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Muhammad Ali Article , from Frank Keating ,Guardian Newspaper
by Guest Wed 09 Mar 2011, 13:07
The night I saw Muhammad Ali fight Joe Frazier – in KensingtonIn the days when satellite transmissions were a novelty, not even defeat could stop the Ali legend soaring to new heights
Frank Keating The Guardian, Wednesday 9 March 2011
On a 9 March morning precisely 40 years ago a contemplatively dazed throng had filed out of a west London cinema into the still-dark pre-dawn to congregate in whispered huddles on the wide pavement concourse to begin to discuss the emphatic curtain-call to the hour of epic narrative they had just witnessed live – or rather, relayed in fuzzy wide-screen monochrome moving pictures beamed across oceans and continents by way of a still comparatively primeval space satellite.
Londoners had been watching a New York boxing match. Not any old boxing match, mind you. This was breakthrough broadcasting. Sky TV was years away. Live television rights had been bought in 46 countries that night and top whack paid by 337 exclusive closed-circuit outlets to worldwide cinemas – which, happily, included the wide and handsome Odeon in London's High Street, Kensington. It was the first time two undefeated world heavyweight champions had ever contested that title. It was March 1971 and the first of the defining three-fight saga between Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali, noble warrior v clown, authentic slugger v classic boxer, Caliban v Nureyev, venom v purity, you name it … and it was, of course, billed as The Fight of the Century; there had been an abundance of those in the previous 71 years, as there would be plenty more in the following 29.
It is a surprise to realise that anyone who actually remembers that night for real is now at least middle-aged. As I was then, I suppose. I'd worked on the Guardian for a couple of years in the early 1960s and by 1971, after a zany, pink-shirted spell with ITV, I was contentedly back on the paper's sports desk. So a nice mix of mates from both jobs was in the Odeon at the witching hour – all of us for Ali, enamoured with the diamond sharpness of his talent, wit, and perceived political courage.
As the lights dimmed and the flickering New York blood-feud began it was obvious this cross-section of late-night Londoners was split for a favourite as jaunty optimism and defeatist pessimism vied noisily through each successive unrelenting round of, in turn, skill, passion, bitterness, and defiant courage of shuddering intensity. Frazier's face became a crimson mess: he was taking three snapping punches to land just one; Ali's clustered tattoos of hurtful punches were becoming briefer and his desperate play-acting was wasting energy.
After 14 rounds at dead-level even, both warriors were spent. Well almost, for Frazier at the very last bent low at centre-stage and came up with, well, the kitchen sink … an exquisitely timed rock-knuckled left hook of bestial accuracy which smashed into Ali's jaw so grievously that the right side of the big man's face was wonkily out of shape even before the back of his burgundy trunks hit the floor and the little flamboyant red tassels on his boots waved limply up at the ring lights.
The Big Mouth had been shut good and proper. Over and out. The passing Ali legend had, surely, now passed.
What happened in the next few moments, however, was, utterly to confound and rout Ali's enemies and, overwhelmingly, to recharge and reward his believers. He'd got up. He lived. And so did the legend grow.
By miraculously clawing himself to his feet and attempting to mount a counterattack, the stricken Ali – loser, but still champ – had, in fact, won everything. For eternity. Whatever was to come, that finale in New York (and Kensington) settled Ali's imperishable place in history.
Out in the High Street, normal life soon took shape again as the fingers of dawn got a grip in the east and the all‑night buses shuffled on amiably as we strolled down to the steamy old ABC café for tea and toast. Later that day I offered my own couple of hundred words to add to the Guardian's crack New York coverage. The boss cruelly spiked it. I'd only been back a few weeks and, anyway, what did I know, I'd only been to the cinema.
Hearing a greenhorn's disappointment in the Blue Lion, the Guardian's then treasured pocket cartoonist Horner commiserated and said I was welcome to his original of that day's front-page drawing. It showed the wounded Ali, mute in hospital, his swollen cheek hanging at a grotesque angle – and his index finger pointing to the scrawled three-word notice above the bed.
Those three words read "STILL THE GREATEST".
Frank Keating The Guardian, Wednesday 9 March 2011
On a 9 March morning precisely 40 years ago a contemplatively dazed throng had filed out of a west London cinema into the still-dark pre-dawn to congregate in whispered huddles on the wide pavement concourse to begin to discuss the emphatic curtain-call to the hour of epic narrative they had just witnessed live – or rather, relayed in fuzzy wide-screen monochrome moving pictures beamed across oceans and continents by way of a still comparatively primeval space satellite.
Londoners had been watching a New York boxing match. Not any old boxing match, mind you. This was breakthrough broadcasting. Sky TV was years away. Live television rights had been bought in 46 countries that night and top whack paid by 337 exclusive closed-circuit outlets to worldwide cinemas – which, happily, included the wide and handsome Odeon in London's High Street, Kensington. It was the first time two undefeated world heavyweight champions had ever contested that title. It was March 1971 and the first of the defining three-fight saga between Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali, noble warrior v clown, authentic slugger v classic boxer, Caliban v Nureyev, venom v purity, you name it … and it was, of course, billed as The Fight of the Century; there had been an abundance of those in the previous 71 years, as there would be plenty more in the following 29.
It is a surprise to realise that anyone who actually remembers that night for real is now at least middle-aged. As I was then, I suppose. I'd worked on the Guardian for a couple of years in the early 1960s and by 1971, after a zany, pink-shirted spell with ITV, I was contentedly back on the paper's sports desk. So a nice mix of mates from both jobs was in the Odeon at the witching hour – all of us for Ali, enamoured with the diamond sharpness of his talent, wit, and perceived political courage.
As the lights dimmed and the flickering New York blood-feud began it was obvious this cross-section of late-night Londoners was split for a favourite as jaunty optimism and defeatist pessimism vied noisily through each successive unrelenting round of, in turn, skill, passion, bitterness, and defiant courage of shuddering intensity. Frazier's face became a crimson mess: he was taking three snapping punches to land just one; Ali's clustered tattoos of hurtful punches were becoming briefer and his desperate play-acting was wasting energy.
After 14 rounds at dead-level even, both warriors were spent. Well almost, for Frazier at the very last bent low at centre-stage and came up with, well, the kitchen sink … an exquisitely timed rock-knuckled left hook of bestial accuracy which smashed into Ali's jaw so grievously that the right side of the big man's face was wonkily out of shape even before the back of his burgundy trunks hit the floor and the little flamboyant red tassels on his boots waved limply up at the ring lights.
The Big Mouth had been shut good and proper. Over and out. The passing Ali legend had, surely, now passed.
What happened in the next few moments, however, was, utterly to confound and rout Ali's enemies and, overwhelmingly, to recharge and reward his believers. He'd got up. He lived. And so did the legend grow.
By miraculously clawing himself to his feet and attempting to mount a counterattack, the stricken Ali – loser, but still champ – had, in fact, won everything. For eternity. Whatever was to come, that finale in New York (and Kensington) settled Ali's imperishable place in history.
Out in the High Street, normal life soon took shape again as the fingers of dawn got a grip in the east and the all‑night buses shuffled on amiably as we strolled down to the steamy old ABC café for tea and toast. Later that day I offered my own couple of hundred words to add to the Guardian's crack New York coverage. The boss cruelly spiked it. I'd only been back a few weeks and, anyway, what did I know, I'd only been to the cinema.
Hearing a greenhorn's disappointment in the Blue Lion, the Guardian's then treasured pocket cartoonist Horner commiserated and said I was welcome to his original of that day's front-page drawing. It showed the wounded Ali, mute in hospital, his swollen cheek hanging at a grotesque angle – and his index finger pointing to the scrawled three-word notice above the bed.
Those three words read "STILL THE GREATEST".
Last edited by andygf on Wed 09 Mar 2011, 14:36; edited 1 time in total
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Re: Muhammad Ali Article , from Frank Keating ,Guardian Newspaper
by Sir. badgerhands Wed 09 Mar 2011, 13:22
Good article but I'm more interested in what you pasted 3/4 of the way down about talking horses!!!
Tell me about the damn horses!!!!
Tell me about the damn horses!!!!
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Re: Muhammad Ali Article , from Frank Keating ,Guardian Newspaper
by Scottrf Wed 09 Mar 2011, 13:33
Not as interesting as it sounds:Sir. badgerhands wrote:Good article but I'm more interested in what you pasted 3/4 of the way down about talking horses!!!
Tell me about the damn horses!!!!
http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/blog/2011/mar/09/live-racing-march-9-2011
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Re: Muhammad Ali Article , from Frank Keating ,Guardian Newspaper
by Scottrf Wed 09 Mar 2011, 13:35
"Seeking: Women Men Men & Women
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to....."
Why would 100 ever be the minimum age you are looking for?
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to....."
Why would 100 ever be the minimum age you are looking for?
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Re: Muhammad Ali Article , from Frank Keating ,Guardian Newspaper
by Sir. badgerhands Wed 09 Mar 2011, 13:42
Scottrf wrote:"Seeking: Women Men Men & Women
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to....."
Why would 100 ever be the minimum age you are looking for?
Takes all sorts Scott, takes all sorts.
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Re: Muhammad Ali Article , from Frank Keating ,Guardian Newspaper
by Guest Wed 09 Mar 2011, 14:37
Ha,ha, excellent. Now edited properly 
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Re: Muhammad Ali Article , from Frank Keating ,Guardian Newspaper
by azania Wed 09 Mar 2011, 14:40
Sir. badgerhands wrote:Scottrf wrote:"Seeking: Women Men Men & Women
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to....."
Why would 100 ever be the minimum age you are looking for?
Takes all sorts Scott, takes all sorts.
Wayne Rooney?
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Re: Muhammad Ali Article , from Frank Keating ,Guardian Newspaper
by rapidringsroad Wed 09 Mar 2011, 20:59
It definitely took a lot of heart to get up from a punch like that, especially as Ali must have known that he had lost the fight. I had picked Frazier to win but what ever you say about Ali he wasn't a quitter.
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Re: Muhammad Ali Article , from Frank Keating ,Guardian Newspaper
by Guest Wed 09 Mar 2011, 21:04
Joe said he couldn't believe Ali got up.Said it was like hitting the perfect baseball pitch!
Also said, "I didn't like him but when he got in that ring, he was a man".
Poor old Joe.Doesn't seem to be that financially well off.On his guest appearance on The Simpsons, he refused to be knocked out by Homer,so he knocked out Homer instead.Can't blame him, but it would have been amusing.
Also said, "I didn't like him but when he got in that ring, he was a man".
Poor old Joe.Doesn't seem to be that financially well off.On his guest appearance on The Simpsons, he refused to be knocked out by Homer,so he knocked out Homer instead.Can't blame him, but it would have been amusing.
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