The day my love for boxing died

I was born in 1959 and thus grew up in the time of Mohammed Ali. When I first heard of him, his name was Cassius Clay. He then converted to Islam and his name became Mohammed Ali. I was only about four or five years old at the time. It seemed strange to me that he would change his name. I was too young to understand any of the issues at the time. It was from him that I learned the phrase “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee”. He was a good looking man in my opinion. He seemed a hero to so many people.

My Dad’s family grew up with the manly art of boxing. When I was little, my Dad used to share bed time stories of the mighty boxers of his day and of course, Mohammed Ali. His refusal to fight in Vietnam cost him (and us) the best years of his boxing career. The heavyweight boxers of the world seemed to be the most popular with the public, I suppose it was their ability to quickly end a fight with their powerful punches.

I still remember my Dad taking me to the Drive In with him (just the two of us as my brothers were too little) to see Mohammed Ali fighting Joe Frazier in 1975. It was their second fight at Madison Gardens in New York and I found it quite boring as Ali was always clinching Joe Frazier after a flurry of blows. Ali won on points and to me was the better boxer by a fair margin. Neither man was a world champion at the time.

Then in February 1978, Ali lost his title to a virtual unknown, Leon Spinks had fought not many fights as a professional fighter and not many of those were even decent fighters. It was a shock to the world, Ali was getting old but to lose to a virtual beginner professional from a lighter weight division? In the ensuing months, the valid contender, Ken Norton, was awarded the WBC title as Spinks justifiably refused to fight him, just as Ali had been dodging him for probably the same reason. Then in September of the same year, Ali beat Spinks in a rematch winning on points. By now I was smelling a rat and felt that heavyweight boxing was being rigged.

Then in June 1979, all my fears were realised when Spinks fought the “White Hope” from South Africa, Gerrie Coetzee. Gerry knocked him out in the first round. Although Gerrie was a good South African boxer, I didn’t feel that he was quite the world’s best. I now knew that boxing was rigged and Ali was a tainted man. His third world title was phoney to me.

Boxing had become a farce, maybe it was always so in the past, but I had viewed Mohammed Ali as “the greatest”. To me the boxer who had my greatest respect was Joe Frazier. He didn’t have the mouth of Ali and maybe not even the same skill levels but he was a fighter with tremendous courage and a great heart. He seemed incorruptible.

Smokin’ Joe is my man.