Joe Frazier passed away just a couple of days ago.
There were plenty of valedictory articles. Most focused on Joe's 3 fights with Muhammad Ali, the third of which was the Thrilla in Manilla.
James Lawton in the Independent was especially evocative:
Ali saw his last assignment against Frazier as a formality, something to juggle along with a tempestuous affair with the beautiful Veronica Porsche. Ali was the King of the World then, of course, the conqueror of Foreman in the African jungle clearing and it was an authority that seemed to endure its most serious challenge when his wife Belinda, hearing that her young rival was being passed off as the new Mrs Ali, flew into Manila in a fury that made Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew seem like a minor domestic chore.
It was a distraction that Ali realised soon enough might well have carried the most disastrous consequences.
Precisely, this was in the seventh round when the champion's presumption that he had weathered the worst of Frazier's pressure was shattered by a new wave of attacks.
Ali gathered Frazier into his grasp and whispered into his ear, "Joe, they told me you were all washed up."
Frazier replied, "They told you wrong, pretty boy."
I'm not a fan of boxing ; its sheer physical brutality & long term damage to the boxers is not for me.
But I do recognise the brutality of all competition.
It's almost half a century since I first beat Dad at Draughts on a Sunday evening.
It was only when I did it a second & third time the following weekend that he recognised what a brutal pastime it is.
And just a few weeks ago - 30 years and more since we began playing - Dianne started to beat me regularly at Crib.
I knew how Dad felt ...
Lord Ric
