In Honor Of The Late, Great Joe Frazier

Boxing is the “fool’s gold” of sport. It defies all that we learn from the time we are children into adulthood.

Whether it’s the endless wails of a mother over her child’s scraped knee or the sharp wince accompanying the arthritic spasm of a retiree, we are too often reminded that human beings are made to be broken.

Yet, as wounds bleed and bones creak, the long cannon of boxing offers the endless illusion of immortality.

As Joe Frazier succumbed to the final bell of his 67 years on Monday night, this boxing scribe again realized that there are some canvases off of which we can never rise. The fighter who long-prided himself on having never taken a backward step, departed this world and left behind a mass of mourners from all corners of the world.

Born a sharecropper’s son in Beaufort, South Carolina, Frazier had no choice but to acclimate himself to the blue-collar lifestyle under the gaze of Jim Crow. Few people know that his father, Rubin, had suffered an injury that resulted with the amputation of his left hand and forearm. That meant that young Joseph literally had to become his father’s left hand while carrying bushels and loads on the farm. As if drawn from an ancient Greek legend, from an early age the young boy had already begun cultivating the strength that would one-day take him to a world championship under the tutelage of the great Eddie Futch.

If Joe was born in Beaufort, it can be said that he was brought to life in Philadelphia. The epitome of a ‘Philadelphia fighter’, tough-as-nails and willing to take four to land one, Frazier embodied the same working-class style that had once carried Dempsey and Marciano to the Heavyweight crown. Following a successful amateur career that landed an Olympic Gold Medal at the 1964 Tokyo Games, Joe pursued the professional ranks inside the Philly’s hallowed boxing gyms.

In the days when our earth trembled, the poetry and fury of Muhammad Ali reverberated from continent to continent. A champion, a misfit, a hero, the 25 year old Heavyweight Champion who twice stunned the fearsome Sonny Liston found himself stripped of the title and facing incarceration for failure to be inducted in the United States Armed Forces. Within a moment’s wink, the world was without a champion at time when such a label meant something.

Enter Joe Frazier.

Upon order of the New York State Athletic Commission, Frazier knocked out Buster Mathis to win the belt that had previously been vacated with Ali’s suspension. However, the world knew that nothing short of an Ali-Frazier duel would suffice in crowning a new champion.

And duel they did. For 41 rounds in the span of four years, Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier signed a blood oath that would follow them until Frazier’s last breath. Whether inside Madison Square Garden or in the sweltering heat of the Philippines, whenever the pair met, they did so at what seemed to be the center of the universe.

In three fights, Frazier won once and Ali twice, but both eternally linked themselves to one another. In their third and most epic bout, the Thrilla in Manilla, the world witnessed two men hell-bent on certain death. One, Ali, perceived himself as the victim of society’s outdated and prejudicial norms. Frazier, saw himself as a black man of humbled beginnings, stripped away of his identity by his pugilistic foil. Both were willing to die in hopes of reclaiming their identities, yet each survived forever changed.

Over the past decades, it’s become difficult to catch a glimpse of Ali in his Parkinson’s-state and not wonder how much of it was ‘Smokin’ Joe’-induced. In the years leading to his recent passing, Frazier’s slurred speech and slowed demeanor were without question attributable, in part, to the 41 rounds that they shared.

In an era when boxing titles are distributed like Halloween treats, it’s hard to recall the live-or-die creed that fighters once carried. Numerous ringside observers on-hand in the Philippines that night have recounted how close each boxer was to death. Ali himself has noted that it was the closest to death he had ever been.

Yet, what they gave the world was far more beautiful than brutal. Two gladiators alone in the ring, willing to sacrifice soul and self for a sheer shred of glory.

Unfairly, Frazier will forever be known as Ali’s foil. However, the boy from Beaufort grew into so much more. Without him, Ali would never have been possible. During an era when the world needed a champion, Frazier earned an honest claim to the crown. He fought greats and champions from Quarry to Foster and Ali to Foreman. Though he did not always find himself winning, Frazier certainly was never seen retreating.

Now we live in a world with no Joe Frazier. Philadelphia falls silent this week, as does the boxing community.

But there remains a lone thought allowing us to sleep easy tonight. It’s that somewhere, right now, Joe Frazier is a young man again. He just made his way into some boxing gym at the top of the steps. There are no tattered fight posters adorning the walls, but rather a sea of familiar faces. They have names like Patterson, Pep, Marciano, Robinson, Louis, and Dempsey. Eddie Futch is there, too.

Just then, the old sage of a trainer tosses the youngster a pair of gloves. He smiles and says, “There ain’t no losin’ up here, kid.”

Up goes Frazier . . . Rest in Peace.