My View from the Corner

by Angelo Dundee

  Lewiston, Maine, was exactly what you thought it would be—a small town. How small was it? One writer joked that the town's "Welcome" sign was also the "Come Back Again" sign. Because of its proximity to French-speaking Quebec, a good number of the inhabitants spoke French, but there was no French restaurant in sight. Luckily for me, there was an Italian restaurant. And a good one, too.

  There was little to do in Lewiston except find the Italian restaurant and talk about the fight. However, there was one thing that wasn't talked about, even mentioned, and in fact was kept from the press. Just two days before the fight, in Muhammad's last sparring session, Jimmy Ellis had bruised Muhammad's rib cage. When he told me, all I could think of saying was, "That's good, now you'll know to stay out of clinches." But maybe, just maybe, knowing he couldn't take a chance of having Liston pound on his bruised rib cage was enough to inspire Muhammad to take action—and quickly. I don't know, but I think that may have had as much to do with the quick ending as anything else.

  While news of Ali's bruised rib was kept out of the papers, other so-called "news" circulated, most of it in the form of rumors with no great attachment to fact. These were not the ordinary fight rumors, mind you—you know, so-and-so can't make weight—but dark and frightening rumors, rumors of possible assassination attempts, which gained currency because of the recent assassination of Malcolm X. And each rumor fed others. I didn't pay them much mind. But when the sheriff of Chicopee, Massachusetts, where our training camp was, told us that "people were headed our way in a pink Cadillac to do harm to Ali," we sure as the dickens pulled up our stakes in Chicopee and moved to Lewiston quickly. In a pink Cadillac, I might add.

  I have always believed those rumors were the handiwork of the great publicist Harold Conrad, who was doing what other publicists had done before him, merely ballyhooing the fight. It has long been believed by those around in those days that Francis Albertani, the publicist for promoter Mike Jacobs, fanned the flames of publicity before the second Louis-Schmeling fight by letting writers in on the "scoop" that anti-Nazi pickets would be outside Yankee Stadium the night of the fight carrying placards protesting the fight. What he did not tell them was that Jacobs himself had not only approved of their actions but had, in fact, underwritten their efforts. Albertani's efforts had made front-page headlines around the country. Now Conrad's did, too, especially after he took writer Jimmy Cannon into his confidence and Cannon rushed into print with his alarmist Chicken Little "scoop," further inflaming the situation. And not incidentally, generating more press for the fight.

  I usually don't pay much attention to the prefight chitchat. But one particular bit of information did get my attention. On the morning before the fight, Dave Anderson of the New York Times caught me in the lobby of the Poland Springs Hotel and told me to "go look at the ring." It was, he said, a wrestling ring. Now I normally inspect the ring right after the weigh-in, but this time I raced over to the arena on Dave's say-so to look at the ring. And was I glad I did. For sure enough, it was a wrestling ring, one with loose ropes and a mat like a trampoline. I found whoever was in charge and told them to quickly import a boxing ring, my guy doesn't do trampoline tricks, although at times it might look like he did.

  The night of the fight was a night to end all nights. It began with those attempting to gain entry into St. Dominick's, a high school hockey arena done over into a boxing arena by putting floorboards down over the ice, being searched for weapons at the door. And ended with the weapon used by Muhammad going largely unnoticed.

  The fight was scheduled to start at 10:30 P.M. By 10:00 a less-than-capacity crowd of 2,344 had taken their seats in the made-over bandbox of a high school ice hockey arena, most sniffling and wiping their noses, the cold weather outside and the melting ice underneath the wooden flooring inside making it extremely cold. In the press section most of the writers were looking under their desks for a place to hide when, as Jimmy Cannon put it, "the trouble starts." But what happened wasn't the trouble Cannon expected, but the biggest controversy since the Dempsey-Tunney "long count" some thirty-eight years before.

  As the fighters entered the ring, Liston looked anything but confident. This time, as referee Jersey Joe Walcott gave the prefight call to arms there was no stare-down, just a cold, unblinking look at Muhammad. Then the bell, and Liston came shambling out of his corner, intent on impaling Muhammad on the end of his outstretched left. Before the fight I had told Muhammad: "Show him you're the governor, show him you're the boss." And wouldn't you know it? Boom! Nailed him one-two with his first two punches. Liston kept coming forward as he always did, sticking out that lethal left jab of his. But Muhammad just skirted away. Again Liston tried, again the same result. You could see that Liston was trying to cut off the ring, get Muhammad into a corner, but Muhammad was almost free-floating away from him. Now Muhammad was taunting Liston, something I'm not too fond of, but you could see it was affecting Liston, psychologically getting to him as he tried harder to get to Ali. He seemed hesitant. When Ali stopped, he'd stop. He was just following Ali around the ring now almost as a course of nature. Suddenly, as he seemed to momentarily get Muhammad on the ropes, he stepped forward, reaching, almost lunging with his left and sticking out a slow jab. At that exact moment my guy took a step back and then, moving his head ever so slightly to avoid the jab, came over with a swift straight right hand that caught Liston squarely on the sweet spot, his temple.

  Oh yes, the punch did make contact. Ali hit Liston so quick the cameras couldn't take it. He hit him with a shot Liston didn't see. They're the ones that knock you out. You see, for Liston that one punch brought back memories of the beating he took in the first fight, it demoralized him. So no, it wasn't a fix. People can say what they think. If they think the punch didn't land, I tell them they shouldn't have looked away when he landed it. They shouldn't have gone out for a hot dog. And despite Jimmy Cannon's comment that "I saw it, it couldn't have crushed a grape," if you look at the punch in stop-action, you can see Liston's head snap back, his leg come up from the force of the blow and then see him go down. It was that hard.

  Liston toppled over, flat on his back. Muhammad now stood over the fallen Liston, screaming, "Get up and fight, sucker.... Get up and fight, you bum.... You're supposed to be so bad.... Nobody will believe this," daring him to get up as referee Walcott tugged at him, trying to maneuver him to a neutral corner. By the time Walcott had succeeded, a hurt Liston had staggered back to his feet and was trying to protect himself as Ali swarmed all over him, throwing punches from every angle.

  As Muhammad and Liston continued to do battle on one side of the ring, two little men stood up on the other side waving their arms and hollering, "It's over ... it's over." I looked over at the two standing near me and thought they were twins, both munchkin-like and bald-headed. At first I mistook Nat Fleischer to be the timekeeper. Then I realized it was the publisher and editor of The Ring magazine, and the second little man was, I would find out later, the timekeeper, Francis McDonough. But nobody could hear them in the chaos following the knockdown. So I helped them out by screaming to Walcott in my high-pitched voice, "Joe ... Joe ... it's over. Go talk to Nat." Joe finally heard me and, sticking his head through the ropes, talked to Nat Fleischer while the action, such as it was, continued. Then, having been told by Fleischer that Liston had been down for more than ten seconds, Walcott walked back, broke up the two fighters, and held Ali's hand aloft.

  Sometimes shouting at the ref works. I remember one story that was told of the time when Jack Dempsey fought Jack Sharkey and, after taking a pasting for seven rounds, Dempsey hooked his left to Sharkey's body and Sharkey turned to the ref to complain that the blow was low. That was all Dempsey needed. When Sharkey's head was turned to the referee, Dempsey brought a left hook up to Sharkey's chin and Sharkey crashed to the floor with a thud. The next sound came from Dempsey's corner as his second, Bill Duffy, shouted, "Count that man out." And referee Jack O'Sullivan did, even while shouts of "Foul" filled the stadium.
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br />   Ali had won even though there never had been a referee's count, not even a "one ... two ...." And the time, when announced as having been one minute, was off by almost a minute, the actual time having been 1:52. But what did I care? Count or no count, one minute or two, my guy had won and kept his title.

  Afterward, turmoil reigned. The fans, especially those who hadn't seen the punch, were screaming, "FIX ... FIX ..." in unison. Come on, a two-minute "fix"? If it was rigged, it had to look better than that. Newspapermen, trying to make sense and a story out of what they had just seen or not seen, were writing that it was a "Phantom Punch" that felled Liston. Liston, still in a fog, was telling anyone who would listen that he didn't get up immediately because "crazy" Ali was standing over him and he was afraid he would have been hit again if he tried. And there was Muhammad, over on the other side of the ring screaming to the press, "I am the Greatest" and attributing his knockout to something he called an "Anchor Punch," taught to him by the old actor Stepin Fetchit, who said it was taught to him by none other than Jack Johnson. Ali even gave an explanation of sorts as to why the punch hadn't been seen: "It was faster than the blink of an eye and everyone at ringside missed it because they all blinked at the same time."

  You would have thought that as holder of the greatest title boxing can bestow, Muhammad Ali would have been appreciated for what he had done in the ring. But those keepers of the journals of record, the newspapermen, along with fans and politicians alike, tended to discount his talents at less than face value, concentrating instead on his conversion to Islam—and his name change.

  Former heavyweight champion Floyd Patterson went so far as to send Muhammad a written challenge, reminiscent of challenges of old. "Cassius, I have admiration for you as a boxer and feel that you should be a symbol that all Americans should look up to," Patterson wrote. "However, I don't honestly believe what the Black Muslims portray. I am proud to be an American and proud of my people, and no one group of people could make me change my views. Therefore, I challenge you not only for myself, but for all people who think and feel as I do."

  In response to Patterson's challenge, Muhammad issued one of his own: "I'll fight Patterson in a winner-take-all bout. I would give my purse to the Black Muslims, and Patterson could give the purse to the Catholic Church if he is the victor."

  The two now engaged in a public debate with Floyd reiterating his challenge and responding to Muhammad's with an "I am willing to fight for nothing if necessary just so I can bring the championship back to America." Muhammad answered in an interview published in Playboy, "The only reason Patterson's decided to come out of his shell is to try to make himself a big hero to the white man by saving the heavyweight title from being held by a Muslim." In another interview, Muhammad said, "I'll play with him for ten rounds. He has been talking about my religion. I will just pow him. Then, after I beat him, I'll convert him."

  The fight, scheduled to take place November 22, 1964, in Las Vegas, had all the makings of a boxing Holy War, a crusade.

  Muhammad was up to his usual prefight shenanigans, visiting Patterson at his training camp carrying a handful of carrots for the man he called "The Rabbit." When a reporter asked Patterson if he "got mad with these things," Floyd answered, "Well, I'm happy that the heavyweight champ, Mister Clay, took time to ..." Here he was interrupted by Muhammad, who shouted, "That ain't my name. You know my name. C'mon Rabbit, what's my name?" Floyd started again, "As I was saying ... I was happy to see Ali ..." "The full name," demanded Muhammad. "I didn't hear you callin' me by my full name." "Well," answered Floyd, "Cassius Clay is the name his mother calls him."

  I knew firsthand how important Ali's Muslim name was. It was not a topic for taunts or jokes. One time when Rudy, Muhammad's young brother, announced that he too had converted to Muslimism and had changed his name to Rahaman Muhammad, I jokingly said that I would call him "Rocky" Muhammad. But Rudy, seeing no humor in my joke, said, "Oh, no, Elijah Muhammad gave me my name. I would never change it." From that day on I made sure to always call him Rahaman.

  It was the same with Muhammad. You called him Muhammad Ali or you lost a friend. Muhammad even had some heavy words with his idol Sugar Ray Robinson because Ray was reluctant to call him Muhammad Ali. And if Muhammad had trouble with Sugar Ray, you knew he was not going to take anything less from Floyd. (Five years later, while in exile, Muhammad attended the Joe Frazier–Jimmy Ellis fight at Madison Square Garden. As the ring announcer called off the names of former champions in the audience to come into the ring, the crowd began to call for Muhammad to be introduced. But when Garden Vice President Harry Markson wanted to introduce him as Cassius Clay rather than Muhammad Ali, he walked out rather than answer to his former name.)

  The Patterson fight itself was no fight. As a trainer I do not like "hate" fights. Boxers are professionals and should not let personal feelings get in the way of their execution. They've got to control their emotions, not get mad. Was it the Greeks who said, "Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make angry"? But it sometimes happens, and there isn't much you can do about it. And on that night in Las Vegas, Muhammad Ali not only outboxed Floyd, but, I'm sorry to say, humiliated him.

  For the first few rounds Muhammad taunted Floyd with a barrage of "What's my name?" sneers, throwing more taunts at Patterson than punches. He just moved, bent and pulled back, hands down, daring Floyd to land. By the third Floyd's back was up for adoption, thrown out of whack after Ali hammered on him in the clinches. Every round thereafter his trainer, Al Silvani, had to carry his game warrior back to his corner, trying at the same time to yank his sacroiliac back into place. Every time Floyd tried to throw a punch his face contorted with pain, and by the sixth round the fans at ringside were yelling for referee Harry Krause to stop the fight. But even though Muhammad had floored Floyd in the sixth, he couldn't finish the job. With both hands hurt he was content to continue pounding on him and accompanying each punch with a verbal "Bop! Bop! Bop!" and a "What's my name?" Referee Krause finally called a merciful halt to this sadistic humiliation of the popular ex-champion in the twelfth. It was an ugly fight to watch, and one that did little to help Muhammad's popularity.

  There is a postscript to this story, one told to me by Gene Kilroy, a friend of both. According to Gene, Ali was never mad at Floyd, although for years Patterson continued to call him "Clay." The "situation," as Gene called it, was patched up years later when Gene was having lunch with Floyd and his wife at the Las Vegas Hilton and Ali came over. Ali greeted his former opponent, calling out, "Floyd Patterson!" and Floyd called him "Clay." Gene discreetly suggested that Ali "preferred" to be called "Muhammad," and Floyd again addressed him, this time as "Muhammad," saying, "Thanks, Muhammad for the good payday in the ring." Ali smiled and said, "Floyd, you earned it." And that was that.

  But Muhammad's popularity—or, realistically speaking, his unpopularity—would suffer a much greater hit on the afternoon of February 17, 1966, three months after his fight with Patterson, when he uttered nine little words: "I ain't got no quarrels with them Viet Cong."

  Let me backtrack a little here. In an attempt to piece together the incidents leading up to those nine words as best I can through the bits of information I gleaned from others and Muhammad himself, it all began in January 1964, just days after his twenty-second birthday and a month before his first bout with Liston.

  On that day Number 15-47-42-127 sat in a room at an Army Induction Center in Coral Gables, Florida, studying questions like: "A vendor was selling apples for $10 a basket. How much would you pay for a dozen baskets if one-third of the apples have been removed from each of the baskets?" As the then-Clay would tell me, "When I looked at a lot of the questions they had on them army tests, I just didn't know the answers. I didn't even know how to start after finding the answers."

  He missed enough of those questions to score 16 percent on the Armed Forces Qualifying Test, and since a passing mark was 30 percent, he was classified 1-Y. The Army gave him another test two months la
ter in Louisville. Same result. ("I said I was the Greatest, not the smartest," he said as a partial rationalization.)

  During the years he was classified as 1-Y and busy defending his championship, his local Louisville draft board received a torrent of outraged letters condemning the draft board. Most of them were racially charged, looking for Muhammad to be drafted and shipped overseas, hoping that he would return home in a body bag.

  Two years later he was relaxing on the lawn of his rented house in Miami when Bob Lipsyte of the New York Times dropped by to see him. One of Muhammad's friends came out of the house and told him he was wanted on the telephone by one of the wire services. The wire service reporter told him that the military had expanded its draft call and the passing percentile had been dropped to 15, making him eligible. Muhammad had been reclassified 1-A by his local Louisville draft board and would be called up for service duty shortly.

  "How can they do this without another test to see if I'm wiser or worser than the last time?" he asked Lipsyte, half in disbelief and half in anger. "Why are they gunning for me?" Then he blurted out the words that made him cannon fodder for politicians and editorials across the country: "I ain't got no quarrels with them Viet Cong."

  In normal times such a comment wouldn't have caused a furor. But these were not normal times. The very same day as Muhammad's comment, General Maxwell Taylor had answered Senator Wayne Morse's attack on the war by stating that Hanoi would be only too pleased with such dissension in the United States. And Muhammad's comment was viewed as just that—dissension.