My View from the Corner

by Angelo Dundee

  Cassius Clay didn't have to bother buying ads or writing articles in magazines to land his title shot with Liston. Instead he issued his challenge verbally, taunting the champion into the fight.

  He began his campaign by pushing his way through the mob scene in the ring at Comiskey Park in Chicago after the first Liston-Patterson fight and into Liston's corner where he loudly delivered his first challenge. The shocked Liston could only say in return, "You're crazy, man."

  The campaign continued in Las Vegas, where Cassius approached Liston in a casino. Warned that Clay was heading his way, Liston pulled out a gun and shot it in Clay's direction. Clay quickly scooted under a nearby craps table, visibly shaken. Only later did Willie Reddish, Liston's trainer, let on that the gun was a cap pistol loaded with blanks. But the first round had gone to Liston.

  Later, Clay would come back, this time to find Liston at a craps table where he was losing heavily. According to eyewitnesses, Clay shouted, "Look at that big, ugly bear. He can't even shoot craps." Liston merely glared at him, picked up the dice, and rolled again. Another losing roll. Again Clay hollered at Liston, but in a voice loud enough for half the casino, if not half of Las Vegas, to hear him, "Look at the big ugly, bear ... he can't do nothin' right." This time an enraged Liston dropped the dice and walked over to Clay. Standing face-to-face and eyeball-to-eyeball, he menacingly said, "Listen, you nigger faggot, if you don't get out of here in ten seconds, I'm gonna pull that big tongue of yours out of your mouth and stick it up your ass." With that Clay turned and lickety-split it out the casino door, having gotten the Bear's goat if not the Bear himself.

  This went on and on and on. Another time Clay taunted Liston with a blackjack table between them, "You're so ugly that I don't know how you can get any uglier." And Liston, who viewed Clay more as a small annoyance than a big threat, growled back, "Why don't you come over here and sit on my knee and I'll feed you your orange juice." To which Clay, a little hurt by being one-upped, shot back, "Don't insult me or you'll be sorry ... 'cause you're just one ugly, slow bear."

  The campaign to get Liston into the ring took a lot of doing and didn't happen overnight. People don't understand that we worked on it for almost two years. We did anything and everything we could think of. It was a combined operation of planning and scheming, and all of us took part in the number we did on Liston. How many gimmicks could we use? There was the honey we got for the Bear. The chains with leather thongs to hold the guy down—you know, "Come here, Bear ... come here." We even went "Bear hunting," in bear-hunting costumes, with bib overalls and big boots to stalk the Bear. Believe you me, it was all done in fun, but we were out to get the Bear, to land him for a shot at his title.

  Then there was the bus trip. Cassius had just purchased a brand-new bus, "Big Red," and had it adorned with signs that looked like they came right off the set of The Harder They Fall—signs reading "The World's Most Colorful Fighter" and "Liston Must Go in 8." The original plan had been for Cassius and his entourage to go from Los Angeles to New York. But someone—I don't remember who—decided they should go "Bear huntin'" and make a stopover in Denver to visit Sonny in his new house. So Denver it was. With Cassius at the wheel driving like a Formula One hopeful, the bus pulled up to Sonny's house at 3:00 A.M., lights flashing and everyone hollering, "Oink, Oink" and "Where's the Bear?" It wasn't long before they found out as Liston emerged, accompanied by his dogs, screaming, "What do you want, you crazy bastard?" As Cassius flickered the lights on Sonny, spotlighting him in his pajamas holding a poker in his hand making ready to smash the bus's windows, the police arrived and warned Cassius and crew that they'd better leave or face a charge of disturbing the peace. For Cassius, it was a promotional triumph. After all, as he said, "You know how them white people felt about that black man who had just moved in. We didn't help it much."

  A few months later Cassius was in the ring for the prefight introductions before the second Liston-Patterson fight. Turning to Patterson, he bowed with a flourish; turning to face Liston, he dropped his jaw, threw up his hands in a make-believe surrender sign, and beat a hasty retreat from the ring. Everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except Liston.

  After the fight—which took just four seconds longer than the first go-round for Liston to mop up the floor with Patterson—TV commentator Howard Cosell, mike in hand, tried to conduct a postfight interview with Liston. It was really a three-way interview, with Clay, just behind them, constantly interrupting. Cosell asked Liston, "Sonny, a workmanlike performance ... who's next? Are you going to fight the noisome one, Cassius Clay?" In a supercharged voice Cassius shouted, "The fight was a disgrace!" Liston tried to answer Cosell, saying, "Well, I'm gonna take them as they list them ... and if they list Clay, it'll be Clay." And again, Cassius could be heard hollering, "Liston's a tramp ... I'm the champ." Losing control of the situation, Cosell quickly cut short the interview, saying, "All right, Sonny Boy. Go back to the dressing room, we'll see you there. That's the story from the ring." But it wasn't the end of the story as the voice belonging to Cassius still could be heard in the background shouting, "Don't make me wait, I'll whup him in eight."

  Liston, who had heard all the shouting, now went over to Cassius, and in a less menacing voice than normal said, "Clay, don't get hurt now, little boy, we're gonna make a lot of money." Then he added, "I'm gonna beat you like I'm your daddy," before turning away and heading for the dressing room.

  Cassius's campaign had apparently worked. At least he had lured Liston into accepting him as his next opponent. Now all that stood in the way of a Liston-Clay fight was the "lot of money" Liston had mentioned.

  Knowing there were megabucks to be made, Cassius now began staking his claim. "I've talked up the greatest fight in history," said the greatest self-promoter in boxing history. "Man, I don't need Liston ... he needs ME!" And he was right. Cassius was the one with the drawing power, the one the fans wanted to see. And the one making the fight.

  Liston acknowledged the potential of a fight against Clay only by saying, "If they ever make this fight, I'll be locked up for murder." Finally, after listening to those around him telling him this would be an "easy fight" and that he would make "lots of money," he relented.

  The fight was on, Cassius's challenge had produced the desired results.

  SIX

  Baiting and Beating "The Bear"

  Copyright © 2008 by Angelo Dundee and Bert Randolph Sugar Click here for terms of use.

  Few observers gave Cassius Clay a snowball's chance in hell against the supposedly invincible Sonny Liston. Others gave him even less.

  The heavyweight division had never before seen another quite like this chocolate-covered version of the man Jack found at the top of the beanstalk. A physically intimidating giant compressed into a 6′ 1″ frame, Sonny Liston was too strong, too tough, too everything. His fists were 15 inches in circumference, larger than Primo Camera's or Jess Willard's. He had an 84-inch reach, 16 inches longer than Rocky Marciano's. He strengthened the muscles in his 17½-inch neck by standing on his head a couple of hours a day. His left jab, a battering ram, could make a guy's teeth go soft. His left hook was a lethal weapon, comparable to Jack Dempsey's. He could go to the body with all the ferocity of some of the great body punchers of the past, such as Tony Zale and Billy Petrolle. His uppercut was as powerful as any seen in the history of the division. It was almost as if some geneticist had bred him for the sole purpose of beating up others.

  I saw Liston destroy Cleveland Williams. Destroy him. He hit Williams with a shot and flattened him in two rounds. And when he flattened, he covered the whole ring. It was awesome.

  But for all his raw power, Liston's biggest asset was more psychological than physical. He made a science out of inspiring fear in the hearts and minds of his opponents. I know a lot of guys who completely collapsed when they saw the guy. In the ring he'd wear a big hood on his head and stuff towels under his robe to appear even bigger than he was. And in training he would awe the press by knocking the h
eavy bag off the hook and having trainer Willie Reddish throw medicine balls into his middle to the tune of "Night Train." (Although I don't know what that mattered, my guy Cassius never threw to the body anyway.) In short, he was the meanest "Mutha" on the boxing block and wanted everyone to know it.

  The Liston who signed to fight Clay admitted to being thirty-three years of age, but his public record said thirty-six, and his friends placed it closer to forty. (When one writer doubted his age, Liston roared at the cowering questioner: "My mammy says I'm thirty-three ... are you calling my mammy a fuckin' liar?" Interview over.) The only way to tell his real age, I figured, was to pull the bark back and count the rings. Dating back to his close twelve-round decision over Eddie Machen in September 1960, Liston had engaged in just four fights lasting a total of six rounds. The fine edge he had honed in his climb to the top of the heavyweight mountain had been dulled. And despite the one-sided nature of both his one-round KOs of Patterson and his twenty-one knockouts in thirty-two wins, he had been ten rounds only three times and twelve rounds once. Even at his peak, when he was fighting regularly, he had never demonstrated great stamina.

  After signing for the fight, Cassius and I watched several films of Liston's previous fights. Certain people beat certain people. Certain styles trump others. I knew Cassius would kick the hell out of Liston. So together we identified several flaws in his style, the most notable of which was that boxers adept at slipping punches and using the whole ring frustrated him. Eddie Machen, a quick scientific boxer, had gone twelve full rounds against him and come within a couple of points of beating him. And the one loss on his record had been inflicted by a little-known journeyman named Marty Marshall, a defensive-minded fighter who employed lateral movement. Not only had Marshall beaten Liston, but he had lasted ten full rounds in their return bout. I thought that Cassius was the master of lateral movement, and if he could keep away until Liston depleted what had to be a limited supply of energy, we could beat him.

  In order to do this I came up with a strategy only a Cassius Clay with his exceptional speed and extraordinary reflexes could carry out, something I called "surround the jab." By this I meant Cassius should continually go to his left, away from Liston's wall-breaking jab, making him reach, frustrating him, and, as a consequence, tiring him. You know, a frustrated fighter loses the snap out of his punches.

  Everything Liston did came off that jab. It was a timing thing. If he hit you with that sucker, everything went in sequence. Boom! He'd nail you with it, and if you were in front of it, you'd be destroyed. So take it away from him, "surround" it, circle to your left, away from it. He can't hurt what he can't reach.

  I didn't have to tell Cassius much. I just kept reminding him, "You're quicker, you're smarter, you're not gonna take his shots. Don't trade with him, don't try to fight him in close ... outside, in, and out ... nail him!"

  This went on for months and months before the fight. We were prepared for Liston.

  You would have thought by now, with the fight signed, sealed, and about to be delivered, that the taunting was through. I mean, here we were in the final stages of training and Cassius had taunted Liston into the fight, why continue the campaign? But no, there were still more taunts up Cassius's ample sleeve.

  When Liston arrived at the Miami airport, Cassius, having found out when the plane would arrive, met Liston and chased him around with a cane shouting, "Come here, Bear, I'll get ya. Bear, come here." Everybody in the group was running around like thieves and chasing everybody they could find. I didn't because my legs would get tired.

  Then we had a couple of to-dos at the 5th Street Gym, where Sonny was training. Cassius would taunt him, hollering, "Hey, Sonny, how ya doin', Baby?" and the enraged Sonny would try to get at him. Cassius would tell me, "Angie, hold me back." And there I'd be, holding him back with my frightened pinkie. It was all a put-on and good theater.

  Cassius also taunted Liston in words, telling reporters, "I'm not afraid of Liston. He's an old man. I'll give him talking lessons and boxing lessons. What he needs most is falling down lessons." Then he would stroke his face, telling one and all, "I'm pretty. Look, not a mark on my face." To which Liston could only glower and say, "He won't be when I get finished with him."

  But perhaps Clay's best—and I say "best" because I helped him just a little with the rhyme—jab at Sonny came in a prediction delivered in one of his patented poems:

  Clay comes out to meet Liston, and Liston starts to retreat.

  If Liston goes back any further, he'll end up in a ringside seat.

  Clay swings with a left, Clay swings with a right,

  Look at young Cassius carry the fight.

  Liston keeps backing, but there's not enough room.

  It's a matter of time, and there! Clay lowers the boom.

  Now Clay swings with a right, what a beautiful swing.

  And the punch rises the Bear clear out of the ring.

  Liston is still rising, and the ref wears a frown

  for he can't start counting till Sonny comes down.

  Now Liston disappears from view, the crowd's getting frantic,

  but our radar station's picked him up over the Atlantic.

  Who would have thought when they came to the fight

  that they'd witness the launching of a human satellite?

  The crowd didn't realize when they put down their money,

  that they'd see a total eclipse of the Sonny.

  As the fight date neared, Cassius continued his psychological campaign needling Liston every chance he got. But, as Jimmy Durante used to say, "You ain't seen nothin' yet!" And what no one had ever seen before came at the weigh-in the day of the fight.

  Most weigh-ins are humdrum affairs. The fighters get on the scales, get weighed, have their weights announced, have their pictures taken, and go back to their hotel rooms to rest. Sometimes there's even an exchange of words along the lines of "good luck." But that's it, period.

  But when one of the fighters has difficulty making weight, the weigh-in becomes anything but humdrum, with fights won and lost on the scales. Titles, too. Benny Lynch, a flyweight, Charley Phil Rosenberg, a bantamweight, and Diego Corrales, a lightweight, all lost their titles when they were unable to make their division's weight limit at the weigh-in.

  Some fighters, failing to make weight, merely pay a penalty. Jackie Paterson, a former flyweight champ, failed to make weight for his fight against Fernando Rosa, instead opting to hand the Italian a forfeit of fifty pounds rather than take off fifteen ounces. He then proceeded to knock Rosa out. José Luis Castillo paid a heftier penalty to Diego Corrales in their second fight because he couldn't take it off before getting it on. Then he KO'd Corrales. In both cases it paid to come in overweight.

  Then there were fights that were cancelled because one of the fighters couldn't make the contracted weight, like the recent third Diego Corrales– José Luis Castillo fight and the Eddie Mustafa Muhammad–Michael Spinks light-heavyweight title bout back in the early 1980s. (One impish writer, watching the Spinks–Mustafa Muhammad weigh-in, doubted the accuracy of the ancient Fairbanks scale used to weigh the two fighters. He went out and bought a ten-pound bag of flour that, when put on the scale, weighed two pounds more than the advertised weight—the same amount Mustafa Muhammad had scaled over the 175-pound limit!)

  Lest you think coming in under a given weight is the only problem a fighter faces, consider the case of Buster Douglas. He proved that while no man is an island he could come close, scaling 246 pounds, some 20 pounds more for his first heavyweight title defense against Evander Holyfield than he weighed when he won the heavyweight championship in his previous bout against Mike Tyson. (Lou Duva, Holyfield's trainer, crowed, "It was all those pizzas I sent him in the steam room.") Douglas performed down to his bloated form, fighting sluggishly and getting KO'd in three.

  Despite the months of long effort to make weight, trainers and even fighters will pull an end run at the weigh-in to ensure they "make" weight. There w
as Tony Galento, better known as "Two-Ton," who, when the official reading the weight was occupied by reaching over for his glasses, took his left hand and leaned against the metal siding, taking a good twenty pounds off his registered weight. The official, now bespectacled, looked back at the scales and could only sigh and say, "Damn, it sure looks like it ought to read 249, but it's only 220." Others have tried to tip the scale in their favor as well, including one trainer for José Luis Castillo who was caught with his foot under the scale during Castillo's attempt to make weight for the Corrales fight.

  Sometimes other things happen at weigh-ins that are out of the ordinary, such as the time when fighter Allen Thomas took one look at his opponent, Jimmy Remson, on the scales and decided then and there that he didn't want to go through with the fight, taking off without even a "goodbye." Or the time when, before his title bout with Primo Camera, Max Baer went over to Camera as he stood on the scales and began plucking the hairs off his chest, chanting, "She loves me ... she loves me not."

  There have been putdowns, staredowns, and even some shovedowns at weigh-ins. But perhaps the most heated—and, ultimately, tragic—incident ever to occur at a weigh-in happened at the weigh-in for the third Emile Griffith–Benny "Kid" Paret fight. Griffith had been taunted by Paret for as long as he could take it and, at the weigh-in, had confided to his trainer, Gil Clancy, "If Paret says anything to me before the fight, I'll knock him out here." Now, as Griffith took his place on the scales, Paret came up from behind, thrusting his pelvis forward in an obscene manner and grabbing Griffith's ass. In a soft, low voice, he cooed: "Mïricon, I'm going to get you and your husband." Unfortunately for Paret, Griffith would make him pay dearly for his insult, battering him senseless and leaving him for dead in their fight that night.