Fight of the Century 

By Al S. Mendoza

THIRTY-ONE YEARS AGO today, October 1, Muhammad Ali made boxing history right here in the Philippines. 

No, not that Ali defeated Joe Frazier for the world heavyweight crown, although that particular Ali victory was also one of the definitive moments in Ali’s drama-laden boxing career.

More importantly that day, Ali beating Frazier in a brutal bout earned the slugfest the distinction as the Fight of the Century. Best fight of all time.

In fact, Ali won it rather convincingly.  But in the eyes of the crowd that included President Marcos, both Ali and Frazier emerged from it victorious.  No one could doubt the sterling abilities of the two combatants to survive such an epic battle.  To come out of it in one whole piece was triumph enough – an impeccable achievement that was as clear as sky on a summer’s day.

It was a classic fight any way you look at it.

Held at high noon at the Araneta Coliseum, Asia’s first domed wonder erected in Cubao, Quezon City in 1960, the fight was virtually a death duel.  You can almost view it as Christian versus lion of the olden times: The death of one means a new leash on life to the other.

The fight teemed with unrestrained anger, unbridled hostility and shocking savagery. 

Ali had called Frazier “gorilla.” 

Ali had said, “Am gonna kill da gorilla in Da Thrilla in Manila.”

It was a “For Adult Only” show. But with this one, even hardcore lovers of barbarity were at times forced to cover their eyes when confronted with unsightly scenes of human cruelty in the ring.

It made Ali transform Frazier’s face into a virtual dartboard. 

The fight did not only unveil gristly gore produced consistently on a high, hurting note, it also highlighted blood-spilling sprees, splattering on all kinds of glittering wardrobe at ringside.

It was, in short, the fight of a lifetime.

After the flesh-tearing, rib-breaking and face-smashing acts were over, both fighters knew not where they were.

So shaken were they that at the end of the fight, both were bewildered and battered – but, alas, not broken in spirit.

“I can fight him to the last breadth of my life, to the last drop of my blood,” Frazier said.

That was after Frazier’s trainer, Eddie Futch, had just restrained Frazier from answering the bell signaling the start of the 14th round. 

Seeing his boy too weak to continue fighting, too badly battered he could almost hear Frazier’s ribs tweaking, Futch had seen it fit to stop the carnage.  It was the kindest act I’ve seen in a boxing contest.

Thirteen of the scheduled 15 rounds had taken its toll on Frazier.

Ali had also been hit time and again during the fight.  He winced, writhed in pain, each time he got tagged by the plodding, no-backpedal Frazier.

But doubtless the smartest man to ever wear a boxing glove, Ali would always come out the winner from almost any fierce exchange with any boxer he faced – Frazier included. 

Ali threw the most lethal punches that day to Frazier, almost endlessly jolting the challenger with 1-2 combinations to the face, to the body – all achingly coming in monotonous regularity.

Still, when it was over, Ali, himself hurting all over and heavily panting, said, “This is almost next to death.”

That night, Ali, covered with sheets, lay in his suite bed at the then Hilton Hotel on UN Avenue, entertaining a few visitors while sipping orange juice. He looked pale,

Over at the Hyatt on Roxas Blvd., Frazier was belting out a rock ‘n’ roll ditty at was ashen faced, as though he had the flu.the hotel bar with his famous band, The Knockouts.  He was wearing sunglasses to conceal ugly welts ‘round his eyes. The way he was dishing it out, he appeared like he was the winner hours earlier.

Hurting on the inside, laughing on the outside?

Or, maybe, a loser doesn’t always lose everything.      

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