Stander fight, widowed and still harboring a crush for Ronnie. They married a year later. Destiny for the Butcher at 67 means driving a school bus, helping out disadvantaged kids and living in a cozy house with Toddy, his biggest fan. She wears a T-shirt that bears his younger image and the words “My Hero.” She makes reprints of boxing posters to have him sign and sell. She hangs photographs from his boxing years, including a particularly gory one from the fight with Frazier, always with him. People in Omaha have not forgotten that fight. And when they see Frazier’s bloodied victim around town, they call out his name. Hey, Butcher, they say. Hey, Champ. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/15/us/the-butcher-and-the-joe-frazier-ron-stander-bout.html?_r=1