He will be the first in the ring, so look at him with honest eyes because you probably will never see such impeccable talent again. Assessed by the familiar standards—punch, size, speed, intelligence, command and imagination—he is without peer and there is nothing he cannot or will not do in a ring. In the esthetics of boxing, Muhammad Ali transcends the fighter. He is a Balanchine, a Dali, the ultimate action poet who has lifted so primordial an act to eloquent, sometimes weird, beauty. But for all his gifts, it is his fear of failure, of the moment, that is his real strength. All fighters have it, but few shape it into such a positive force. It seems to be the catalyst, the thing that detonates his intense public displays, his psychological war dance that opens the floodgates for his talent.
Move across now to the other corner and there you will see the finest gladiator—in the purest sense of the word—in heavyweight history. To picture Joe Frazier one must recall what happened to Jerry Quarry when he elected to work within Frazier's perimeter. It was like the Wehrmacht crossing into Russia—and the end was the same. Even the most cynical of boxing people look at Frazier and rhapsodize about his drilling aggression, his volume of threshing-blade punches that make you forget his short arms. He does not have the single, crumpling punch of Marciano, or the sudden ferocity of Dempsey, but he is more mobile than either, and much better to watch. It is that animal joy that he exudes; one has the feeling that he has watched a man bring honesty, a nobility of spirit to his work.
Like deadly weaponry projected from opposite ends of the earth, Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier collide Monday night at Madison Square Garden for the final sorting out of the heavyweight championship of the world. In itself, that is enough, but there is much more here than a title. This is the international sporting event of our age, one of the great dramas of our time created by a unique permutation of factors: Ali's unjust exile, his sudden pyrotechnic presence and the political climate that demanded that return; the $2.5 million for each fighter, a bold, brilliant promotional gamble; the beautiful evolution of Joe Frazier, and the reality that both Ali and Frazier might retire no matter what happens.
The thrust of this fight on the public consciousness is incalculable. It has been a ceaseless whir that seems to have grown in decibel with each new soliloquy by Ali, with each dead calm promise by Frazier. It has magnetized the imagination of ring theorists, and flushed out polemicists of every persuasion. It has cut deep into the thicket of our national attitudes, and it is a conversational imperative everywhere—from the gabble of big-city salons and factory lunch breaks rife with unreasoning labels, to ghetto saloons with their own false labels.
No two peoples consider or respond to the ring with the same emotion. It is a rite of blood and manhood to the Latins, and what they bring to it is hysteria. Because of their innate, quiet pugnacity, the English see it intimately, the same way that the French see themselves pridefully in the works of Racine and Molière at the Comédie Française. As for the Swedes, who banned it, they never could make up their minds about the ring, and with their heavy sadness they always seem suspended between shame and a zealous need to be in communion with a victim. How the Russians approach the ring cannot be gauged accurately, but there seems small doubt about what they would do with a champion in the propaganda market.
Americans are the most curious in their reaction to a heavyweight title bout, especially one of this scope. To some, the styles and personalities of the fighters seem to provide the paraphernalia of a forum; the issue becomes a sieve through which they feel compelled to pour all of their fears and prejudices. Still others find it a convenient opportunity to dispense instant good and evil, right and wrong. The process is as old as boxing: the repelling bluff and bluster of John L. against the suavity and decorum of Gentleman Jim; the insidious malevolence of Johnson vs. the stolidity of Jeffries; the evil incarnate Liston against the vulnerable Patterson. It is a fluid script, crossing over religion, war, politics, race and much of what is so terribly human in all of us.
The fight—mainly an athletic spectacular for many, though it provokes almost unbearable anticipation—also appears to have released manic emotion. The disputation of the New Left comes at Frazier with its spongy thinking and pushbutton passion and seeks to color him white, to denounce him as a capitalist dupe and a Fifth Columnist to the black cause. Those on the other fringe, just as blindly rancorous, see in Ali all that is unhealthy in this country, which in essence means all they will not accept from a black man. For still others, numbed by the shock of a sharply evolving society, he means confusion; he was one of the first to start pouring their lemonade world down the drain.
Among the blacks there is only a whisper of feeling for Frazier, who is deeply cut by their reaction. He is pinned under the most powerful influence on black thought in the country. The militants view Ali as the Mahdi, the one man who has circumvented what they believe to be an international white conspiracy. To the young he is identity, an incomparable hero of almost mythological dimension. They all need him badly, and they will not part with him easily. They know that if ever a fighter lived who could smash their symbol into fragments it is Joe Frazier. Out of anxiety, a sense of dread, they respond with the most synthetic of accusations: Frazier is the white man's champion, contrived and manipulated to destroy what is once again so close to the black man's heart and soul.
"When he gets to ringside," says Ali, "Frazier will feel like a traitor, though he's not. When he sees those women and those men aren't for him he'll feel a little weakening. He'll have a funny feeling, an angry feeling. Fear is going to come over him. He will realize that Muhammad Ali is the real champ. And he'll feel he's the underdog with the people. And he'll lose a little pride. The pressure will be so great that he'll feel it. Just gettin' in the ring alone with thousands and millions of eyes lookin' at you in those big arenas, and those hot lights comin' down that long aisle. It's going to be real frightful when he goes to his corner. He don't have nothing. But me...I have a cause."
It is one thing, however silly it may be, for the black man to impugn Frazier, but it is the worst sort of presumption for whites to denigrate him. Contrasted to Ali's past, Frazier's much more expresses the hard reality—other than politics—of what the black man's life has been and is. Quality of life to Frazier meant a plow, hours and days in the subtropical heat, calluses as big as hen eggs on his hands, and just enough to eat from a table crowded by a huge family. He was raised in South Carolina's Beaufort County—where the Government first gave black people "forty acres and a mule," where a recent survey found abysmal poverty and a high percentage of parasites in the blood of black children, more than 50% of whom are infected. "Was I a Tom there...then?" asks Frazier.