In Quezon City, October 1, 1975, two of the greatest sports personalities of the 20th Century squared off in what was to be the final chapter of boxing’s greatest trilogy. Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier provided a grand spectacle for 14 three minute rounds, throwing punches with venom, taking shots ‘hard enough to bring a building down,’ according to Frazier, and battling with a pride and brutality that gave even this blatantly violent sport a new and scary dimension. The fight ended with Frazier’s cornermen refusing to let their man in for the final round. Ali later remarked that the night had been the closest he had ever come to death. Their names were forever intertwined, the history of one incomplete without the other’s mention. And, of course, they walked away with millions.

Today, they epitomise the short-lived glory of a human being. Muhammad Ali requires a supporting stick to hold his once-prefect-frame from falling. He speaks with a barely audible voice. He has Parkinson’s disease. Joe Frazier lives in a modest flat, a travesty for a once-famous champion who seemingly had earned enough to live prodigally for the rest of his life. In both their cases, life’s caprices sharply divided the line between harsh reality and fairytale endings. Such is the nature of fame; such is the nature of human glory.