Conrad was as happy as a serious smoker without a serious smoke could have been right then. . . And so was I, for that matter, despite the crossfire of abuse and bent humor that I found myself caught in, between Bundini and the bed.
Ali was doing most of the talking: his mood seemed to be sort of wandering around and every once in a while taking a quick bite out of anything that caught his interest, like a good-humored wolverine. . . There was no talk about boxing, as I recall: we'd agreed to save that for the "formal interview" tomorrow morning, so this midnight gig was a bit like a warmup for what Conrad described as "the serious bullshit."
There was a lot of talk about "drunkards," the sacred nature of "unsweetened grapefruit" and the madness of handling money -- a subject I told him I'd long since mastered: "How many acres do you own?" I kept asking him whenever he started getting too high on his own riffs. "Not as many as me," I assured him. "I'm richer than Midas, and nine times as shrewd -- whole valleys and mountains of acres," I continued, keeping a very straight face: "Thousands of cattle, stallions, peacocks, wild boar, sloats. . ." And then the final twist: "You and Frazier just never learned how to handle money -- but for twenty percent of the nut I can make you almost as rich as I am."
I could see that he didn't believe me. Ali is a hard man to con -- but when he got on the subject of his tragic loss of "all privacy," I figured it was time for the frill.
"You really want a cure for your privacy problem?" I asked him, ripping the top out of another Ballantine Ale.
He smiled wickedly. "Sure boss -- what you got?"
I slid off the bureau and moved toward the door, "Hang on," I told him. "I'll be right back."
Conrad was suddenly alert. "Where the hell are you going?" he snapped.
"To my room," I said. "I have the ultimate cure for Muhammad's privacy problem."
"What room?" he asked, "You don't even know where it is, do you?"
More laughter.
"It's 1011," Conrad said, "right upstairs -- but hurry back," he added. "And if you run into Pat, we never heard of you."
Pat Patterson, Ali's fearfully diligent bodyguard, was known to be prowling the halls and putting a swift arm on anything human or otherwise that might disturb Ali's sleep. The rematch with Spinks was already getting cranked up, and it was Patterson's job to make sure The Champ stayed deadly serious about his new training schedule.
"Don't worry," I said. "I just want to go up to the room and put on my pantyhose. I'll be a lot more comfortable." The sound of raucous laughter followed me down the hall as I sprinted off toward the fire exit, knowing I would have to be fast or I'd never get back in that room -- tonight or tomorrow.
But I knew what I wanted, and I knew where it was in my parachute bag: yes, a spectacularly hideous full-head, real-hair, seventy-five-dollar movie-style red devil mask -- a thing so fiendishly real and ugly that I still wonder, in moments like these, what sort of twisted impulse caused me to even pack the goddamn thing, much less wear it through the halls of the Park Lane and back into Muhammad Ali's suite at this unholy hour of the night
Three minutes later I was back at the door, with the mask zipped over my head and the neck-flap tucked into my shirt. I knocked twice, then leaped into the room when Bundini opened the door, screaming some brainless slogan like "DEATH TO THE WEIRD!"
For a second or two there was no sound at all in the room -- then the whole place exploded in wild laughter as I pranced around, smoking and drinking through the molded rubber mouth and raving about whatever came into my head.
The moment I saw the expression on Muhammad's face, I knew my mask would never get back to Woody Creek. His eyes lit up like he'd just seen the one toy he'd wanted all his life, and he almost came out of the bed after me. . .
"Okay," I said, lifting it off my head and tossing it across the room to the bed. "It's yours, my man -- but let me warn you that not everybody thinks this thing is real funny."
("Especially black people," Conrad told me later. "Jesus," he said, "I just about flipped when you jumped into the room with that goddamn mask on your head. That was really pushing your luck.")
Ali put the mask on immediately and was just starting to enjoy himself in the mirror when. . . ye Gods, we all went stiff as the sound of harsh knocking came through the door, along with the voice of Pat Patterson. "Open up," he was shouting. "What the hell is going on in there?"
I rushed for the bathroom, but Bundini was two steps ahead of me. . . Ali, still wearing the hideous mask, ducked under the covers and Conrad went to open the door.
It all happened so fast that we all simply froze in position as Patterson came in like Dick Butkus on a blood scent. . . and that was when Muhammad came out of the bed with a wild cry and a mushroom cloud of flying sheets, pointing one long brown arm and a finger like Satan's own cattle prod, straight into Pat Patterson's face.
And that, folks, was a moment that I'd just as soon not have to live through again. We were all lucky, I think, that Patterson didn't go for his gun and blow Muhammad away in that moment of madness before he recognized the body under the mask.
It was only a split second, but it could easily have been a hell of a lot longer for all of us if Ali hadn't dissolved in a fit of whooping laughter at the sight of Pat Patterson's face. . . And although Pat recovered instantly, the smile he finally showed us was uncomfortably thin.
The problem, I think, was not so much the mask itself and the shock it had caused him but why The Champ was wearing the goddamn thing at all; where had it come from? And why? These were serious times, but a scene like this could have ominous implications for the future -- particularly with Ali so pleased with his new toy that he kept it on his head for the next ten or fifteen minutes, staring around the room and saying with no hint of a smile in his voice that he would definitely wear it for his appearance on the Dick Cavett show the next day. "This is the new me," he told us. "I'll wear it on TV tomorrow and tell Cavett that I promised Veronica that I won't take it off until I win my title back. I'm gonna wear this ugly thing everywhere I go -- even when I get into the ring with Spinks next time." He laughed wildly and jabbed at himself in the mirror. "Yes indeed!" he chuckled. "They thought I was crazy before, but they ain't seen nothin' yet."
I was feeling a little on the crazy side myself, at that point -- and Patterson's accusing presence soon told us it was time to go.
"Okay, boss," Ali said to me on the way out. "Tomorrow we get serious, right? Nine o'clock in the morning. We'll have breakfast, and get real serious."
I agreed, and went upstairs to my room for a bit of the good smoke.
Muhammad Speaks. . . A Second Shot from Spinks. . . The Hippie in the Wing Tips. . . The Triple Greatest of All Times. . .
I was up at eight-thirty the next day, but when I called Ali's suite, Veronica said he'd been up since seven and "was wandering around downstairs somewhere."
I found him in the restaurant, sitting at one end of a table full of cut glass and silver, dressed almost as formally as the maitre d' in a dark blue pin-stripe suit and talking very seriously with a group of friends and very earnest black businessmen types who were all dressed the same way he was. It was a completely different man from the one I'd been sparring and laughing with the night before. The conversation around the table ranged from what to do about a just received invitation to visit some new country in Africa, to a bewildering variety of endorsement offers, to book contracts, real estate and the molecular structure of crabmeat.
It was midmorning before we finally went upstairs to his suite "to get serious.". . . And what follows is a ninety-nine percent verbatim transcript of our conversation for almost the next two hours. Muhammad was stretched out on the bed, still wearing his "senator's suite," and balancing my tape recorder on his stomach while he talked. I was sitting cross-legged right next to him on the bed, with a bottle of Heineken in one hand, a cigarette in the other and my shoes on the floor beside me.
The room was alive wi
th the constant comings and goings of people bearing messages, luggage, warnings about getting to the Cavett show on time. . . and also a very alert curiosity about me and what I was up to. The mask was nowhere in sight, but Pat Patterson was, along with three or four other very serious-looking black gentleman who listened to every word we said. One of them actually kneeled on the floor right next to the bed, with his ear about thirteen inches away from the tape recorder, the whole time we talked.
Okay, we might as well get back to what we were talking about downstairs. You said you're definitely going to fight Spinks again, right?
I can't say I'm definitely going to fight Spinks again. I think we are. I'm sure we are -- but I might die, he might die.
But as far as you're concerned, you want to, you're counting on it.
Yeah, he plans to fight me. I gave him a chance and he will give me a shot back at it. The people won't believe he's a true champion until he beats me twice. See, I had to beat Liston twice, Johansson had to beat Patterson twice, but he didn't. Randy Turpin had to beat Sugar Ray twice, but he didn't. If he can beat me twice, then people will really believe that he might possibly be the greatest.
Okay, let me ask you. . . at what point, at what time -- I was in Vegas for the fight--when did you realize that things were getting real serious?
Round twelve.
Up to then you still thought you had control.
I was told that I was probably losing, but maybe I was even. I had to win the last three and I was too tired to win the last three, then I knew I was in trouble.
But you figured you could pull it off. . . up until round twelve.
Yeah, but I couldn't, 'cause he is confident, 'cause he is winning and I had to pull it off and he was 197 and I'm 228 and that's too heavy.
Didn't you tell me downstairs at breakfast that you're going to come in at 205 next time?
I don't know what I'm going to come in at, 205 is really impossible. If I get to 220 I'll be happy. Just be eight pounds lighter. . . I'll be happy. I did pretty good at that weight, to be in condition around 220, even if it's 225, 223, I could do better.
Well, on a scale of one hundred, what kind of condition were you in for Spinks?
Scale of one hundred? I was eighty.
Where should you have been?
Should have been. . . ninety-eight.
Why didn't you know him better? You didn't seem ready. . .
Why didn't anybody know him? He slipped up on the press, a ten to one underdog, they called him. He hadn't gone over ten rounds and only seven pro fights. What can you know about him?
Okay, let's get to another point: I was down there in Vegas for two weeks and there wasn't much to do except talk and gossip, and there was a lot of talk about whether it would be better for you to come out and zing him right away, take charge -- or do what I think you did, sort of lay back and. . .
No, you couldn't have said it was better for me to take charge.
Well, there were two schools of thought: one was you come out zooming and cracking -- and the other was the sort of slow start, rope-a-dope trip.
No, that wouldn't be wise at my age and my weight to come out zooming and wear myself out in case I didn't knock him out. When you don't know a man you got to feel him out. . . but I know one thing, everybody tires, that's why I laid on the ropes for four, five or six rounds hoping he'd tire, but he didn't. We didn't know he had the stamina and I wasn't in shape so for me to come off bing bing bing real fast, I know for sure I'm going to tire but I don't know for sure I'm going to stop him. But after I tired then I'm in trouble.
How long could you have gone, if you came out zinging right from the start?
I could have zinged about six rounds.
So you would have died after six?
No, I wouldn't have died after six, I would have just slowed down and been on defense, but nobody can tell me how to come out, or how I should have come out, I did the best thing for my condition.
This may be an odd question but I want to ask you anyway, at the press conference after the fight I remember Leon saying, "I just wanted to beat this nigger." And it seems to me it was done with a smile, but when I heard that I felt the whole room get tense.
No, that's okay. I say the same things. We black people talk about each other that way, in a humorous way. "Ah, nig-gah, be quiet." "Ah -- ahh, I can whop that niggah." "Niggah, you crazy." Those are our expressions. If you say it, I'll slap you. The white man can't call me nigger like they do.
So it was a joke? It struck me as a very raw note, but. . .
I can't blame you. When I beat Sonny Listen, I didn't say those words, but I was glad to win, so I can't take nothing from Spinks -- he's good, he's a lot better fighter than people thought he was.
Tell me a little about this tri-cornered thing between you and Norton and Spinks.
Well, Norton feels he deserves the next shot.
Do you think he does?
No, he deserves a shot a the winner between me and Spinks. I gave Spinks a shot, he owes me a shot for giving him a shot. The champion always gets a return. They used to have return clauses. We didn't have that, I don't have that. He's giving me a shot 'cause I gave him a break. I beat Norton twice. Foreman annihilated Norton, so therefore he's not better than me. I'm the number one contender, not him.
What did Leon tell you? When I talked to him in Vegas, I got the feeling he honestly wants to give you a return shot. I think he's ready for that.
Sure he will. By the time this article will come out the fight probably will have been signed and everything, the date set and we ready to fight. Don't say yet, but I'm sure it's getting pretty close and I'm the one they'll choose. He makes $5 million with me and $1.5 million with Norton. Who would you fight?
Anyway, what happens if it turns out that Leon is legally obligated to fight Norton first?
That's all right, I ain't tired. I got four or five more years of good fighting.
Four or five years?
[Ali nods, grins] Plenty of time, boss. All the time I need.
How do you think Spinks would do against Norton?
I think he'd beat Norton.
Did I hear you say that you were going up to the camp today?
I start training in about two weeks.
And that's going to be straight through for five or six months? You've never done that before, have you?
Never in my life, never more than two months. But this time I'm going to be in there five months, chopping trees, running up hills, I'll be coming in dancing! Dancing! [Sudden grin] I'll be winning my title for the third time. . . [Shouting] The greatest of all times! Of all times!! [Laughing and jabbing]
Come on now! We're not on TV! Let's get back to this Norton-Spinks thing. Why do you say Spinks will win?
'Cause he's too fast, he's aggressive, he's young, he takes a punch, the mere fact that he can beat me means he can beat Norton. I'm better than Norton. I pick him, it don't have to be that way, but I pick him.
How about Frazier? Could Leon have beaten the Joe Frazier of four or five years ago? Around the first or second time you fought him? Who does Leon compare to?
Leon, compare to, he compare to Frazier's style, always coming in, Spinks. . . Frazier.
Frazier at his best?
Frazier at his best, yeah.
How good is Leon? I don't really know myself.
Leon is unexplored, unknown -- and after I beat him, he'll come back and win the title and he'll hold it four or five years and he'll go down in history as one of the great heavyweights. Not the greatest, but one of the greatest.
So if you fought him one more time, you think that'd be it? Is that what you're saying?
I'm not sure that'll be it for me. . . I might take another fight -- don't know yet, according to how I feel when that time comes.
Did you see Kallie Knoetze, that South African fighter? The one who beat Bobick?
I heard about him.
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Me and Conrad spent a lot of time talking to him before the fight. I was trying to work up a really serious spectacle between you and him down in South Africa.
He seemed like a nice fellow.
Oh yeah, he was really eager to have you come down there and fight. Does that interest you, to fight a white cop in South Africa?
On the basis that on that day there'd be equality in the arena where I'm fighting.
But would that interest you? With all the heavy political overtones? How do you feel about something like that? Along with a million-dollar gate?
Yeah, I like it. With the approval of all the other African nations and Moslem countries. I wouldn't go against their wishes, regardless of how they made the arena that night, if the masses of the country and the world were against it, I wouldn't go. I know that I have a lot of fans in South Africa, and they want to see me. But I'm not going to crawl over other nations to go. The world would have to say: "Well, this case is special, they've given the people justice. His going is helping the freedom."
There's a dramatic quality to that thing -- I can't think of any other fight that would have that kind of theater. Actually it might even be too much politics. . .
What worries me is gettin' whupped by a white man in South Africa.
Oh ho Yeah! [Nervous chuckle] [Room breaks into laughter]
[Laughing] That's what the world needs. . . me getting whupped by a white man in South Africa! [Still laughing]
Oh yeah. . .
Getting whupped by a white man period, but in South Africa? If a white South African fighter beat me. . . ?
Jesus. . .
Oh, Lord. [Chuckles]
Oh, you'd have to win. . . You would definitely have to win. Did you see the film of his fight with Bobick? When he took him out in the third round? Was he good?
He was a little slow, but he looked powerful. . . He didn't look to me like you would have any trouble with him, but I'm not an expert. He looked like you'd have to watch it. . .
Yeah, he took Bobick real hard. I don't think it would be wise for me to fight him in South Africa. If I beat him too bad and then leave the country, they might beat up some of the brothers. [Laughter in the room] Or if he whup me too bad then there might be riots. . . People crazy. You know what I mean? If I whup him up too bad and look too good, then the brothers might get beat up after I leave. I wouldn't fool with it. I'm a representative of black people. . . It'd be good if I don't go to nothing like that. It's too touchy -- it's more than a sport when I get involved.
The Great Shark Hunt: Strange Tales From a Strange Time Page 81
