ALI AND LISTON ALI AND LISTON The Boy Who Would Be King and the Ugly Bear BOB MEE Copyright © 2011 by Bob Mee All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018. Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected]. Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation. Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file. ISBN: 978-1-61608369-4 Printed in the United States of America. CONTENTS Introduction 1 Maybe they think I'm so old because I never was really young 2 This is the Atomic Age, Peaches 3 I figured I had to pay for what I did 4 That's why you can't be rich 5 I am not a social friend of Mr Carbo's, Mr Chairman 6 Where you going? I don't know 7 Just address the envelope ‘Cassius Clay, USA’ 8 It's nice to be nice 9 Don't dump your trash on us 10 A blues song just for fighters 11 He must have died last night 12 That blankness of not knowing 13 Still the bad guy 14 Even Cleopatra was ringside 15 I pity a man who hates 16 God save the King, God save boxing 17 I'll be as good as people will let me be 18 I want to make a beautiful life 19 He's just a little boy in the dark and he's scared 20 Rumble, young man, rumble 21 This kid is out of his mind 22 A dancing bear and a freak who never stops talking 23 What the hell is this? What did they do? 24 I am his best friend, at least in Philadelphia 25 To Boston and Suitcase Sam 26 Every gangster wants to be Al Capone 27 He could have died 28 Sonny? You out there? 29 Yes, it's me in your town 30 Of moose and men 31 The boy is gone 32 Of scientific triumph and lofty purpose 33 Get up, you bum! Get up, you bum! 34 He's gonna mess himself up so nobody won't go to see him 35 Sonny's last years 36 Nobody never gets killed in Vegas 37 I'm not scared to die. I've made my peace Afterword Postscript Appendix Endnotes Bibliography Index INTRODUCTION In Louisville, Kentucky, in July 2004, to cover what turned out to be Mike Tyson's unexpected defeat by the London heavyweight Danny Williams, I sought out Muhammad Ali's childhood home. As Sky colleague and friend Dave Culmer and I drew up opposite the white-boarded house, by complete coincidence BBC men Mike Costello and Steve Bunce were there, interviewing Ali's brother, Rahaman. When they had finished, I had a chat with Rahaman, sitting on a step under a tree. In the summer sun, he dropped his voice a little for just the briefest of moments and recalled how he and Ali used to sit there as boys, dreaming their dreams of all they might do with their lives. There was no need to fill in the pause that followed. Finally, he said: ‘Don't feel sorry for Muhammad. Because Muhammad don't feel sorry for himself.’ Tyson was to box Williams in the Freedom Hall, where long, long ago Ali had made his professional debut against Tunney Hunsaker, a part-time fighter and full-time policeman from Fayetteville, West Virginia. Tyson had also gone to see Ali's old house. A police officer had given him a lift. In that week, Tyson seemed to know his time in the business that had made and broken him was almost up. He also knew that in years to come nobody would be making small but splendid pilgrimages to the house where he had been raised. Nobody would be opening, as they were shortly to do in Ali's honour in Louisville, a museum in his name. There aren't any museums in Sonny Liston's name in St Francis County, Arkansas, either. There are those who have seen a little bit of Liston in Tyson: the darkness, the apparent ability to self-destruct, the tendency to embrace chaos at every turn. There was, however, no similarity in the way they expressed themselves in interview. Tyson laid out either himself or the side of himself he chose to be on that particular day to be picked over by anyone who was paid to be there. To understand how manipulative Tyson was you had to become experienced at listening to him. It is fairly safe to believe that listening to Liston was an altogether different experience. If Sonny gave writers more than a sentence or two, it took on the significance of the Gettysburg Address. When I began this book, I looked back at my Louisville notes for one of Tyson's confessional monologues in front of writers. His words carried an intimacy that led some to claim he had spoken to them and them alone. Perhaps that is why, in spite of all that he did, Tyson in general received a pretty sympathetic press. Liston got little or no understanding. Neither did he ask for any. In Louisville, Tyson said: The pressure of fighting, it drives you crazy. Some guys do crazy things. It's all very well calling a fighter a nut, but you don't know the pressure of getting bashed upside the head in front of, say, 100,000 people… Sometimes when you are successful you get a lot of money, but it restricts you from being you. I'm pretty cool now. I'm rounded… but if somebody gives me a whole garbage can of money, I might start being a psycho. I have mistreated a lot of people. I was a monster not too long ago… At the end of 2006, I was in Little Rock, Arkansas. Again, on a day when work was slow Dave Culmer and I took a trip out into the cotton fields. We went up the interstate towards Memphis, pulled off at a place called Palestine and turned north into the cotton fields and swamps. There isn't anything or anybody to tell you where Sonny Liston was born and raised. One or two might guess, but that's all it would be. We drove up dirt tracks where Liston might have walked, past creeks where he might have swum. We were in the right area of St Francis County, near Johnson, where the piece of land called the Sand Slough was. Liston was born there in a fragile wood-board shack. His mother, Helen, once said she put cardboard on the walls to keep out the wind. That home, from three- quarters of a century ago, would have been long gone. As we eased the hire car over the rutted tracks, the satellite navigation system stopped working. Out of the car, with the bare land stretching to the horizon on one side and a swamp full of dead trees on the other, it was eerily quiet. I took a few strands of cotton left behind after the harvest (and have them still in the drawer of the desk at which I write). For a fleeting minute or so, I could feel what it might have been like to grow up here, to know this and only this, to live in a time where the past was remote and confused. And without the past, what could the future have meant? The Listons, Helen and her husband Tobe, who was the son of a slave, bent their backs over these cotton fields for a meagre living until some time in the mid-1940s when Helen walked out for a dream of prosperity and a back that ached less. Sonny went too and, as far as anybody knows, never came back. Dave and I, enriched by whatever it was that we learned, pulled out along the dirt roads, back to a place the sat-nav recognised, on to tarmac and the twenty- first century, ate at a friendly place called Catfish Island, left it at that. Liston's resting place is easy to find: it's in Paradise Memorial Gardens, Las Vegas, under the flight path of planes landing at McCarran International Airport. You'll see his metal plaque on the ground near the place where they bury babies and children. The plaque says: ‘Charles “Sonny” Liston 1932–70’ and below, starkly, ‘A Man’. From the moment I read the newspaper and magazine cuttings handed down to me by the journalist and television commentator, Reg Gutteridge, I wanted to use them to explore the story of Ali's two controversial world heavyweight championship fights with Liston in 1964 and 1965. The first ended with Liston, supposedly one of the toughest men ever to walk this planet, sitting in his corner complaining of a sore shoulder, and the second was a muddled first-round knockout that had people yelling ‘Fix, Fix, Fix!’ in the arena. It was a volatile, unpredictable time in a country troubled almost to breaking point. Ali, when he was still Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr, challenged Liston for the title only three months after the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. The man arrested for killing him, Lee Harvey Oswald, had been killed even before extensive interviews could be carried out. Oswald's murderer, Jack Ruby, claimed he acted alone on a furious impulse. Very few believed him. Slavery had been abolished a hundred years before, but African Americans were still in psychological chains, battling for the right to be educated, to walk the streets without worrying which white person they might bump into, which seat on a bus they might flop into, or into which eating house they might walk and ask to be served. To be black in America in the early to mid-1960s was to be a part of an underclass, separated from the rights granted to all Americans by their own constitution. The peaceful, honourable Civil Rights movement was, in the north at least, the acceptable face of the quest for change, but, as always in times of social strife, there was reaction and counter-reaction. Protest and resistance take many forms, and there were those who preached violence and even segregation. One such organisation was the Nation of Islam, and it was to this group that the young Cassius Clay would turn. Suddenly, after winning the heavyweight title, he was no longer the brash, funny, irritating boy with God-given speed in his feet and fists but a misguided champion of a shadowy, subversive cult that seemed to counter racism with racism. On top of that, Ali, as he became, proclaimed his opposition to the Vietnam War, which was perceived at that time by most Americans as a just war against a genuine Communist threat. He rejected what the majority, black as well as white, felt was the responsibility of every fit American male of suitable age: he refused to do his duty and was, well, just so ungrateful. The flipside of Ali was Liston, who had no apparent political or religious beliefs, no apparent interest in the well-being of anybody outside his own household, and who had Mob connections. Some said Liston was manoeuvred by the criminal underworld from the moment he stepped into a professional ring, not long after he was released from a Missouri prison, until the day he died in mysterious circumstances in that Mob paradise, Las Vegas. The cuttings collected by Reg Gutteridge when he was working on the fights between Ali and Liston paint a dramatic picture of a world now consigned to the past. I felt it would be an exciting adventure to use them to recreate what it was like to be there at that time. Too many histories rely on memory, on interviews carried out long after the event, and while some of these can provide material of value too often they are unreliable. I acknowledge that sometimes it takes a while for truths to emerge but against that memories are so often altered to suit an agenda or are inaccurate. That is why I felt Reg's mass of contemporary material was so relevant. He knew about this project before he died and was happy for it to happen. I am English and this story will be published, at first, in Britain. Therefore, I would ask any American readers for a degree of tolerance. Some of the knowledge you have learned from the cradle is not taken as read by a British audience. It has been an amazing journey of discovery. I knew Liston's tendency to be virtually monosyllabic with the media allowed them to build a myth of the brooding, menacing ogre, but I found, yes, a sad man but one with a strange sense of humour, if not haunted then certainly made suspicious by a world that gave with one hand and snatched away with both, a man who sought redemption and acceptance by winning the heavyweight championship of the world but who found only disappointment, rejection and constant reminders of the moral debt it was felt he owed his country. In the end, I found a disillusioned man who became what it seemed the world wanted him to be. Reg always said beneath the surface Liston had a vulnerable heart. I believe him. I have explored the heritage and childhoods of both men in an attempt to provide detail, and I hope this helps the understanding of what made both men who they were. Neither man's childhood and adolescence were particularly significant to writers at the time, of course, and inevitably details of those early years have had to be pieced together and reassessed from earlier historical accounts. I take in Liston's championship wins over Floyd Patterson and then the fights with Ali – including the one that never happened and which has so often been ignored, when Ali was struck down by a hernia that some suspected might have