We were stranger at night, mentioning when a guy with a trilby standing next to me in a male urinter in Madison Square Garden asked: “How do you make a guy?”

“Okay thanks, Mr. Sinatra.” I stuttered.

“Who is fancy?” He asked.

“Well … Ali,” I answered hesitantly.

“No, the phrase will destroy him,” a broken answer has come.

End of conversation. We returned to press places – Sinatra was accredited as a photographer for Life magazine, and I was a modest juvenile writer from Southern London, including the fight of life.

Is it really exactly half a century ago that I found myself next to “Ole Blue Eyes and such literary fixtures as Budd Schulberg and Norman Mailer on Mecca Boxing? One of about 760 media (500 other applications were rejected), chronicing one of the most memorable episodes in Annals of Sport. I even have to get caught now when I remember about pure size and greatness.

As a lover of Ali, I was surprised by the concise release of Sinatra his chances. But of course, aged Warbler was known that he hates him because of his stand in Vietnam, and probably because Ali was the only character even more known all over the world than he himself.

Recent York, Recent York. It really was a night. The city was living with licking. In Madison Square Garden, the atmosphere was so intense both before and during the fight that two viewers died of heart attacks.

The fight of the century was a thrill for me. When we were waiting for the gladiators’ entrance, we in Ringside were delayed with brilliant red baseball caps blue and the Frazer Vi Insignia badge, strongly on our heads.

They were distributed by the wonderfully laconic head of public relations, John XF Condon. (XF standing for Xavier Francis). Some of the more venerable members of my trade, led by Daily Mirror’s The slightly valuable Peter Wilson protested that he was not annulled. “You don’t really expect that we will sit here, John,” Doyen issued from tabloids. “Well, Peter,” answered Condon. “Yes, there is a crowd with a capacity of 20,000 tonight, and another 5,000 outside is trying to break the door to get. If so, in Ringidide there are riots, the cops will want to know which heads hit and which do not hit.”

“Half of Hollywood seems here tonight”, my good friend Colin Hart with Sun He noticed to me when he looked at the mass ranks of A-Lister.

Earlier during the WAG-in Condon dinner, which had a great affinity with British Hacks, he asked a few of us, including Hart, Peter Moss from the Daily Mail and the deceased REG Gutteridge, if we would like to meet the Burt Lancaster, who was a commentator on the colors of the fight. Burt Lancaster, a trapezoid star, hence to eternity and many other Macho movies? You will bet.

“Hey, Burt. Greepe to these lime writers,” he called Condon to Lancaster, who turned away from watching fighters in breaking the scales. He was wearing a Rouge, brilliant red lipstick and eyelashes, stout with mascara, fluttering in our direction. “Hi guys” – he added. “Don’t love their muscles!”

“A friend of me!” He exclaimed London Evening News and ITV Gutteridge commentator, clearly surprised by the actor’s sexuality. It was of course another world.

A few weeks later, Lancaster was arrested in Hollywood while wearing women’s clothes. Three times a five-person father turned out to be a transvestite and one of the gay clicks (not because the word had this connotation) or bio-sexual ranning celebrities, along with Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter.

Condon seemed surprised that we didn’t know. “It’s showtism for you,” he chuckled.

We liked Condon. There was an aged school PR who did not take prisoners. At a press conference after a fight (in which no veterans participated, when they were hospitalized-Frazier for six weeks) noticed the singer Diana Ross, sitting in the first place of the packed media hall.

“With whom, with a little lady?” He asked.

“I am Diana Ross,” she went.

“I know who you are, a little lady,” said Condon. “Did I say who with? What media they represent?”

“Well, none,” she said. “Only I, Diana Ross.”

“Sorry, a little lady,” Condon said. “Out. This is only a strictly working press.”

And supremes superstar had to drill. Can you imagine a similar scene today, PR is dared to remove such celebrities such an escalate from a press conference? They prefer to remove reporters … how times change.

Only a handful of directors in the garden on March 8, 1971 are still with us and I think that other octogenarians Hart and I are the only two survivors of British diaries that still write about boxing.

Colin, who will write his own memories on Sunday Shining. He catches my views on how a huge opportunity it was.
He says: “I doubt that today’s fans can appreciate how gigantic this fight was and how good Ali and the Frazier were.

I would say that compared to this fight they call the proposed struggle of this century, Tyson Fury against Anthony Joshua, will be at the top of the bill at York Hall, Bethnal Green. Does anyone really care about fury and Joshua in China or Africa? But then the whole world talked about Ali and Frazier. It was really global, even though there was no pay-per-view-only TV from a closed circuit. It was so huge that even the Soviet Union, in which professional boxing was then banned because he sent two reporters from the TASS State Information Agency.

Yes, it really was an epic meeting that offered the world.

Until the evening, Fight Madison Square Garden had a circus atmosphere with dozens of police to control the crowd. Eight best in Recent York were assigned to act as 24 -hour bodyguards for Ali, who received numerous threats of death from Redneck Fractions.

This was not my first visit to the garden or the first meeting with the phrases. I discussed his free competition for the title of world champion with friend Ali, Jimmy Ellis, but if I have any claims to fame, it was because I was the first to put Smokin ‘Joe on the floor! Truthful. Seven years earlier, in 1964, as still soggy behind the debutant of Ears Debutant in a fleet press group based on the street, I was sent to my first Olympic Games in Tokyo. In these early days, security was much more loose than now, and we, the types of media, could wander the Olympic village without care. This is what I did when he threw himself around the corner on the bike at a enormous, fat juvenile man in shorts furiously at speeds. He saw me rather delayed. I jumped; He twisted, slipped and fell firmly. I recognized him from his shirt as a member of the United States team, one Joseph William Frazier, their heavyweight representative in a boxing tournament. I swallowed when I looked at the cursed figure spread before me. “My God,” I thought. “I am in trouble here!”

I was worried that he was very hurt enough to get him out of games – or worse. Was something broken? Adolescent Joe – he was 20 years aged – at first he looked, and then pulled out, rubbing the grazed knees. He smiled shyly and apologized. “I’m sorry, I think I was walking a little quickly,” he said. “My fault. Are you okay?”

I nodded and my sigh with relief was heard. We hugged our hands and wished him luck in the upcoming Olympic tournament, hoping that this almost disaster did not damage his chances.

It wasn’t. Then he won the gold medal, arranging the destructive ball of the left hook, which was to become his trademark in the semi -finals against the Russian, on whom he broke his thumb. This injury restricted his power to hit in the finals when he developed German Hans Huber on the decision of the majority.

The next time I saw that the amazing left hook in action was in Madison Square Garden six years later, when Ellis knocked down and then exploded him on Grotesquelo swollen jaw ali in the 15th and final round, because he clearly won the first of the most dramatic trilogy in boxes. The report, which I returned to my newspaper group immediately after the fight, began: “The legend was listed. A man who hypnotized the world of his mouth of magic is no longer the greatest …”

The clash of Ali’s Shock were news on the first page around the world, London Evening Standard simply managed the great, delayed report of George Whiting: “Ali-Oot!”

The fight itself even exceeded her promotional noise. At the end of the 14th round, the phrase led on the results of the results of the Ace Arthur Mercante judge and two ring judges, and even as involved Ali-Shile I could not disagree with the final assessment of Mercante 8-6-1. Ali spent these three and a half years in exile in exile, with only two balmy -up fights, he finally caught up with him.

But the phrase, 205 pounds of smoldering injuries, was absolute in the pursuit of revenge, which he was looking for “Uncle Tom” of the bad and twisting tickets he survived from Ali in accumulation. He was a worthy winner.

Returning from the garden in the early hours, the air at 7th Avenue was still electric – and not only from shocks obtained from acrylic wallpaper in the hotel where we lived, Statler Hilton, celebrated as a stationary Hilton.

To be straightforward, when it comes to boxing, it wasn’t really the fight of the century. Ali against Frazier III, The Thrilla in Manila four years later, in my opinion three times was a good ring spectacle. “Closest to dying”, Ali was to notice. However, there is no doubt that their first garden event was the boxing of the century.

I still have a baseball cap and a perfectly produced 1.50 USD program, with his stunning cover of the celebrated sports artist Leroy Neiman, as well as other souvenirs, which, as I was told, can be worth a few beans for grandchildren when I go through.

But my personal memories of this magical night are priceless.