Thrilla In Manila

Thrilla In Manila

I have just watched someone die.

Funny to think of it, but this was the moment that Muhammad Ali took the first step towards death.

He was fighting Joe Frazier, his nemesis, his absolute apotheosis, in one of the three major bouts they had - bouts that not only defined the 70's: they were the 70s's.

Prince Far-I, the legendary 'toaster' (for anyone who understands old-school reggaeisms), recorded 'Big Fight' in homage to it. "Dreadlocks v Babylon - fifteen roun' of boxin.'" Ali was Dreadlocks - beautiful, free, cocky, sexy, irresistible. Frazier was Babylon: the Man - the police, the acceptable face of the ghetto; illiterate to Ali's poet; representative of mundane normality - as if he was personally bringing destruction to you, and would then laugh over your grave.

Imagine, fifteen three-minute rounds. Long ago they did away with that, certain in the knowledge that people were dying as a result. Today's pretentious, PC, health-and-safety conscious world just didn't exist in those times. The very idea of someone throwing a sickie to avoid work; or a footballer diving to earn a dubious penalty; of people having ME; of perfectly well people on Disability Benefit - man, they were something from another planet. So they long ago reduced it to twelve rounds - and if anyone so much as gets a nick, the towel comes in nowadays.

Ali and Frazier fought each other to a standstill. By the end, huge, egg-shaped weals covered Frazier's face - but he never for one moment stopped believing, stopped coming forward. His gum shield was ripped from his mouth on several occasions (nowadays they call a time-out, wash the gumshield - as it has been on the floor, god forbid) but he just had to fight on, mouth being turned inside-out by cruel punches, aimed deliberately to maim.

At the end of the fight - the 14th round to be precise - Frazier just couldn't continue. But even then, he didn't make the decision to quit. You can see him arguing with his cornermen, begging for one last chance.

But Ali is in fact worse. He has won the fight, but at first doesn't actually realise it. He is virtually comatose in his corner. I am convinced that this is the precise moment that Parkinsons begins for him. Something has happened to his mind. No-one is giving him any fluids (of course they didn't understand the importance of that in those days) so: he just slumps. In fact he tries to stand up, but drops to the canvas with exhaustion and needs to be helped onto a stool. Still no fluids administered. His brain must have been frying at this point.

Harry Carpenter, the legendary BBC reporter, talks about how Ali has 'harmed his own future' with this performance. How prophetic those words were to become. Carpenter tries to interview him in the ring but Ali can't communicate with him.

Two weeks ago, Ali came to Manchester. Just as I had thirty years ago with Pele, my other boyhood hero, I missed it. I may never, ever have the chance to see him in person again before he dies.

One of the greatest regrets of my life.