Though he liked both fighter and manager, Cosell found himself mystified by their ways, including the crude conditions under which Patterson trained. The Gramercy was always rundown, but when he saw the primitive, frigid jockey room in which D’Amato had set up Floyd for training at Sportsman’s Park in Chicago for the Moore fight, Cosell thought to himself that enough was enough: Cus should have provided Floyd better facilities for a championship bout. But he knew D’Amato would always keep things primal, at least as far as training was concerned. At other times, Cus could be very generous. After Patterson won the heavyweight title, D’Amato showed up at Cosell’s apartment to present Cosell with a hundred-year-old bottle of Armagnac, to thank the sportscaster for his support. The gesture indicated just how tight the three men had become.
United Artists and the Mirisch Company sponsored the ABC radio broadcast to promote the movie The Horse Soldiers, which starred William Holden and John Wayne. The Duke was Patterson’s favorite actor: “Every picture I’ve ever seen him in I’ve liked him, because he’s always the good guy, cleaning up the town or something.”10 As part of the promotion, Wayne and Holden were positioned at ringside to work the broadcast with Cosell and ABC announcer Les Keiter. Holden confidently told Cosell that Johansson would beat Patterson. Cosell laughed at him.
The moment finally arrived. Patterson raised his gaze from Johansson’s feet after Goldstein finished his instructions. He stepped back to his corner, accepting the advice D’Amato and Florio had to offer, uncertain as to how this drama would play out. In his corner, Johansson felt more self-assured than ever, anxious to end the fight as soon as possible. The bell rang, and the two fighters moved forward to begin their battle.
Early on, Johansson found Patterson to be vulnerable, particularly to both straight lefts and left hooks. Nothing impressed him about the vaunted Patterson speed when the champ fought from the outside. But when Patterson stepped into the pocket to fight up close, it was a different story. Then Patterson proved elusive. “You got a smell of him but no more,” Johansson said. Still, Johansson was able to score, and Johansson became convinced that Patterson couldn’t punch—“he was of too frail a caliber.” When he went to his corner at the end of the first round, Ingo told his cornermen, “The whole thing is shaping out.”11
Floyd saw things differently. He felt no intimidation at all from Johansson during the first round. He was particularly surprised by Johansson’s anemic jabs, all ninety-six of them. Ingo flicked them as if he were attempting to ward off mosquitoes. They inflicted no real damage on the rare occasion they connected. But Floyd was even more surprised by Johansson’s strange defensive tactics, in particular how he jumped backward to avoid punches. For a heavyweight, Ingo seemed light on his feet.
The flickering jabs and rapid retreats were actually part of Johansson’s fight strategy. His goal was to confuse Patterson, and by the third round Ingo believed he was doing just that. As Patterson struggled to adjust to his opponent’s odd boxing style, Ingo threw a sharp, short left hook, tagging Patterson, then followed it with a hard, straight right. Toonder caught Patterson smack in the face, and he was suddenly on the mat, what Floyd described to W. C. Heinz as being in the “black spot.”12 Patterson was stunned, both physically and mentally. After Floyd regained his footing, he decided he had to get aggressive to compensate for the knockdown. It was a mistake. Johansson dispatched Floyd into the black spot once again.
And then it happened once more. Then again. And again. It was a shocking spectacle: the heavyweight champion of the world went down over and over in just two minutes. Floyd was completely discombobulated, so much so that at one point he believed that he had knocked down Johansson when it was Floyd himself on the mat. In the swirl of confusion that followed, Patterson arose and attempted to find a neutral corner while starting to take out his mouthpiece, never realizing that referee Ruby Goldstein had signaled for the fight to resume. Ingo clobbered him with a right to the back of the head that sent Floyd sprawling one more time.
Floyd just couldn’t believe it. He was being pummeled, bulled around the ring, and he couldn’t seem to do anything about it. After the fourth knockdown, he looked directly into the eyes of John Wayne. Embarrassment washed over him. The most famous movie star in the world had come all this way to watch him fight, and Floyd was letting him down. The characters Wayne played always seemed to find a way to overcome adversity and win. But Floyd was being humiliated, losing in front of hometown fans. John Wayne would never allow something like that to happen. That the eyes of the Duke were on him made the thrashing sting all the worse.
With a minute left in the third round and after Patterson suffered a jaw-dropping seven knockdowns, Goldstein stepped between the fighters, waved his hands, and awarded Ingo a technical knockout—and the title of heavyweight champion of the world. Johansson and his famed punch made believers of many people that night. Columnist John Lardner looked around at the thousands of fans in Yankee Stadium and surmised they’d become Ingo and toonder converts. “Never before has a prizefight been so completely identified with one symbol, a thoroughly advertised right hand,” Lardner said. “Best right-hand punch I ever saw,” said Rocky Marciano, who was at ringside. “Quite a sock,” said former champ Jack Dempsey, also at ringside.13 Cosell hustled into the ring. He found D’Amato and placed his microphone in front of him. D’Amato, placidly confident, said, “Floyd Patterson will become the first heavyweight champion ever to regain his title.”14
But Floyd was hearing other things. Patterson had not even reached the dressing room yet when he found himself surrounded by hostile fans. He saw a man with a big smile who shouted to another, “See, I told you. This guy can’t fight.” Among the friends, family, and boxing officials waiting in the dressing room was a member of the New York State Athletic Commission, who was laughing out loud. When he spotted Dan Florio coming through the door with Patterson, he said, “So your boy finally got it!” Florio loosened his grip on Floyd’s arm and started for the official, but Buster Watson interceded before blows could be exchanged.15 Floyd’s handlers quickly cleared the crowd out, and Floyd had a few moments to try to make sense of what had just happened. He felt numb. He understood that he was no longer champion of the world, but he couldn’t grasp why. He didn’t bother to shower. “Soap and water wouldn’t wash away what had happened,” he said.16
Had it been possible, Patterson would have kept that dressing room door closed. But he couldn’t do that. He still had to admit reporters for the traditional postfight question-and-answer session. Though Patterson was not a man who favored hats, he asked to borrow Watson’s—as if pulling the brim down over his eyes would prevent reporters from seeing his pain. It was a vain tactic. His sorrow was all too apparent. Once the door opened, D’Amato took charge. “We never criticize a referee,” he said when asked if Goldstein had stopped the fight too soon, but he added, “I do feel, though, that when the fight was stopped, Floyd was beginning to pull out of it. But in all fairness, we could not blame the referee for ending it.” He said the devastation began with a left hook followed by a looping right that came out of nowhere. “It was a bolt out of the blue,” D’Amato said. “Floyd never saw it coming, so he can’t describe it. But I did. It hit him flush and high on the face.”17
Patterson, though feeling humiliated by the loss, managed some humor. When asked if the Johansson right was the hardest punch he’d ever taken, he said, “Evidently so.” But the dethroned champion felt “already drowned” deep inside. He really didn’t have anything else to say to the reporters. So it was back to D’Amato, who said that yes, of course Patterson would exercise the return-bout clause in the fight contract. “Where and when . . . well, we’ll have to see about that.”18
Johansson suddenly appeared in Floyd’s dressing room, escorted by police officers. The new world champion shook hands with the man he had just deposed. The handshake was sincere, but not a word was spoken between the two men. Then Ingo departed to celebrate his new crown; Patterson,
to mourn all that he’d lost. Floyd was twenty-four years old, and the most important thing in the world to him had just been whisked away. Was there any way that he could get it back?
9
Not the Time to Quit
ONCE HE RETURNED home, Floyd found some solitude during the dark hours after the fight. It was late at night, but he remained awake, mentally replaying everything that had happened in Yankee Stadium, chastising himself as he pondered all the people across America he’d let down. He was also thinking about his immediate family. He now had another daughter, Trina, to go along with his first daughter, Seneca, and his wife, Sandra. It was clear by now that Floyd was not a man to put his family first in terms of emotional commitment—his career took center stage—but he was not one to neglect them financially. He knew his wife and two small daughters depended on him. In addition, he knew that millions of African Americans had placed their faith in him, hoping he would have a long run as heavyweight champ, maybe even prove to be the next Joe Louis. That dream was shattered now.
After dawn, Patterson finally made it to bed. He awakened a few hours later to a blood-soaked pillow. Sandra drove him to see an ear, nose, and throat specialist, who diagnosed a punctured eardrum, a painful souvenir of Johansson’s power punches. Back at home, Patterson went straight to the den and turned on the TV. He stared at it without seeing what was on the screen.
But Sandra was not content to let things lie. Striding into the room, she turned the set off and suggested that Patterson consider retiring from the ring. Floyd could not believe what he’d heard. No, he said, not after just this one defeat. But Sandra, witnessing the battering he’d taken and seeing how morose he was now, asserted that it wasn’t necessary for him to continue. The family had plenty of money for the time being, she argued, and she could find a job if finances grew tight. Floyd would have none of it. “Definitely,” he said, “this is not the time to quit.”1 He owed it to himself and the fans to fight again.
Their conversation ended there. But the issue was far from resolved. The endless training camps, the travel, all that time Patterson spent away from home—it had taken a toll on the Patterson family.
In the days after the Johansson fight, Floyd went free-falling into darkness. He remained holed up in his house, drapes drawn, lights off. For hours at a time, he lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling while the TV droned unheeded. He couldn’t sleep—Floyd, the man who could doze off anywhere, anytime, under any circumstances. His children wondered if their daddy was sick. Maybe he was. He wallowed in despair, haunted by the memory of John Wayne’s eyes.
The night of the fight, Howard Cosell had gone home to find his thirteen-year-old daughter, Jill, still up, weeping over Floyd’s defeat. She ended up crying all night. Many Americans shared Jill Cosell’s sentiments in the following days. But many others did not. In fact, most of the world seemed to be celebrating Patterson’s dethronement. It wasn’t just the big-city writers who regularly covered boxing who weighed in on what happened at Yankee Stadium that night, taking their jabs in subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle ways. In Florence, South Carolina, local columnist Ernie Prevatte hailed Johansson as a boxer who could give boxing a big boost in the United States. “He’s an exciting fighter with a powerful punch and from every indication will be a fighting champion.”2 The implication was that Patterson was not a “fighting champion,” that he avoided tough challengers, didn’t fight often enough. Older boxers offered their opinions as well. Former heavyweight champion Gene Tunney, who had never proved to be shy when given an opportunity to criticize Patterson, said, “I always considered Patterson a built up novice, but this Johansson, he is a real fighter.”3 Tunney added that he personally was glad Johansson had won.
The first reporter to visit Patterson during these dark days was Milton Gross from the New York Post. “There was not a visible sign of the beating he had taken on his face,” Gross said. “But there was a subdued sadness in his eyes and in his voice.”4 Patterson told Gross he felt as if he were caught up in some sort of dreadful nonreality. He wondered if he’d ever been heavyweight champion at all, or was it just something he dreamed. He then made a curious suggestion: Floyd would talk more, if that’s what Gross wanted, or, if he’d rather, they could just sit quietly in the house Floyd now referred to as a funeral parlor.
Cus D’Amato, fretting about Patterson’s deepening depression, asked Cosell to drive to Rockville Centre to cheer Floyd up. Cosell immediately agreed and, with a spark of inspiration, suggested taking Jackie Robinson along. D’Amato thought that was a splendid idea and called Floyd to set up the visit. At 9:00 A.M. the next day, Howard Cosell and Jackie Robinson stood at Floyd’s door.
No man stood higher in Patterson’s estimation than Jackie Robinson. Patterson was a lifelong Dodgers fan. Even before Robinson was called up to the team in 1947, young Patterson kept scrapbooks devoted to the Dodgers. Once Robinson broke Major League Baseball’s color barrier, he stood next to Joe Louis at the very top of Patterson’s pantheon of heroes. Robinson comported himself with dignity and strength, a polite man of virtue who commanded respect. There was no small amount of abuse hurled Robinson’s way as the first African American to play in the big leagues since the 1800s, yet he withstood it and proved that a black man could be a standout player in Major League Baseball. Robinson’s pride and poise inspired Floyd, and the ballplayer once nicknamed the Colored Comet was the perfect person to minister to him during the bleak hours that followed his defeat. But for a time after Robinson and Cosell arrived at the Patterson house, it appeared that they might not get beyond the front door.
“From the outside it looked unoccupied,” Cosell said. “All the blinds were drawn. We rang, and rang again. And again. Finally Sandra appeared and let us in. Floyd . . . tried to avoid looking us in the eye . . . It was as if he were sitting in that little hole in the subway all over again.”5 Robinson and Patterson discussed comebacks. Robinson outlined his own and suggested that Floyd had youth on his side. To Cosell, Floyd seemed to perk up. Robinson and Patterson’s friendship was cemented that day. From that afternoon onward, whenever Robinson called for his help, Floyd would be there for him. “I always get sort of choked up,” Robinson would say, “when I try to express how I feel about him.”6
Although Cosell believed that Patterson felt better after the visit, Floyd’s days of anguish were far from over. As each one slowly slid by, D’Amato and Dan Florio made stops at the house to assure Floyd that he’d get a rematch—negotiations already were under way—and that they believed Floyd would show the world that Ingo was no champion, that what had happened at Yankee Stadium was a fluke. But such assurances didn’t make things better. What did clear the gloomy clouds away—at least for a few days—came from an unexpected source. Archie Moore sent Patterson a letter that was kind and encouraging yet blunt:
Dear Floyd,
The first bout is over. I know how you must feel. I hope you don’t continue to feel bad. The same thing has happened to many great fighters. Of course, I hated to lose to you, and fate decreed it that way. Fate does strange-seeming things. If you are a believer in things that happen, happen for the best, listen to this and you can find your way out of a seeming tunnel.
First, Johansson was not so great. You fought a stupid battle. Look at the film. Evaluate it. Never once did you lead with a jab. All you did was move your feet and try to leap toward him. Now, this man was not like London. He could bang a little. You gave absolutely no respect to your opposition.
But if he had been the banger the press said he was, he would have put you away with the left hook he hit you with your back turned. Well, if you concentrate on your jab and move around this guy, you will be the first one to regain the crown. You can do it.
Your friend, Archie Moore7
Of course Moore was right. There was nothing mystical about Johansson and his toonder. It was just that fighter after fighter had made the same mistake with Johansson that Patterson had made: they all fought stupid fights, allow
ing Johansson to lure them into his style of boxing. That was how Ingo wound up undefeated and that was how he wound up with Patterson’s title.
Patterson put Moore’s letter down and looked up at a golden crown D’Amato had presented to him when Floyd had won the championship. Floyd lifted it from the mantel and detached it from its base. Then he hid it out of sight. He decided he was not entitled to have it on display while Johansson held the title. If Patterson could win back the championship, the crown would see the light of day once again. For the first time in weeks, Floyd believed he had a chance to reclaim it. Sportswriters speculated that a rematch could occur as early as September 1960, just three months after their first bout. Patterson’s experiences with D’Amato’s complicated and protracted fight negotiations had taught him it would be much later than that. But that it was being discussed already meant that an opportunity for redemption awaited him.
Many people hoped there would be no redemption for Floyd Patterson. By the millions, Americans were paying money to watch the Johansson fight at local movie houses. The showings seemed especially popular in the South, where one theater promoted the film as footage of the most exciting fight in history. The images of the Swede’s humiliation of the African American champion no doubt appealed to the segregationist element in the region, as did the comments of Newspaper Enterprise Association (NEA) writer Harry Grayson, who called Patterson the “most overrated and overprotected fighter ever to wear the heavyweight crown” and “the greatest hoax since the Cardiff Giant.”8 Grayson’s column, like many NEA features, appeared regularly in small-town dailies across America, including the South. Sometimes the exuberant celebration of Johansson’s win had an ugly undertone. In one small southern town, the owner of a movie house exhibiting the fight footage advertised it with a sign portraying a triumphant white boxer standing over a fallen black boxer, a racial caricature featuring exaggerated white lips.9
Floyd Patterson Page 13