The air in Kingston's National Stadium was thick and sweet with night-blooming jasmine and human sweat. 20,000 voices created a constant, low-frequency roar. Joe Frazier, the champion, entered to his own recorded music, a rarity. He was Smokin' Joe, the man who had beaten Ali. He shadow-boxed, a compact engine of malice.
Then George Foreman walked in. He was quieter. Larger. His robe was simple. He had an Olympic gold medal, but he was the underdog. The bell rang. Within thirty seconds, Foreman's jab—a piston, not a probe—thudded against Frazier's forehead. The sound was different. It was the sound of a heavy bag being hit, not a man. Frazier went down. He got up. He went down again. And again. Six times in two rounds. The crowd's roar turned into a collective, disbelieving gasp with each thud of canvas.
Referee Arthur Mercante Sr. stood close. He watched Frazier's eyes. He saw the champion's legs, once so powerful, become unreliable. The punches Foreman threw were not the elegant combinations of Ali. They were wrecking balls, delivered with a terrifying, academic calm. When Mercante stopped it, Frazier was upright but adrift. Foreman raised his arms, not in jubilation, but in confirmation. The myth of Frazier's invincibility, built over 29 fights, evaporated into the Jamaican night. The entire violent reordering of the heavyweight universe took five minutes and thirty-five seconds. The ring ropes shook long after the fighters had left.