08/11/2025
He was never meant to be the villain.
Joe Frazier was the son of a South Carolina sharecropper who fought his way out of poverty. When Muhammad Ali was banned for refusing the draft, it was Frazier who helped him. He lent him money, he spoke to politicians, pushed for his license to be reinstated. When Ali returned, Joe stood across from him, not as an enemy, but as the man who made it possible.
Then came the betrayal. Ali didn’t just want to beat him, he wanted to humiliate him. He called him “ugly,” “ignorant,” “gorilla.” He turned the crowd into a mob that laughed at Joe’s expense. Frazier never understood why. He had looked up to Ali. He thought they shared something sacred, the bond of fighters who’d clawed their way from nothing. Instead, he became a punchline.
In the ring, their trilogy was beyond hate, beyond sport. Every punch Frazier threw in Manila was personal. He wanted Ali to feel every insult, every bruise left by words that never healed. By the final round, both men were half blind, half broken. Frazier’s trainer threw in the towel, but Ali would later admit, “It was the closest thing to dying that I know.”
Frazier never truly escaped that rivalry. The world saw Ali as the hero, but Joe carried the scars, the physical ones, and the ones no doctor could treat. Years later, when asked if he could ever forgive, Frazier said quietly, “I can’t. He took from me what I never got back.”
Because in the end, it wasn’t the punches that hurt Joe Frazier most, it was being forgotten as the man who stood tall when everyone else knelt.