Believe it or not, I had my own mini-“Thrilla in Manila” moment in the middle of the “fight of the century” between Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier 50 years and eight days ago, on Oct. 1, 1975.

As a member of the free ('walang bayad') press whose seat happened to be at the end of the first row directly under the ring, I had a great unimpeded view of every blow, every connect, every exchange between the two fighters, Ali in white shorts and Frazier in blue. My chair, I thought, was kind of a reward for attending the press conference and keeping clear of Ali, unlike the scores of women who had reportedly tried to tear down his door at the hotel the night before the bout. (In those days, Manila had only three big hotels, the Hilton, Savoy, and Intercontinental.)

I was not a sports writer or editor, but so what, that seat was a heavensent. Looking around me in search of a friendly face, I did not recognize any of my colleagues... which was strange. Where were they?

The crowd did not have long to wait. A hush fell, as if the audience had been given a secret signal, a sign that the conductor would be stepping onto his podium to tell the audience that the show was about to begin. That was when I began to feel nervous. What was I doing there? I didn’t have the vocabulary of a sports writer and what did I know about the two boxers except what little I learned during the presscon, where the best quote was courtesy of Ali, that he would “dance like a bee, float like a butterfly” for his fans?

And then it happened. In the middle of a furious exchange, Frazier suffered a big blow to the head and lost his gum shield. Guess where it landed? On my right arm, a few inches above my wrist. It had one or two droplets of blood, I shrieked! I could’ve refused to return the thing to its owner but I did the decent thing and gave it to the referee.

Colleagues ribbed me for turning down the chance to keep or sell a priceless memento. No, thanks!