Free Come Out Smokin' by Phil Pepe Page A

disposed of Dave Zyglewicz faster than you can say . . . Dave Zyglewicz. The official time was 1:36 of the first round. It was no great triumph. Boxing writers mocked Frazier for the ineptness of his opponent and wondered, in print, when Joe was going to fight a heavyweight of stature. They were satisfied when Frazier was matched with tough Jerry Quarry, the WBA finalist, in Madison Square Garden on June 23,1969.
    As if to prove his courage to the doubting New York press, Quarry threw logic out the window and made the mistake of trying to slug it out with a slugger. Somehow, Quarry must have known he’d come out second best in that kind of fight. But he did prove his point. Quarry had courage. Wisdom? That was open to question.
    For four rounds, it was one of the most brutal battles in heavyweight history—a war—with neither fighter willing to give ground. They just stood there, toe-to-toe, and exchanged hard shots to the head as defense was abandoned. One magazine writer described it this way: “They were like two Mack trucks meeting in the street. They would smash into each other, then back up and smash into each other again.” Late in the fourth round, Quarry smashed Frazier with a left hook to the jaw, as hard as you can hit a man. But Joe never budged, never backed off. He looked his opponent in the eye and he spit the words out through his mouthpiece.
    â€œYou through?” Frazier said. “Because it’s my turn now.”
    And it
was
Joe’s turn. Perhaps discouraged that firing his best shot was like trying to chop at Stone Mountain with a nail file, Jerry Quarry was through. He was through pitching, he wasn’t through catching. Frazier teed off and Quarry proved his courage by taking everything Frazier had to give and remaining on his feet. But when the referee stopped the fight in the seventh, Quarry’s face was a piece of red meat surrounding two razor slits in place of eyes.
    Joe Frazier had done his bit to mop up the heavyweight division, defending his title four times in a year. For the first time, he was acclaimed by the critical press, who now were willing to acknowledge him as the best heavyweight in the world, apart from Muhammad Ali.
    Now there was only one match, Joe Frazier vs. WBA champion Jimmy Ellis for the undisputed heavyweight championship of the world—undisputed, that is, except for the exiled Ali. Already, the promotion was beginning. Ellis had been a witness to Frazier’s destruction of Quarry and he stood in the back of the interview area while Frazier answered press questions. Finally, Jimmy could be quiet no longer. “When are you going to fight a real man?” he shouted.
    â€œWhenever you’re ready,” Frazier replied.
    Jimmy Ellis’ time was, coming.

Free at Last
    It was billed, quite naturally, as a “Battle of Champions.” Two men, both claiming the heavyweight championship of the world and both with strong support to back up that claim. The World Boxing Association, the governing body in most of Europe and the United States, threw its support to Jimmy Ellis, the winner of its elimination tournament. New York and those five other states recognized Joe Frazier.
    Sometime shortly before midnight on February 16, 1970, that dispute would be settled. It would be resolved in fifteen rounds or less in the Madison Square Garden ring and when it was over, there would be only one champion remaining, regarded by all authorities as boxing’s heavyweight champion of the world, the most honored, prestigious, coveted, and richest title in professional sports.
    In many ways, the opponents were alike. Both were children of poverty, both were devoted family men, Ellis the father of six, Frazier the father of five. Music was very much a part of both their lives; they both sang, as youngsters, in the choir of their Baptist church, Ellis in Louisville, Kentucky, Frazier in Beaufort, South Carolina.
    Unlike Frazier, though,