Floyd Patterson

by W. K. Stratton

  There was also opportunity for Floyd to make some money for himself. A deal was struck with Bernard Geis Associates to publish Floyd’s autobiography. Bernard Geis, described by sportswriter and broadcasting legend Dick Schaap as “a large-sized middle-aged cherub who can quote sales figures and Shakespearean sonnets with equal ease,” issued only ten or twelve titles a year, cutting deals with major publishers to distribute the books for him. Because Geis published so little, he aimed for bestseller status for each of his titles. “He is a home-run swinger in a league of bunters,” Schaap said.18 Geis published sensational racy runaway hits like Valley of the Dolls and Sex and the Single Girl. Patterson’s life story was in no way a salacious matter, so it was hard to imagine it as a “home run” along the lines of Valley of the Dolls. But Geis moved ahead with the project, which Patterson insisted be told in a dignified way though Geis books typically weren’t well written. Patterson lacked the writing skills to pen the book without assistance. Finding the perfect collaborator proved to be a tricky task.

  The first ghostwriter to audition—whose identity has been lost—failed to produce a manuscript acceptable to anyone involved. Next came Arthur Mann, an author who wrote for newspapers and magazines. He had also worked under Branch Rickey as a publicist for the Dodgers and the Pirates. Mann’s manuscript pleased Geis, who enthusiastically sent it to Patterson along with a letter of congratulations. It wound up at Julius November’s office for review. A November associate, Joel Weinberg, shared excerpts with Floyd, who didn’t like Mann’s heroic portrayal of D’Amato. Floyd told Weinberg it should be retitled “Cus D’Amato’s War against the IBC.” November ordered that Mann be fired from the project. The third and final ghostwriter was Milton Gross, who proved to be the perfect match for Patterson.

  At the time, Gross was a significant figure in American sportswriting. The New York Post boasted the best sports section in New York, and Gross became its star in the late 1950s and early 1960s when he replaced Jimmy Cannon to write the five-day-a-week column, which was syndicated to scores of other newspapers. Gross was one of the first sportswriters to probe the troubled souls of athletes. One of his most famous—and most influential—columns was “The Long Ride Home,” about Dodger pitcher Don Newcombe, who lost the deciding game of the 1956 World Series. Gross also was among the first journalists to tackle issues of race as they pertained to bigtime sports.

  Gross sensed that he was on to something big with the Patterson autobiography, and he certainly worked hard at it. He went through his personal files and found he’d written more than a hundred columns and articles about Patterson already, which he organized for use in the text. Then he taped interviews with Patterson, some thirty hours of them, after which he went to work writing. Patterson worked closely with Gross during the composition stage of the project and took his part in it seriously, sometimes referring to the big dictionary that was always at hand when reading or writing. “Once I used ‘that’ instead of ‘which,’ and he corrected me,” Gross said, “and he’s very conscious of ‘me’ and ‘I.’”19

  Fundraising and writing a book took time and energy, which might have been fine if Floyd were content with what he had accomplished as a boxer. But he wanted to continue to fight. Looming were heavyweight challengers who were much more dangerous than any he’d faced so far. Patterson would have to fight better than ever if he wanted to retain his heavyweight crown.

  11

  Camelot Denied

  NOVEMBER 8, 1960, was a day of celebration for Floyd Patterson, as it was for many African Americans. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was elected president of the United States. Kennedy was young, still in his forties, and for Patterson and other black Americans, Kennedy’s ascendancy to the White House promised a break with past practices, especially in terms of race relations. It was the dawn of a new era in America, and Floyd was a product of the brand of liberalism that Kennedy embraced. Poor and otherwise disadvantaged as a child, Floyd had undergone a life-changing experience at Wiltwyck, the very sort of social experiment that true believers in progressive policies could point to as a success. As an adult, Floyd was, like Kennedy, well mannered, well dressed, and well spoken—always conscious of his public image. Floyd was willing to speak out against social ills, and he did so in a forthright yet polished manner, never allowing his emotions to take charge. Many Kennedy supporters, even those with no interest in sports, were Patterson fans. As Kennedy took office in January 1961, Floyd stood as something of a symbol of the New Frontier, a living, breathing answer to the problems of ignorance and prejudice, poverty and surplus that Kennedy had addressed during the campaign. Floyd would carry more than just himself into the boxing ring as he continued to defend his title.

  Three contenders seemed to be obvious choices as Patterson positioned himself for his next contest: California’s Eddie Machen and two Texas-born fighters, Cleveland “Big Cat” Williams and Zora Folley. All three boxers had good records of quality wins mixed with the occasional embarrassing loss. Machen was a puzzle, both in and out of the ring, but when he was emotionally sound, he could fight very well. Williams was a power hitter who’d racked up an impressive number of knockouts. Folley possessed the best boxing skills and ring savvy of the three. Cus D’Amato had been scolded by the boxing press for not lining up these fighters earlier in Patterson’s career. Now that Floyd was in charge, he could have assuaged that criticism and signed to fight one of them.

  Or he could have gone a step further and signed the man nearly everyone now conceded as the best of the heavyweight contenders—a fierce fighter who seemed to bring the force of a tsunami into the ring with him. His name was Charles “Sonny” Liston, a convicted felon with a reputation for beating anyone who stood in his way, in or out of the ring, cops included. In the previous year, he had scored impressive knockouts against Williams and Folley and won a unanimous decision over Machen. (Liston had also dispatched Roy Harris in just one round.)

  Patterson ended up choosing . . . Tom McNeeley? McNeeley hardly seemed a worthy opponent for the world heavyweight champion.

  Tom McNeeley was a tall, thin, Boston-based fighter who sounded something like Rocky Marciano when he spoke but possessed very few of the Rock’s boxing skills. He was athletic enough to have played football under Duffy Daugherty at Michigan State, and, since leaving college, had defeated twenty-three prizefighters. But he was not a true contender for the heavyweight championship. Even Boston newspaper writers dismissed their hometown boy as nothing more than an embarrassingly inept ring mauler.1 Fighting McNeeley seemed like a sure-fire win for Floyd, an easy payday against yet another white boxer.

  The original intention was for Patterson and McNeeley to clash at the fabled Boston Garden. Although Cus D’Amato had been relegated to the status of adviser, he nonetheless wound up deeply involved in making decisions about the fight’s details. D’Amato insisted on a nonresident-referee clause in the contract, fearing that a Massachusetts ref would favor McNeeley. The Massachusetts State Boxing Commission refused to accept that condition. D’Amato dug in his feet over the matter. With neither side budging, promoters began looking for another host city. In early October 1961 they announced that the fight would occur in Toronto on December 4, 1961, nine months after Patterson-Johansson III. Ex-champ Jersey Joe Walcott would be the referee. A sellout at the Maple Leaf Gardens was expected to garner around $300,000, with Patterson guaranteed to get 40 percent of the gate. More important, he would receive half the money TelePrompTer paid for closed-circuit TV rights. Cautious Cus demanded that McNeeley’s manager, Boston blue-blooded sportsman Peter Davenport Fuller, put up a million dollars in escrow to serve as a guarantee for a return bout, in the event Patterson lost. (If Patterson lost and Fuller failed to arrange the rematch, Fuller would lose the million dollars.) Once that was agreed upon, the contracts were signed.

  The oddsmakers expressed solid confidence in Patterson; he was a ten-to-one favorite. The other star of the closed-circuit broadcast was Sonny Liston, fighting German A
lbert Westphal in Philadelphia immediately prior to Floyd’s fight. The pairing of Patterson’s and Liston’s fights on the same broadcast was tantalizing to fight fans, since Liston was now the number one threat to Floyd. Viewers would have the chance to compare the fighters’ performances and speculate what a battle between the two might be like—if such a contest could ever be lined up. Like Patterson, Liston was a ten-to-one favorite, though Westphal was a better boxer than McNeeley. Despite the odds, bettors found both fights boring prospects and stayed away from bookmakers. Ticket sales were dismal, too, enough so that promoters allowed only sixteen locations in the Toronto metropolitan area to carry the closed-circuit broadcast—earlier the area had been blacked out.

  Those closed-circuit viewers watched Liston demolish Westphal in the first round of their Philadelphia fight, with a few jabs followed by a massive one-two combination. Westphal stayed down for well past the count of ten. Liston wasn’t in the ring long enough to start breathing hard. Patterson’s victory in Toronto was just as one-sided, although McNeeley’s agony at the Maple Leaf Gardens lasted four times as long as Westphal’s. This time, it was the challenger, not the champ, who hit the canvas over and over—so many times, in fact, that there is dispute over just how many knockdowns there were. It took ten minutes before McNeeley was able to exit the ring after Floyd knocked him out in the fourth round. Another half hour passed before his trainers allowed anyone except family members into his dressing room. When the press finally managed to interview him, McNeeley said, “If anybody tells you Patterson can’t hit, you tell them to come see me. He’s the fastest puncher I’ve ever faced, and one of the hardest punchers.”2 No one cared much about the assessment of a nobody like McNeeley. Boxing fan President Kennedy, who watched on a closed-circuit feed at the White House, said he thought that fight-night fans would have been better served if Patterson and Liston had fought each other, although he would soon take a different view of the matter.

  It seemed logical that Kennedy and Patterson should meet, given their common stance on civil rights and Kennedy’s love of sports. Influential newspaper columnist Drew Pearson set about to arrange such a meeting in early 1962. Pearson wrote to Kenneth O’Donnell, who was part of the so-called Irish Mafia of White House officials who had Kennedy’s ear, and urged O’Donnell to set up a photo opportunity and brief conversation between the champ and the president centered around Big Brothers of America, a charity Patterson supported.

  On January 12, a month after the McNeeley fight, the White House gave Pearson and Patterson ten minutes between the president’s Oval Office meetings with the ambassador to Ireland and the ambassador to the Republic of China. At 12:25 P.M. Patterson shook hands with President Kennedy.3 The champ and the president posed for photos with Pearson, District of Columbia commissioner John Duncan, and a ten-year-old “little brother,” Freddie Cicala. At one point, Kennedy grasped Patterson’s arm and said he was impressed by the shape Patterson was in. For his part, Patterson found Kennedy’s knowledge of boxing to be a “pleasant revelation.” During their conversation, Kennedy asked Patterson who his next challenger would be. Patterson replied that he had Sonny Liston in his sights. Kennedy suggested that Floyd avoid Liston, citing Justice Department concerns about Liston’s ties to organized crime. But Floyd was resolute. Liston was the man, even though he was not ready to make that official. Not just yet.

  After the meeting, Patterson told members of the press that he had confided to the president whom he would fight next. When pressed for a name, Patterson nodded toward the president’s office and suggested the reporters ask Kennedy. (When Kennedy was asked about it at a subsequent press conference, he referred reporters to Patterson.)

  When a reporter mentioned Liston, Floyd suggested two other possible contenders, Zora Folley and Roy Harris.

  That night Patterson was feted at a banquet, where Attorney General Robert Kennedy also asked Patterson not to fight Liston. Robert Kennedy had positioned himself as a crusader against organized crime, and Liston’s alleged mob connections must have made him especially unsuitable as a potential heavyweight champion. But Patterson was firm with Bobby Kennedy as well. After his meetings with the Kennedy brothers, Patterson left Washington, his spirits soaring. He wrote to the younger Kennedy that the Oval Office visit made for the “most memorable day in my life”—more important than anything he’d accomplished in the ring.4

  A little more than a week later, Floyd attended opening ceremonies for the Floyd Patterson House, 208–210 East Eighteenth Street in New York. The halfway house for Wiltwyck boys reentering New York City public schools and life on city streets had become a project close to Floyd’s heart. He devoted both money and time to it. At times he provided tickets for his New York fights to house residents. He also brought special guests by to meet the boys, some of them celebrities like movie director John Huston. The house helped many boys make a successful transition. For others, the outcome was less positive. Some of the boys were violent, still “maladjusted” even after their time at Wiltwyck, and counselors could be overwhelmed by the extent of the problems they faced. Drugs sometimes made their way into the facility. But while there were failings, there were also victories.

  While at the opening ceremonies, Patterson discussed his next fight with reporters. This time, he was less coy. Yes, Liston would be the likely challenger, he said, but the deal wasn’t set. In 1961 the New York State Athletic Commission had announced it would not grant Liston a boxing license, citing his multiple police arrests and prison terms. The NAACP and other prominent organizations and individuals agreed with the commission’s decision. Less well-known groups weighed in as well, such as the Susquehanna Valley Lodge No. 52 of the Fraternal Order of Police: “We strongly object to Mr. Liston getting an opportunity to influence young people toward a way of life which is not only un-Christian but diametrically opposed to all that is good in America.”5 Floyd understood that he would be perceived as a much more appealing champ than someone like Liston. But he also believed that Liston deserved to be a licensed fighter. In Patterson’s opinion, Liston had paid his debt to society, and fair play demanded that Sonny be allowed to compete like everyone else. “One night in bed,” Patterson said, “I made up my mind. I knew if I wanted to sleep comfortably, I’d have to take on Liston even though the NAACP and the Kefauver Committee didn’t want me to take on the fight. Some people said: ‘What if you lose and he wins? Then the colored people will suffer.’ But maybe if Liston wins, he’ll live up to the title. He may make people look up to him.”6

  By Saint Patrick’s Day 1962, Patterson and Julius November had made it official: Sonny Liston was to be his next opponent. Floyd said he hoped the fight would occur in the summer. “The mere fact that there is going to be a fight shows how D’Amato has lost rank,” Red Smith commented, “for Cus wanted no part of Liston.”7 But D’Amato wasn’t out of the picture entirely. In fact, Patterson still sometimes referred to him as his manager. In announcing the fight, Patterson said that he and D’Amato would choose the location, which most likely would not be New York City.

  After announcing the Liston fight, Patterson boarded an airliner in March 1962 for a far-flung trip in support of the Kennedy administration. Patterson along with his brother Raymond, November, boxing promoter Tom Bolan, Dan Florio, Buster Watson, and others flew to Egypt for a State Department–sponsored tour of what was then officially called the United Arab Republic. Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser was no friend of the United States, but the Kennedy administration wanted Patterson to visit the UAR as part of the State Department’s “Good Neighbor” efforts.

  Thousands of people greeted Patterson and company at the Cairo airport. Riding with an aggressive driver through the crowded streets, Patterson asked his host, Colonel Mahmoud Safwat, director of the UAR Amateur Boxing Federation, if there were many automobile accidents in the city. “No,” Safwat replied, “it is forbidden to have accidents.”8 Such was Egypt under the dictatorial gaze of Nasser. Patterson did meet with
the Egyptian dictator for an amiable photo opportunity. He also visited the pyramids and the Great Sphinx of Giza, riding horses and camels, mugging with Egyptian officials at each turn.

  The high point of the trip came when Patterson attended an amateur boxing tournament sponsored by the UAR Boxing Federation, which included participants from across Africa. The winning team of boxers received a newly named Floyd Patterson Cup.9 Here, as elsewhere in Egypt, Patterson was mobbed by enthusiastic fans. “When Floyd was spotted as he walked into the Alexandria Arena,” wrote Bolan, “the roar of the fans was deafening. The cheering lasted ten minutes.”10 As he prepared to spar as part of an exhibition, Floyd enjoyed fan reaction the likes of which he’d never experienced. When he took off his robe, the crowd erupted into applause. Each movement he made while sparring drew a similar reaction from spectators. When he tried to leave the arena afterward, the crush of the crowd became too much. Patterson escaped only with the aid of a police escort. He returned to the United States tired and nursing a sprained ankle but beaming from the reception he’d received.