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Joe Frazier: In the beginning 2-2
Frazier and Yank Durham did not have to go it alone. They were soon directed to Bruce Baldwin, who ran a large dairy. “I don’t know,” he told them. “I just sell milk.” Even so, the civic-minded
Baldwin said he’d see what he could do. He eventually came up with a plan to sell stock in Joe to anyone who would buy it. Businessmen as well as average people jumped on, the price being
$250 a share, and 8,000 shares were sold. The group was called Cloverlay, and when Frazier left them each share would be worth $14,250. Among the partners was Jack Kelly, brother of Princess
Grace. The deal called for a job, a draw of a hundred dollars a week against 50 percent of purses, and a loan on a house. Like Clay, he was now a walking corporation, and one that never had holidays.
Joe Frazier: In the beginning 2-2
The Heavyweights
A series of threads about Frazier, Ali, Patterson and Tyson
Under the whip of Durham there was no respite, seven days a week in the gym soaking his head in brine and with the cannon voice of Durham ****ing at his every move. ****sucker, get that left hand out of your ass and throw it! Or, Water, you want water! I got no water!
Gimme a big round, then I got water! For certain, Joe wasn’t ready for bronze. His left hook looped, and his feet did not talk to each other. “You’re ****in’ hopeless,” Durham
shouted. “I’m losing my voice with you. Go home, get some rest, come back and show me why anybody should be backin’ you with their money.” Slowly, Joe began to gain some definition as a puncher. And he could handle severe punishment. The best workmen in Philly drilled him with shot after shot, and he absorbed them like a heavy bag. Yank never had to tell him to stay in on a guy; the ring was a phone booth to him. “That’s it!” Yank would yell. “Stick to him like chewin’ gum. But, hey,****sucker, throw punches. This is your life. You’re gonna live or die on his chest. You wanna be a catcher, join a baseball team!” So it went, day after day, in the early days in the gym and through his first tentative fights; ten knockouts, one TKO. “We’re gonna step you up,” Yank said.
It was a risky step, given that the opponent was Oscar Bonavena, who fancied himself the next Luis Firpo of the Argentine, the Wild Bull of the Pampas. All agreed that Oscar was wild, certainly a bull. Where they split was whether or not he was a fighter, or even human. His punches were an abomination, slung out as if attached to barbells. He didn’t move, burdened by an ample belly and ankles as big as softballs; his specialty was, with jaw sticking out, the collision rush. In street clothes, though, he could pass for a frayed Italian tenor. In and out of the ring, he was a bane to owners, an untutored oaf whose only desire was to leave the United States with 14 million pesos and enough left over for five estancias just like Firpo. After a fight, Oscar liked to scratch figures on an envelope, rather than talk about the fight he had just made. What was that about? “He’s a
banker,” Charlie Goldman, the little man who had trained Marciano said. “He doesn’t care about sense, just cents.” But Bonavena had unlimited stamina and never quit. He was twenty pounds heavier than Joe, and he used it. This was Joe’s first big fight, a Garden affair that was supposed to be an escalator to the marquee. Bonavena dropped him twice in the second round, and
shareholders back in Philly were ready to call their brokers. The two early knockdowns prefigured what would be a problem for Joe through his career, extreme vulnerability to punches early on until he could segue into a pulsating rhythm; he needed time, sweat. For a while, it looked as if Oscar were just one big horn flipping, then playing with an object. Joe steadily regained his composure, built up volleys through the fight and dug home the hardest shots, causing Oscar to wince and brake his rushes. Joe survived—that’s all you ever did against Oscar—to take a split decision
“You did fine,” Yank told him.
“Is that all?” Joe asked.
“What? You want a bonus.”
“I thought I was pretty good.”
“You did good to stay off your ass,” Yank said.
Durham was tickled by his resilience; now the sculpture had a
face, a big puncher with a chin. Joe knocked out Doug Jones, retired
him, then went on to the Canadian-Croatian George Chuvalo
“I want Clay,” Joe said to Yank.
“Clay. What Clay? I don’t see a Clay.”
“Come on, Yank . . . you know.”
“Clay’s gone. He don’t exist.” He paused and said: “Think
he’s gonna be Chuvalo, do ya? Clay moves. And your feet don’t.
Not the way I want. **** Clay. I hope he’s out there and gets the
clap.”
But Yank was certain he had the best heavyweight in the business now. To match his optimism, he made a bold move. He stayed out of the WBA heavyweight elimination tournament, an effort to crown its own champion. He threw his lot in with the powerful Madison Square Garden, which wanted its own king. On March 4, 1968, Frazier won the New York heavyweight title by knocking out an old
rival, an elusive and timid Buster Mathis, in the eleventh. Jimmy Ellis, Ali’s favorite sparring partner, won the WBA title. He was a natural middleweight, quick and wise, and he had had some wars in that division. But the climb in weight was too much for him, and when it
came time to unify the title few thought he could handle Joe, who was now out once more against Bonavena. Oscar bothered Joe, first because of the first outcome with him,
rather ragged, and second because he was certain the Argentine was a racist. Whenever Joe was in the same room with him, Oscar sniffed, acted like he smelled bad air, made a face as if to say, “You ******s all stink.” Frazier controlled him this time in defense of his title, taking a
decision in fifteen rounds. “Jesus,” Joe said. “It was like bumpin’ into a refrigerator all night. I was tryin’ to bust that sniffin’ nose of his, it was like poundin’ into concrete.” By February 1970, two months later, Ellis felt like a feather, and Joe and Joe floored him in five; he was the heavyweight champion. Or was he?
The press tried to goad him about Ali,his claim to the real title.
“Clay ain’t got no title,” Yank cut in. “You
talkin’ to the title right here.”
Frazier bought a new house for $125,000, had six cars in the
garage and a Harley-Davidson bike that infuriated Durham. He had
had it for a while, and twice took bad spills on it, injuring his feet and
scraping his arms another time. Durham said to him: “Man, look. You
got a Chevy, and you wrecked that, then you knocked a Cadillac to
pieces. Now it’s a motorcycle. You’ll get killed. What do I have?
****** fighters. You as bad as Gypsy. He empties all the distilleries in
the state. After the Emile Griffith fight, I go lookin’ for him to give
him his money breakdown. I found him. He can’t see. He looked at
the sheet and fell asleep. I got ****** fighters.”
“Get me Clay,” Joe said.
“You deaf ? Clay can’t get a license.”
“Just this then,” Joe said. “No even split on the money when he
does. No way.”
“What’s this now?” Yank asked. “Before, you wanna give him your
house.”
“I don’t care. That’s it.”
“No, it ain’t. You got stockholders. You fight, they count.” Yank
eyed him closely. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Nothin’,” Joe said. “He’s a bad man.”
“Maybe somebody’ll kill him before he’s back,” Yank cracked.
“Save us the trouble.”
“I hope not,” Joe said.
Baldwin said he’d see what he could do. He eventually came up with a plan to sell stock in Joe to anyone who would buy it. Businessmen as well as average people jumped on, the price being
$250 a share, and 8,000 shares were sold. The group was called Cloverlay, and when Frazier left them each share would be worth $14,250. Among the partners was Jack Kelly, brother of Princess
Grace. The deal called for a job, a draw of a hundred dollars a week against 50 percent of purses, and a loan on a house. Like Clay, he was now a walking corporation, and one that never had holidays.
Joe Frazier: In the beginning 2-2
The Heavyweights
A series of threads about Frazier, Ali, Patterson and Tyson
Under the whip of Durham there was no respite, seven days a week in the gym soaking his head in brine and with the cannon voice of Durham ****ing at his every move. ****sucker, get that left hand out of your ass and throw it! Or, Water, you want water! I got no water!
Gimme a big round, then I got water! For certain, Joe wasn’t ready for bronze. His left hook looped, and his feet did not talk to each other. “You’re ****in’ hopeless,” Durham
shouted. “I’m losing my voice with you. Go home, get some rest, come back and show me why anybody should be backin’ you with their money.” Slowly, Joe began to gain some definition as a puncher. And he could handle severe punishment. The best workmen in Philly drilled him with shot after shot, and he absorbed them like a heavy bag. Yank never had to tell him to stay in on a guy; the ring was a phone booth to him. “That’s it!” Yank would yell. “Stick to him like chewin’ gum. But, hey,****sucker, throw punches. This is your life. You’re gonna live or die on his chest. You wanna be a catcher, join a baseball team!” So it went, day after day, in the early days in the gym and through his first tentative fights; ten knockouts, one TKO. “We’re gonna step you up,” Yank said.
It was a risky step, given that the opponent was Oscar Bonavena, who fancied himself the next Luis Firpo of the Argentine, the Wild Bull of the Pampas. All agreed that Oscar was wild, certainly a bull. Where they split was whether or not he was a fighter, or even human. His punches were an abomination, slung out as if attached to barbells. He didn’t move, burdened by an ample belly and ankles as big as softballs; his specialty was, with jaw sticking out, the collision rush. In street clothes, though, he could pass for a frayed Italian tenor. In and out of the ring, he was a bane to owners, an untutored oaf whose only desire was to leave the United States with 14 million pesos and enough left over for five estancias just like Firpo. After a fight, Oscar liked to scratch figures on an envelope, rather than talk about the fight he had just made. What was that about? “He’s a
banker,” Charlie Goldman, the little man who had trained Marciano said. “He doesn’t care about sense, just cents.” But Bonavena had unlimited stamina and never quit. He was twenty pounds heavier than Joe, and he used it. This was Joe’s first big fight, a Garden affair that was supposed to be an escalator to the marquee. Bonavena dropped him twice in the second round, and
shareholders back in Philly were ready to call their brokers. The two early knockdowns prefigured what would be a problem for Joe through his career, extreme vulnerability to punches early on until he could segue into a pulsating rhythm; he needed time, sweat. For a while, it looked as if Oscar were just one big horn flipping, then playing with an object. Joe steadily regained his composure, built up volleys through the fight and dug home the hardest shots, causing Oscar to wince and brake his rushes. Joe survived—that’s all you ever did against Oscar—to take a split decision
“You did fine,” Yank told him.
“Is that all?” Joe asked.
“What? You want a bonus.”
“I thought I was pretty good.”
“You did good to stay off your ass,” Yank said.
Durham was tickled by his resilience; now the sculpture had a
face, a big puncher with a chin. Joe knocked out Doug Jones, retired
him, then went on to the Canadian-Croatian George Chuvalo
“I want Clay,” Joe said to Yank.
“Clay. What Clay? I don’t see a Clay.”
“Come on, Yank . . . you know.”
“Clay’s gone. He don’t exist.” He paused and said: “Think
he’s gonna be Chuvalo, do ya? Clay moves. And your feet don’t.
Not the way I want. **** Clay. I hope he’s out there and gets the
clap.”
But Yank was certain he had the best heavyweight in the business now. To match his optimism, he made a bold move. He stayed out of the WBA heavyweight elimination tournament, an effort to crown its own champion. He threw his lot in with the powerful Madison Square Garden, which wanted its own king. On March 4, 1968, Frazier won the New York heavyweight title by knocking out an old
rival, an elusive and timid Buster Mathis, in the eleventh. Jimmy Ellis, Ali’s favorite sparring partner, won the WBA title. He was a natural middleweight, quick and wise, and he had had some wars in that division. But the climb in weight was too much for him, and when it
came time to unify the title few thought he could handle Joe, who was now out once more against Bonavena. Oscar bothered Joe, first because of the first outcome with him,
rather ragged, and second because he was certain the Argentine was a racist. Whenever Joe was in the same room with him, Oscar sniffed, acted like he smelled bad air, made a face as if to say, “You ******s all stink.” Frazier controlled him this time in defense of his title, taking a
decision in fifteen rounds. “Jesus,” Joe said. “It was like bumpin’ into a refrigerator all night. I was tryin’ to bust that sniffin’ nose of his, it was like poundin’ into concrete.” By February 1970, two months later, Ellis felt like a feather, and Joe and Joe floored him in five; he was the heavyweight champion. Or was he?
The press tried to goad him about Ali,his claim to the real title.
“Clay ain’t got no title,” Yank cut in. “You
talkin’ to the title right here.”
Frazier bought a new house for $125,000, had six cars in the
garage and a Harley-Davidson bike that infuriated Durham. He had
had it for a while, and twice took bad spills on it, injuring his feet and
scraping his arms another time. Durham said to him: “Man, look. You
got a Chevy, and you wrecked that, then you knocked a Cadillac to
pieces. Now it’s a motorcycle. You’ll get killed. What do I have?
****** fighters. You as bad as Gypsy. He empties all the distilleries in
the state. After the Emile Griffith fight, I go lookin’ for him to give
him his money breakdown. I found him. He can’t see. He looked at
the sheet and fell asleep. I got ****** fighters.”
“Get me Clay,” Joe said.
“You deaf ? Clay can’t get a license.”
“Just this then,” Joe said. “No even split on the money when he
does. No way.”
“What’s this now?” Yank asked. “Before, you wanna give him your
house.”
“I don’t care. That’s it.”
“No, it ain’t. You got stockholders. You fight, they count.” Yank
eyed him closely. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Nothin’,” Joe said. “He’s a bad man.”
“Maybe somebody’ll kill him before he’s back,” Yank cracked.
“Save us the trouble.”
“I hope not,” Joe said.