Legends: Requiem for a Heavyweight
On April 1st, six weeks after I sat with Joe Frazier in his musty gym listening to him sing, an e-mail appeared in my inbox. It was sent to much of the Philadelphia sports media, and it was a bombshell. The message, from Smokinjoefraziersgym.com, was simple: Joe’s gym was closing. Permanently. Fighters had been advised to find new gyms and new trainers. “It’s over,” said Marvis in the note.
JOE FRAZIER should have been the city’s darling. He had the backstory — son of a sharecropper born into abject poverty. He had the working man’s work ethic — legendary training sessions, unwavering dedication. His ring style personified the Philadelphia fighter — aggressive, indefatigable, with an indomitable will that refused to give in even while absorbing unimaginable punishment. And on March 8th, 1971, he won a unanimous decision over Muhammad Ali in what is still regarded as the greatest sporting spectacle of the last century. Yet when Frazier won the heavyweight championship, there was no parade, no city fete afterward. There is no Joe Frazier Boulevard here. While Dr. J, Patti LaBelle and Jackie Robinson boast their own murals, Joe only shares a slice of the side of the Blue Horizon with Muhammad Ali, George Foreman and Larry Holmes. (When it conceived of the project in 1997, the Mural Arts Program actually intended a lone mural — of Ali. ) But without a doubt, the most glaring slight — the one that eats at Joe Frazier to this day — is the statue. The one, not of the man who bled for the city, but of the fictional Rocky Balboa. “Joe’s never gotten his due in Philadelphia,” says Vernoca Michael, the promoter at the Blue Horizon. “I mean, we put up a statue of a movie character when we have a real champion right among us.”
Since Joe Frazier arrived here from Beaufort, South Carolina (via New York), in 1961, the marriage between him and Philadelphia has been a tenuous one. The abandonment of his gym, it turns out, was merely Joe signing the divorce papers.
“The closing came out of the blue,” says venerable Inquirer boxing writer Bernard Fernandez. “Joe had well-known financial difficulties, but this … ” He trails off. There may be no one more honed-in on the Philadelphia boxing scene, but the sight of the padlocked doors caught Fernandez like one of Frazier’s left hooks.
I, TOO, WAS shocked. Just two days before the e-mail went out, I had spoken with Marvis about his plans for the gym. In his sweet, soft-spoken voice, he enthusiastically described what was to become the “Joe Frazier Center.” Detailed blueprints on his laptop included a museum, a computer lab for kids, a physical therapy center, a cafe, a gift shop. The centerpiece would be the renovated gym. On the outside of the building would be life-size murals of Smokin’ Joe. “Since the only boxing tribute in town is a statue of a movie character, we’re going to do our own,” Marvis told me. “And we’re going to investors now. We’re moving forward.”
