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He fell on his stomach, shaking the house, and began to count dramatically.
"One, two, three," he had reached his hands and knees and was shaking his head dazedly. "Four, five, six," now on one knee but obviously hurt. "Seven, eight," he was up, wobbly.
"Referee wiping off Ali's gloves," he said. "And here Frazier come after Ali, but Ali is moving and sticking again." Ali began to move and stick, getting stronger and quicker, and by the time he rang the imaginary bell to end the round he was clearly in control again.
The second round did not last long.
"Ali looks like the old Ali," he said. "Pow, pow, pow, pow! Four left jabs to Frazier's head. Pow, pow, pow, pow, pow!" He pumped blows with both hands as fast as he could punch. "A machine gun combination! Frazier is hurt! POW! Ali hit him with a left hook! POW! And a right hook! POW! POW! A right and a left to the head and Frazier is down!"
He danced back to a neutral corner and counted slowly to six.
" Frazier is up and Ali is after him," he said, going after the phantom Frazier. "He's got him backed into a corner. Pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, POW! Frazier is helpless." He backed away from the corner between the mirror wall and the front window and held up his right hand.
"They stopping the fight," he said. "And still champion of the world—Muhammad Ali!"
He was puffing slightly and sweating and Belinda regarded him with a wife's jaundiced eye. "He's always doing that," she said. "He's crazy."
Later, in his car driving toward downtown Chicago, Ali was relaxed and becoming sleepy.