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Once More to the
Well
Muhammad Ali left them roaring with a marvelous last-round
rally against game Earnie Shavers, but one day soon the champ
will reach down and come up
empty
by Pat
Putnam
Issue date: October 10,
1977
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(Neil Leifer)
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Muhammad Ali laughs, for in the ring he has become a clown.
No, now he is Marcel Marceau entertaining us with grotesque
mimes. He is mockingly disdainful of his opponent, he is
show of horror at some trivial development in the ring, he
is a badly
mauled fighter (ah, but he is only playacting?). And then, in a
twinkling, with bold strokes and flashing brilliance, he
reaches deeply into his dwindling resources and the left
jab becomes a cobra, striking out again and again before
melding into a
two-handed volley fired with such fury it seems a red line of
tracers in the night. Then that moment passes, too, so
swiftly it appears but an illusion of days long
past.
For Ali there are no more pitched battles, only well-spaced
fire fights. Mostly he husbands his strength behind a
fool's facade, playing a shrewd but dangerous role,
surviving on guile and guts, a master of legerdemain
covering his diminished skills
with a magic show. And, as was announced at Madison Square
Garden last Thursday night: the old magician is still
heavyweight champion of the
world.
The foil for Ali this time was Earnie Shavers, a
shaven-headed 33-year-old puncher with questionable
stamina, a crude workman who, for $300,000, was expected to
fall down from exhaustion after six rounds or so. Shaver's
trademark was a bludgeoning
right thrown unceasingly until either the opponent was knock
out—52 had been, most of them with names like Rochell
Norris, Elgie Walters, and Young Agabab—or Shavers was,
which had happened three times. Ali labeled him The Acorn
because of his bare pate and
publicly dismissed him. In Las Vegas the bookies
considered him so far out of his class they wouldn't put up
a price. People do not bet on
acorns.
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After getting rocked by a Shavers right, Ali clenched and made faces at the crowd to buy himself recovery time.
(Neil Leifer)
| Ali's acorn turned out to be a warm and gracious man, one
amused by the champion's usual prefight antics, who mildly
offered that he thought he was a better fighter than
credited; that for the first time he was in excellent
physical condition and ready
to go 15 rounds if needed. His smile was a little boy's
smile, and when he spoke it was with a delightful touch of
humor; everyone liked him, few believed in
him.
"I don't know what we are going to do around here
after you win the title," said Frank Luca, Shavers'
trainer and one of the few believers. "After you whip
Ali all those hangers-on in his entourage are going to be
out of work. They'll all be over here
looking for the employment
office."
Delight brightened Shavers' eyes. "I already worked
that out," he said. "I'm going home and put up a
picket fence around the house, get some guard dogs and put
my wife Laverne at the door. They may get over the fence,
they might con my dogs, but they
won't get past Laverne. She's in charge of
entourages."
And but for a TV set that never was turned on, Shavers at
this moment might be at home building his fence. The set,
with no one to watch it, was in Shavers' dressing room.
Ali's 22nd title fight was televised by NBC, and as and
extra attraction the
network had arranged to flash the official scoring in the
screen after every round. Such an obvious edge was not
lost on Angelo Dundee, Ali's smart little trainer, who
posted Baltimore matchmaker Eddie Hrica in the champion's
dressing quarters to watch
the TV set there and relay the numbers after each round. And
so, after 12 rounds, Dundee knew the only way Shavers could
beat his man was by a
knockout.
Across the ring Shavers was being given quite a different
picture. Near the challenger's corner were several members
of his home-state Ohio Boxing Commission, two reporters and
José Sulaiman, the president of the World Boxing Council.
All were scoring
the fight and they all reported regularly to Luca that they
had Shavers far in the lead. No sweat. Don't take any
chances, Earnie. In truth, it was not an easy fight to
score. Ali's fights of late seldom have
been.
Ali began as he said he would: flat on his feet, circling
to his left but not dancing, easily eluding the few
thunderbolts Shavers unleashed. Ali won the first round,
mostly by
default.
"You have to dance against a man like Ken
Norton," Ali had said, "and against Joe Frazier.
You don't stand and slug with them. If Shavers is as slow
as he looks, I ain't gonna do no dancing with him. But I'm
ready. I'm ready to rope-a-dope; I'm
ready to dance; I'm ready to talk; I'm ready to clown; I'm ready
to be
serious."
What he was not ready to do was dance 15 rounds against
anyone: Shavers or Norton or Frazier, or Sister Sarah at
the Saturday Night Strutters Ball. The legs no longer can
handle 45 minutes of the Ali Shuffle; no more, perhaps,
than a third of that. No
matter. Unexcelled at buying time, Ali simply dips into his
satchel of tricks and whips out the rope-a-dope, brightens
it with some pantomime, clutches, makes faces at the fans,
sticks a long left into his opponent's face and leaves it
there while
elaborately cranking up his right. Meanwhile, his 35-year-old
legs can go on a coffee
break.
"He goes into that rope-a-dope," said Shavers
beforehand, "and it's gonna be the dullest fight in
history. When he does I'll just hit him a couple of times
and then go over and lean on another rope and stare at him.
It will be a staring
contest."
For Shavers the battle plan was patience, not to be a wild
man, not to punch himself out, and in the second round it
may have cost him the championship. Midway through the
round he unloaded a thunderous right over an Ali jab, which
caught the champion
flush on the head. Hurt badly, Ali clinched and held, and
over Shavers' bulky left shoulder he made faces at the
crowd, belittling the damage. Shavers stepped back and
hesitated, watching Ali pretend his legs were rubbery.
Instinct told him he had
the champion hurt, but Ali's con took the decision over common
sense. If at that crucial moment Shavers had reverted to
his primeval past, if he had plowed forward with both
cannons roaring, the title might have changed hands right
there. But Ali's
recuperative powers are extraordinary, he recovers almost as
quickly as you can flick a light switch twice: off, on.
His act bought him more time than he
needed.
The moment passed; the pace slowed. The third and fourth
rounds were a seminar in defense: Ali showed Shavers the
rope-a-dope; Shavers demonstrated his version of the
peekaboo. At times they resembled two old bulls fighting
over a young cow, horns
locked, shoving and snorting, tearing up a lot of earth but
not each other. In the shoving and snorting Shavers got a
draw.
Then Ali conjured up yet another trick: he showed Shavers a
25-year-old Ali, the kid who had dazzled Liston, who had
savaged Cooper. It was a though he had drunk from the
Fountain of Youth, and for three minutes it worked. The
fifth became his finest
round since his last fight with Frazier in Manila; gliding
gracefully and quickly, using the snake jab, the awesome
combinations, floating and stinging, the butterfly and the
bee. The world wanted Ali, he gave them Ali but, Lord, not
for very
long.
The candle flickered brightly and then went out. Dullness
returned. The sixth round was nearly even. Ali's
sleight-of-hand gave him the edge in the seventh: the
eighth went to Shavers by default. The fans booed Ali and
he waved his gloves at them,
as if saying, "You are watching Frans Hals paint the
Laughing Cavalier and you are angry because he is spilling
paint on the carpet." But an unfinished masterpiece is
no masterpiece, and so Ali fought on. With masterly fakery
and occasional flurries he
carried the next four rounds, building an insurmountable
lead. After 12 rounds he led 8-4 on two of the official
cards, 8-3-1 on the
third.
Now, thanks to NBC, Dundee knew his man could not lose the
decision, but he didn't tell Ali. "I've seen a lot of
smart cornermen think they've got a decision locked,"
said Dundee, "so they tell their man to relax. And
they wind up blowing the
title."
By now people were watching the challenger critically,
looking for the first sign of collapse. Shavers had never
gone more than 10 rounds before, and the few times he had
gone that far he had finished so exhausted he could hardly
stand. Now he had
lasted 12, but instead of wilting, the muscular challenger
stepped up his attack. He had been pressing most of the
night, now he went at Ali full bore. The 13th was Shavers'
best round to that point, the 14th was even better. Rocked
by hard right hands,
Ali survived, but the legs that had carried him through 56
professional fights were beginning to fail him. At the end
of the 14th round the champion had to dip into his reserve
of strength just to get back to his corner. Wearily he
slumped on his
stool, his eyes glazed by
fatigue.
When the bell for the 15th rang, Ali could barely stand.
His legs quivered. Dundee and Bundini Brown gripped his
arms, steadying him. "You don't look so good,"
Dundee said softly. "You better go out and take this
round."
As he moved to meet Shavers, Ali was thinking: "Just
three more minutes. Fight hard until you die. Do it
now." He sucked in a deep breath, lifted himself on
his toes and started to dance. Shavers came at him, the
time for patience gone, finally the
fearsome headhunter; but, as it turned out, too late. He
missed with a big right hand, took two punches, missed with
a right and a hook, then landed a right. Ali didn't have
the strength to act; dazed, he flurried ineffectively and
was caught by another
right
hand.
Together they lurched around the ring, swinging, missing,
gasping. With less than a minute to go, Ali's body was
screaming at him: no more, no more. Shuddering, the
champion called once again on his tremendous willpower, and
he launched perhaps his
greatest offensive. Fury replacing fatigue, he swarmed over
Shavers, pounding him without
pause.
In Ali's corner Dundee watched with awe. "I don't
know how you do it , you son of a bitch," he thought,
"but I love you for
it.'
Stunned by the sudden storm, Shavers sagged. But not his
spirit. A will almost the match of Ali's kept the
challenger on his feet. This was the man some had called a
dog. Watching Shavers, Cus D'Amato said, "It takes
some people a long time to grow
up. Tonight Shavers became a
man."
The priceless moments ended with the final bell. Ali won,
of course. And as he stood in his corner listening for the
verdict he said in a voice that could scarcely be heard,
"I'm tired. I'm so damn
tired."
Later in his dimly lit dressing room Ali lay on a dressing
table and moaned softly. Agony made prisoners of his legs;
his swollen hands hurt him so badly that he tried not to
move his fingers. The terrible body punishment Shavers had
inflicted had
left Ali's kidneys swollen, sore. He had demanded much more
than his body was prepared to give, and now he was paying.
"I'm through," he mumbled. "I don't need
anyone else to tell
me."
Earlier in the week he had spoken of one or two more small
$4 million fights against less imposing opponent than Jimmy
Young or Kenny Norton, who will fight Nov. 5 to be first on
line for Ali's crown. For certain, Ali doesn't want to
fight either one.
They have seen his magic and they are not fooled by it.
"Two lesser fights," Ali had said before the
Shavers bout, "and then retirement, still the champ.
Just give me 12 more
months."
But after Shavers, he was no longer sure he wants even 12
more minutes. His manager, Herbert Muhammad, had long
wanted him to retire. Herbert didn't even attend the
Shavers fight. He watched it on TV at his New York
apartment. Recently Sulaiman of
the WBC, who is more fan than expert, urged Ali to quit.
After the fight he added muscle to the plea. "If he
doesn't retire," said Sulaiman, "he'll fight the
winner of Norton-Young within the specified time or we'll
vacate the title. Ali is bigger
than the WBC," he added. "But we have our
dignity."
Thinking more, perhaps, of Ali's dignity, Teddy Brenner,
the Garden's boxing boss, added his vote for retirement.
"As long as I'm around," Brenner said, " the
Garden will never make another offer to Ali to
fight."
Dundee said he had his own thoughts, but they were private,
and he would only reveal them to Ali if asked. "He
has to make up his own mind," Dundee
said.
Ali's career has spanned 18 years, and he has earned from
boxing alone more than $44 million. He has a few of those
bucks left, plus a grim determination to retire as
champion. Still, future opponents like Alfio Rhigetti, the
Italian Marshmallow, or
Leon Spinks, he of just five pro fights, have been mentioned
along with Gerrie Coetzee, the unbeaten South African, who
was at the Shavers
fight.
"I can beat Ali," Coetzee said afterward.
"I'm faster, I have never lost. Do you know how old
Ali is? He is 35. My father is 40. He is almost as old
as my
father."
"But can you whip your father?" he was
asked.
Coetzee has no sense of humor. Can you believe a champion
with no sense of humor? Please, Ali, don't fight Coetzee.
Don't fight anyone else. The next guy might have a TV in
his corner.
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CNN/SI followed Holyfield through a typical day of training.
Check out the video clips, but be sure to come back to Evander's
Believe It Or Not.