A Glimpse of Ali: Looking Back at Muhammad Ali Vs Earnie Shavers

By Kevin “The Voice” Kincade

By September 29th, 1977, it had been ten long years since Ali had been Public Enemy # 1. When he’d stopped Zora Folley in March of that year, not a man alive could touch him. No heavyweight in history had moved like he did. Nobody had his handspeed, his footspeed, that “radar” to avoid punches like he did. He did everything wrong in the ring and somehow made it work. Nine times men tried to take his title, nine times they failed. Watching Ali fight in the ‘60’s was like watching Picasso paint or Baryshnikov dance. It was art.

However, the thing about Ali was not merely his in-ring skills; but the larger than life personality which came along with it. He wasn’t like anyone who’d ever held the title before with the possible exception of Jack Johnson, with whom he identified. His press conferences and weigh-ins were events you could have charged admission to all by themselves. Even before he won the title, his persona drew press. Contrary to common knowledge, though, most of it was an act. As a teen, he’d picked up on a wrestler, “Gorgeous George’s” shtick and it worked. He didn’t’ care if people hated him as long as they’d pay to see him lose; but when he refused to take that step in April of ’67, that was a whole ‘nuther ball game. That was no act. Play time was over.

So strange looking back on it though 1977 glasses. In 1967, Ali was arguably the most reviled man in the United States. Patriotism was at a fever pitch then, blindingly so; and if you criticized the government, then you didn’t love “Murica,” and you could get the hell out. He refused to fight in a war he didn’t’ believe in, not as long as blacks were being oppressed in the United States. He didn’t have no “quarrel with them Viet Cong”, no Viet Cong had ever called him “nigger!” When he said that, the press blew up and so did a large portion of the populist.

How do you translate racism to those who don’t experience it? Except by pointing out the obvious hypocrisy, what can be done? Minorities were still being treated as second class citizens in the United States and Ali publicly said so and used that to explain why he felt it was wrong to travel half-way round the globe to kill other “Brown People” for a racist regime. It doesn’t even matter that, in all reality, he never would have fired a gun. If Ali had taken the deal he was offered, which was similar to the one offered Joe Louis, his mere presence in uniform would have been used to recruit more people to the cause, a cause which he was morally opposed to. So, he simply said, “No,” and paid the price.

Of course, by 1977, this was all ancient history. Somehow, after three and a half years away, he came back. The crowds that catcalled him and booed him, now worshiped him. He’d gone from national pariah to national treasure. Against all odds, after three and a half years away from the ring, he took on the # 1 Contender out of the gate and stopped him in 3, took on Oscar Bonavena and despite a miserable showing, became the first man to stop him in 15, and then warred with Joe Frazier in one for the ages, earning respect for his toughness in suffering his first defeat. After three more years of beating every one worth fighting, he’d avenged his loss to Frazier and the man who handed him his second defeat and broken his jaw in the process, Ken Norton. Then, at age 32, somehow stopped the unstoppable George Foreman in the wee morning hours in Kinshasa, Zaire to become only the second man in history to regain the Heavyweight Championship of the World. People love a comeback; but this was beyond that. By the time Foreman climbed off the canvas in Africa, Muhammad Ali had passed over into the realm of legend.

Along the way, what became apparent was that Ali was no longer the same fighter he’d been in his first career. Career 1 had been marked by his elusiveness and his incredible speed of hand and foot. As his popularity grew, his abilities were in decline, so it is with Father Time and all athletes. The hands were still fast; but didn’t carry the “pop” they once had due to bursitis in his knuckles. His feet, while still faster than anyone else’s, were unable to sustain for 15. His legs used to dictate the pace, his attack, his whole rhythm of the fight. Now, they were a useful tool when he needed a breather; but when the catlike reflexes left, a beautiful and horrible thing happened. We got to see the fighter inside the dancer.

To paraphrase Dr. Ferdie Pacheco, Ali’s one-time corner physician, concerning Ali, “Underneath this beautiful exterior was a gargoyle.” Since his comeback, time and again, Ali proved he could take a punch. He’d taken a few shots in his first career; but was more famous for not taking them. Now that the reflexes had slowed, he showed himself to be a man of incredible resolve with a granite-like chin. Frazier had hurt him, Foreman had hurt him, Norton had hurt him, still he came back, gritted his teeth, and gave as good as he’d received and better, in most cases. Ali also proved himself to be a thinking-man’s fighter, able to adapt on the fly. He was very, very cagey, very crafty and smart; but if it came down to it, a snarl would cross his lips, fire would ignite behind those soft brown eyes, and he’d unleash lighting from his fists and loose hell in the ring onto his opponent.

Since Manilla, those moments became fewer and farther between. He’d said that Manilla was “the closest thing to death,” and so it was for both he and Frazier. It had been his last fight in 1975, and perhaps the greatest win of his career; but at what cost?

In truth, Ali had been on cruise control since his win over Foreman. He never seemed to be in tip-top shape anymore. He certainly wasn’t living a Spartan lifestyle outside of the ring. He had come, saw, and conquered; and now he was reaping the rewards, the spoils of victory, so to speak. In a way, his transformation from outspoken anti-establishment rebel to comfortably living American folk hero reflected the country’s transformation as well. Gone were the sit-ins and protest songs, in were discos and all night parties. Revolution can be tiring business and what can one do after fighting the good fight but party until God’s flashlight catches you in the morning? The infamous Studio 54 had just opened in April of ’77 and the debauchery was underway. The Age of Aquarius had given way to the Age of Excess.

This is not to say Ali condoned all of those antics; but his out of ring demeanor was decidedly different than it had been in his youth. Make no mistake, he was enjoying being Heavyweight Champion of the World. However, his prefight hype had become more comedic in nature. He was playing the role, giving the people what they expected, giving them “the show”. Outside the ring, he’d taken on the kind of wise countenance someone would expect from someone who had lived through all he had; but one got the impression his boxing career was more an act these days. His heart didn’t seem to be in the ring anymore. He had grown beyond that; but how can one say “no” to millions of dollars? He’d never been more popular.

If any one person on the planet could relate to the burden of Ali’s star status, it would have been Elvis Presley, who, on August 16th, at the age of 42, had died tragically just one month before Ali’s bout with Shavers. America had lost an icon.

Elvis had exploded onto the music scene in 1954 with “That’s All Right” and blew teenage audiences away with his stage performances. He was shocking, risqué, controversial, the boy next door, and talented as hell. Almost singlehandedly he completely changed the music scene by introducing white audiences to black music. They called it Rhythm and Blues then; but make no mistake about it, it was the birth of Rock and Roll, and the world would never be the same.

Like a rocket, Elvis shot into stardom, a small town kid thrust into the limelight and the down and dirty politics of the music industry. Unlike Ali, when he was drafted into the Army for the Korean Conflict, he succumbed; and his music career went into a slide. When he returned, it was in movies, capitalizing on his fame while the British Invasion took over the charts. A true performer, he couldn’t stand sitting on the sidelines and wanted back in, thus launching his comeback in 1969. He’d yearned for the kind of electricity that only performing live could bring. As the 70’s tripped on by, his image morphed from rock-n-roll rebel and American heartthrob, to one of a superstar, a legend, clad in a flared white jumpsuit, bedazzled with rhinestones. The voice, the charisma, the talent were still there; but in the end, “The King” was a shell of himself, playing the part, performing his role before crowds in Vegas and around the World, until, ultimately, it destroyed him.

As Ali continued on in career # 2, letting his body get further and further out of shape in between fights and taking more and more punches after the bell rang, those who knew him, those who were closest to him, began to get more and more concerned. Ali, himself, had flirted with retirement. He did so after Manilla, and again after his controversial third encounter with Ken Norton; but the fans and those living off of him wouldn’t hear of it. He was too big to retire. The fans couldn’t get enough. He was a legend, an icon, like Elvis. Seeing him fight was an event, no matter who he was facing; but to see him tested, to see that greatness emerge, that was worth all the gold in Fort Knox, because it was something you could tell your grandkids about.

They’d pay any price to see Ali fight, just like music fans would have paid any price to hear Elvis sing, vamping the very essence from these two great performers until they had given all that was left to give.

So, when the hardest puncher in boxing history began jogging to the ring in Madison Square Garden to the R&B hit theme from the TV show, “S.W.A.T.,” the garden crowd was salivating. As the spotlight illuminated Earnie Shavers, clad in a royal blue robe, as he approached his date with destiny, you could feel the electricity in the air. He was a man on a mission and the crowd felt it. This could be the night Ali would finally lose his crown. It was usually in these moments when Ali was at his best.

Earnie Shavers had compiled an incredible record of 54-5-1, 52 KO’s. Only five men had ever heard the final bell against the man Ali had nicknamed “The Acorn”. Stan Johnson had won a 6 round decision over him early in his career, Bob Stallings had defeated him over 10, and # 2 Ranked Jimmy Young had drawn with him over 10 three years ago. The other two, Vincente Rondon was a wily former Light-Heavyweight Champion and Henry Clark was as crafty as they came. Both had suffered defeats, Clark again in less than 2 Rounds in a rematch six months later. There was no doubt that Shavers carried dynamite in both fists; but the right hand was his money punch. Still, it was the losses on his resume which the pundits focused on.

Shavers’ stamina was supposedly his Achilles Heel, which is no small wonder for a man who stopped the majority of his victims before the fight was 5 rounds old. The common thought was that Shavers would come out swinging and Ali, with his guile, would allow Shavers to burn himself out, only to stop him around the 7th. Still, Ali had slowed in recent years and as good of a chin as he had proven himself to have, one never really knew what would happen when a true puncher landed flush. Even concrete will crumble under enough force from a sledgehammer.
Three minutes or so after Shavers entered the ring, Mecco’s disco version of the Star Wars theme began blasting over the house speakers, which could mean only one thing, the champ was on his way and the show was about to begin. The crowd noise, which was already quite considerable, amped it up to a fever pitch. Madison Square Garden was a madhouse.

During the prefight introductions, the 35 year old Ali playfully rubbed Shavers bald noggin while talking smack. He was putting on a show for the crowd and attempting to get inside Shavers’ head as well. This is what the people paid to see; but Shavers wasn’t here for a “show”. He’d worked his body down to a trim and ready 211 ¼ lbs. He’d done extra road work and more than 240 rounds of sparring to increase his stamina. He was as ready for a fight as he’d ever been. He was here to knock Ali’s head clean off, if he could.

Despite his antics, Ali was no fool. He knew how dangerous Shavers was; but he wasn’t going to let Earnie know that. “You ain’t got nothin’! “ “I’m playing with you!” “You will soon be tired!” Ali could clearly be heard talking to Shavers as the fight got underway, anything to make the man doubt himself, any psychological edge he could get. This had been his calling card from day one.

Earnie’s calling card was power; and Ali got his first real taste of it midway through Round 2 as the right hand came over a lazy jab and landed flush, causing Ali’s whole body to jar, followed by a delayed reaction sag into the ropes, which Muhammad had to grab to regain his balance. A man with a lesser chin would have been potentially comatose after that monstrosity of a shot; but somehow, not only did Ali remain upright, he had the frame of mind to con Shavers out of going for the kill by making the man actually believe he wasn’t that hurt.

The rest of round two was dominated by Shavers landing occasional punches while Ali played his game. With the exception of a few more scary moments in rounds 4 and 7, the next nine rounds were somewhat dull as Ali alternated from staying on the move and going into a shell, attempting to lure Shavers into punching. Shavers wasn’t biting. He succeeded in keeping his cool and pacing himself; but, unfortunately for him, he also succeeded in falling behind on the cards.

Around the 11th, Ali began to open up, finally throwing some punches with conviction, which left openings for Shavers. Shavers had been saving his strength for the later rounds and in round 13, he proved it, nailing Ali with a vicious counter right that brought the fans out of their seats while causing Ali to cover up, obviously hurt. The battle of life and death had begun and the garden crowd was in a bedlam.

Ali came out in the 14th, looking to put some hurt on Earnie; but ended up getting nailed himself. Back and forth the round went with Ali taking more punches than anyone had ever seen him take before; and these weren’t just punches. These were bone crunching seismic charges exploding off of Ali’s jaw. His eyes occasionally did the slot machine thing as his body quivered at the impact of each blow, still, he stood. Still, he threw back. Seconds before the end of the round, Shavers landed a right flush on his jaw which drove him into Shavers corner. Ali grabbed and then play acted until the end of the round when a weary figure of the man who held the title carefully put one foot in front of the other on the way to his stool where he collapsed.

Earnie had been saving it all up for this moment. He had surprised everybody with his conditioning and control. It was round 15 and he still had the means to close the show. Ali came out, once again, looking to land; but for every punch you throw, you leave an opening and unlike in 1967, the now 35 year old champion no longer had the means to get out of the way of the return fire. He was able to roll with a few and slip a few more; but Earnie Shavers found pay dirt more times than he ever would have ten years before. The garden crowd were on their feet, their hearts nearly exploding out of their chests with every shot Ali took. Each punch reverberated throughout the arena, echoed by the gasps and screams of the fans. Still he stood, still he fired back, though sometimes he appeared to be a tired old man shadowboxing, with nothing on his punches, going through the motions, as if in a dream, until about 45 seconds left in the fight when, on instinct, he caught Earnie with what Ken Norton called a drag hook which caused Shavers to fall backwards into the ropes. He immediately lashed out with a left of his own which drove Ali stumbling back across the ring into the opposite corner and gave pursuit.

It was during his follow up flurry that it happened. The tired old man, whose crown was teetering on the edge of his head, landed another left hook, in the midst of a three punch flurry, which caused Earnie to freeze. Like magic, a fire ignited in those tired eyes as his toes dug into the canvas and ten years of war melted away. Earnie Shavers, dazed and confused, found himself covering up, attempting in vain to avoid 30 seconds of the Real Muhammad Ali. Somewhere, deep beneath the years, the Champion remained, the magic was alive and it was all over Shavers like a cheap suit. It had taken 14 Rounds and 2 minutes and 30 seconds to emerge; but there it was, a glimpse of the legend, a peak at the man who had conquered the world in all his fury.

The crowd noise appexed to a crescendo as a blistering volley, a seamless stream of punches ricocheted off of Earnie’s cranium, rocking him to the left and to the right with withering ferocity. The final bell sounded with Earnie sagging into the ropes. He’d survived. He’d gone 15 with the Greatest of All Time. Wearily, he stumbled in post holes back to his corner to the congratulatory embraces of his team and awaited the verdict.

Of course, Ali won. It was the 19th successful title defense of his two careers; but the aftermath of the victory and the price he paid was too much for some. Teddy Brenner, promoter of Madison Square Garden begged Ali to retire after this fight and promised that MSG would never again host another Ali event. Dr. Ferdie Pacheco, having been in Ali’s corner for years upon years, had seen enough. After pleading with Ali to give up the ring, he turned in his own resignation and walked away because he could bear it no longer. He could no longer see the sense in it. What did he have left to prove? He’d done it all; he was on top of the world. Why take these beatings? Ali’s voice had already grown quiet, he was already showing “the signs” that something was wrong. Why go on?

How do you walk away from being the heavyweight champion of the world? How do you walk away from the excitement of the crowd, the screams, the cheers, the adrenaline, the millions of dollars for each fight? This was where he’d fought for years to be, this place, the top of the mountain. How do you give that up? How do you stop being “King”?

How do you walk away when there are so many more people, so many more fans who still yearn for even just a glimpse of what once was, who want to say they were there, they witnessed history?

Like Elvis, Ali couldn’t give it up. He was going to have to ride this out until the bitter end. Fame is a drug and it’s a deadly addiction. Somewhere out there, beyond the final bell of his career, his own price for immortality lay waiting, along with the fans who would pay to see it.

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