Boxing's Short Memory of Long Living Legends

When Joe Frazier defeated Muhammad Ali forty years ago in Madison Square Garden’s, in their first of three brutal encounters, he probably didn’t have a care in the World.

He had just retained his two World title belts and the word beginning with ‘R’ when he would hang up his gloves was most likely the last thing on his mind.

Of the two fighters that left the ring in New York, time hasn’t been favourable to either. However, they are both held in the highest of regards by, not just the boxing public, but the sporting one.

On the eve of David Haye’s pinnacle fight against Wladimir Klitschko in Germany we are witnessing boxers that are hyped as warriors and potential legends. Neither, in fact, is worthy of catching Frazier’s gum-shield or lacing Ali’s gloves.

While Muhammad Ali is seemingly failing to deal with the subsequent severity of his Parkinson’s disease, Frazier is not just short of a ‘bob or two’, but damn near completely broke.

The chance for myself to go to ‘an evening with...Smokin’ Joe Frazier’ should never have occurred. However, due to (partly) boxing and (partly) himself, financial implications meant he was present at the Skellow Grange Working Men’s club, around 8 miles north of Doncaster.

The people in this area are notoriously tough, and they appreciate Champions, so much so, they would pay up to £70 for a seat in this intimate, sell-out venue of around 250 people.

The experience is one I shall certainly never forget. Having found out about the event, it was seemingly impossible to turn down – “a once in a lifetime” (I didn’t spout that, the Mancunian compere did though, on more than one occasion).

A photo with Frazier - £10, the frame to go with it - £20. This was before the first round of drinks had even been bought.

Illustrious other guests joined Frazier. Tim Witherspoon, Brian London et al. People, who had been photographed more times than the average bloke on the street had blinked, were sat at the top table.

The hour long photo session came and went; the rusty tribute act also did a turn, as did the downright insulting Scouse excuse for a comedian. Surely by 9.30pm after three hours of waiting, Frazier’s left fist would clutch the microphone? No Sir.

“Help yourself to the buffet, the auction’s coming up.”

I duly waited for the blokes with necks twice the size of mine to take the best of the spread. Egg and cress sandwiches would have to do. The aforementioned auction was shambolic. Witherspoon had already walked off stage at the vulgarity of the comedian, and the compere was left to flog boxing gloves that Frazier was signing under the table.

A signed Norman Hunter poster took the biscuit somewhat, and this was before the selling of unauthenticated merchandise and my suspicions of a ‘plant’ in the room.

The clock nudged eleven; finally Frazier was on. He couldn’t muster a lot, and just stuttered and stumbled for two minutes about race and unity amidst loud drunken conversations.

A hero and an icon then had sat there for five hours looking very uncomfortable with proceedings as he scanned a room full of people who live in an area similar financially, to that in which he grew up.

Before the night was over, I made sure I got a poster signed (£20), but the cost of the evening did more damage to Frazier’s dignity than my wallet and that is the reason, that should David Haye not choose to retire at 31, his profession looks after him regardless.