Blood Brothers (26 page)

Liston was as traditional as Cannon, lumping Clay and the Beatles in the same trash heap of modern culture. On Sunday, February 9, the Beatles changed the landscape of popular music with their appearance in New York on
The Ed Sullivan Show
. As adolescent girls screamed hysterically and an estimated 73 million television viewers looked on in amazement, they sang five songs, ending with their number-one hit single, “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” The next Sunday they made their second appearance on the show, this one televised from the Deauville Hotel in Miami Beach. Liston attended the performance with Joe Louis and publicist Harold Conrad. When Sullivan introduced him, he stood
and acknowledged the smattering of cheers, but he was unimpressed with the Beatles. When they began to sing, he nudged Conrad with his elbow and asked, “Are these motherfuckers what all the people are screaming about? My dog plays drums better than that kid with the big nose.”
⁵⁴

After the show Conrad arranged for the Beatles to come to the 5th Street Gym for a photo op with Cassius. It was a pitch-perfect idea, the marriage of sports and music, signaling that at the highest level it was all about entertainment and money. The Beatles were compliant, though none had any interest in boxing. George Harrison remembered, “It was all a part of being a Beatle, really; just getting lugged around and thrust into rooms full of press men taking pictures and asking questions.”
⁵⁵

They had performed in some dingy, cigar-smelling clubs in Hamburg and Liverpool, so the grimy walls and dank smells of the 5th Street Gym were nothing new. But being stiffed by Clay was. “Where the fuck's Clay?” Ringo asked as they arrived. When John Lennon learned that Cassius was not in the gym, he said to the others, “Let's get the fuck out of here.” But two security guards blocked their exit and pushed them into an empty dressing room.
⁵⁶

Fifteen minutes later Cassius burst through the door, his personality filling the dressing room. “He was beautiful,” Lipsyte reported. “He seemed to glow. He was laughing.”

“Hello there, Beatles!” he shouted. “We ought to do some road shows together, we'll get rich.”

The mood of the Beatles brightened immediately. Though the musicians knew almost nothing about Clay, and he had never even heard of them, they seemed to siphon energy from each other. They performed a campy act for the cameramen—Cassius knocking down all four with a single punch, standing over them in a victory pose, grabbing Ringo and lifting him above his head. “They were all, Beatles and boxer alike, consummate showmen; they knew their roles, hit all their cues,” wrote Bob Spitz.

“Clay mesmerized them,” recalled photographer Harry Benson. They were captivated by Clay's looks—fresh, innocent, oddly an Americanized image of themselves. But more than that, they sensed his physical and emotional power. They were products of their manager, Brian Epstein, packaged and presented according to his uncanny commercial instincts. But Cassius was his own man. He controlled who he was. He had manufactured himself. He lived on his own terms.

It began as a publicity photo op—the Beatles, fresh from a sensational appearance on
The Ed Sullivan Show
, and Cassius Clay, preparing for his heavyweight title fight against Sonny Liston. No one present in the 5th Street Gym realized that the rock group and the boxer would become the two enduring cultural icons of the 1960s.
Associated Press

But living on his own terms came with greater risks than the Beatles realized.

O
N
F
EBRUARY
20, after spending nearly a month in New York, Malcolm X returned to Miami. That night, in the lobby of the Hampton House, he sat on a sofa answering questions from a
Herald
reporter, a clear violation of his suspension. He could not resist a platform and he loved the attention. Malcolm may have said that he wanted to return to the Nation, but as important as Elijah had been to his development, he had grown beyond the Messenger's limited goals. He had his own ideas, his own plans, and he wanted the world to know it. What he wanted most was freedom—freedom to speak his mind, freedom to
engage politicians and foreign dignitaries, and the freedom to think for himself. At this stage he was unsure of how to achieve his ambitions. He desperately wanted to remain in the Nation, but he wanted it on his own terms.
⁵⁷

The following day, the FBI mailed an anonymous tip to various media outlets suggesting a widening rift between Malcolm and Elijah. Based on wiretap intelligence, specialists working the COINTELPRO fabricated a story, hoping to widen the gulf between Muhammad and Malcolm. The story suggested that the minister felt that “Elijah Muhammad is in his declining years and that he is slipping.” Given the chance, the source claimed, Malcolm “would not hesitate one moment to take over the leadership of the Nation of Islam.” Convinced that the tip came from a legitimate source, journalists began reporting that Malcolm had started a war for power against Muhammad.
⁵⁸

The news traveled fast. That same afternoon, Muhammad's personal secretary called Malcolm with a message: his request for reinstatement before the upcoming Saviours' Day Convention had been denied. She told him that Elijah refused to lift his ban because he “continued to rebel.” Malcolm requested a hearing to defend himself against the charges, but again his appeal was rejected. Later that night, Muhammad delivered another message. This time, though, he made the call himself. He warned Cassius X that “all good Muslims should stay away from Malcolm” during his suspension.
⁵⁹

Four days before his title match, Cassius began contemplating the repercussions of hosting Malcolm. Muhammad reminded him that Malcolm had violated his edict and that all disobedient Muslims would suffer punishment. After speaking with Elijah, Cassius realized that he had endangered his relationship with the Supreme Minister. The failure to heed his warning, he understood, would have consequences.

B
ILL
M
AC
D
ONALD DID
not like having Malcolm in Clay's camp anymore than Elijah Muhammad did. The same day that Clay spoke to Elijah, MacDonald called Clay into his office, threatening to cancel the fight if he didn't denounce the Black Muslims. MacDonald complained that his involvement with Malcolm had provoked a boycott by the Jewish community, which was large and powerful in Miami. The Muslims'
past comments about Jews exploiting blacks were hurting the gate, he insisted.
⁶⁰

Others criticized Clay's relationship with the Nation of Islam as well. Marion Jackson, a black writer for the
Atlanta Daily World
, condemned Cassius for opposing integration and promoting the views of the Nation. “Clay, through his association with Malcolm X, Muhammad, and other Black Muslims, has revealed himself as a white-hating racist at the time when intergroup progress is being made throughout the South.”
⁶¹

Yet MacDonald failed to convince Clay to rebuke the Muslims. He could not understand why Cassius would allow him to cancel the match, risking his only chance at the title. “My religion is more important to me than the fight,” Clay said. Despite his sincerity, MacDonald replied that he had no choice. He was canceling the fight.
⁶²

Publicist Harold Conrad was stunned by the decision. He told MacDonald that it was too late. They had already sold thousands of tickets and signed contracts with closed-circuit theaters.

“The hell I can't call it off,” MacDonald retorted. “You're a Northerner. You don't understand. You don't realize that Miami is the Deep South and is just as segregated as any town in Mississippi. How can I promote a fight down here with a guy who thinks we're white devils?”

Conrad pleaded with him to change his mind. “Bill, you're gonna go down in history as the guy who denied a fighter a title shot because of his religion,” he said.

“Bullshit. Don't start hitting me with the Constitution.” MacDonald was unsure of his next move. “It's that Malcolm X. He's responsible for all this trouble and he's practically running the kid's fight camp. That don't look good.”

Conrad had an idea. If he could convince Malcolm to leave town, would MacDonald allow the fight to go on?

“Yeah, I guess so,” the promoter answered.

Conrad drove out to Clay's house where he met the fighter, surrounded by somber Muslims. When he walked into the house the hostility was palpable. Cassius was in no mood to talk with him, either. Conrad turned toward Malcolm and explained that the fight was off, “but you can save it for him.”

“How?” Malcolm asked.

“You have to get out of town now. You're the focal point. You're the guy the press knows.”

Malcolm looked away from Conrad. He just stood there calculating. He thought about Cassius. Finally, he answered. “All right, I'll go, but I'm coming back for the fight.”

Conrad offered his hand and a forced smile, but Malcolm wouldn't shake it. He simply touched the white man's wrist with his forefinger, and walked away.

The fight was back on.

Chapter Eleven

THE CRUSADE

            
It's widely believed that there are more people in the world who understand Einstein's Theory than think Cassius Clay has a chance.

—JIM MURRAY

            
Beethoven wrote some of his greatest symphonies when he was deaf. Why couldn't Cassius Clay fight when he was blind?

—
FERDIE PACHECO

A
hard, cold wind blew in from the west, dumping a few inches of snow in northern Florida and whipping rain across Biscayne Bay toward the resorts of Miami Beach. Sonny Liston had an ideal view of the storm. He and Geraldine were sharing a palatial sixteen-room beach house on Biscayne Bay with Joe Louis and his wife. Together, Sonny and Joe, two of the most laconic champions in the history of the division, could watch the stinging rain swirl around the hotel towers, pockmarking the sand on the beach.
¹

It was two days before the title match and Liston had finished his training and was now hunkered down with his thoughts. He never had much to say, and even less in the days before a fight. Hungry for some news from Liston's inner circle, reporters turned to Louis. Sonny would win, Joe predicted confidently. He called Clay a good amateur boxer who had never mastered professional tactics. He might last a few rounds if he ran like a rabbit, but eventually Sonny would catch him.

In 1964, Sonny Liston seemed the indestructible superman of boxing. In his three previous fights he had knocked out his opponents in the first round. He expected his match with Cassius Clay would follow the same course. He was surprised, however, to find that Cassius had the power and the skill to hurt him.
Associated Press

Though it was just a short drive from Liston's quarters to Cassius Clay's tiny white house on 5th Street in a low-rent district of North Miami, the two neighborhoods were worlds apart. Clay's place had cheap louvered windows and a porch so small that only one chair could fit on it. The inside of his house matched the porch. It was tiny and crowded—a mob of men, some with the thinnest ties to his camp, slept dormitory-style three or four to a room; children slammed doors as they ran laughing and screaming in and out of the house; and the smells of cooking greens and beans soaked every room. Outside, in a dusty patch of lawn along 5th Street, men sat in cheap folding chairs under a large ficus tree talking and watching “foxes” stroll up and down the street.
²

Often in the evenings, as soon as the moon rose over the city, an aide strung an extension cord out of a window and set up a movie projector and a white-sheet screen. Kids gathered on the lawn, pulling their knees close to their chests to make room for a capacity audience. While moths gathered in the light of the flickering film, Clay narrated a voice-over
commentary of the action on the screen. He had watched all the movies repeatedly and enjoyed preparing everyone for the plot twists.

One movie silenced even Cassius. He showed it three or four times, and on each occasion he watched in hushed, wide-eyed respect. Only the slow crawl of traffic intruded on the film, the 1956 science-fiction horror classic
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
. The story of pods from somewhere in outer space that replicate and replace humans, transforming them into mindless, soulless automatons, transfixed the fighter.

A few white sportswriters and journalists visited Clay in his 5th Street quarters. They wrote about the chaos, the cast of characters that included jesters, trainers, hangers-on, and somber, angry-eyed, intimidating men in dark suits, white shirts, and bow ties who watched the action around them and hardly had a good word to say to any white man. Other members of Clay's camp referred to them as “the brotherhood.” But they looked to the white reporters like a sect of pod people. They dressed alike, acted alike, talked alike, and seemed to think alike.

Malcolm X, the physical prototype for the brotherhood, returned to Miami on February 24, the day before the fight. Once again, Cassius, along with Archie Robinson, picked him up at the airport. No sooner was Malcolm in the car than Clay inquired about his standing in the Nation. “Any word from Chicago?” he asked.
³

Of course, there had been. Elijah's personal secretary had told Malcolm that his suspension was still in effect, and that the Supreme Minister remained deeply disturbed by his disciple's independent ways. But instead of telling the full truth, Malcolm answered deceptively, “Nothing positive,” and let it go at that. He said it cheerfully, in a sort of no-news-is-good-news tone of voice, yet he knew that “nothing positive” translated to “everything negative.”
⁴

Outwardly, Malcolm looked as cool as ever, smiling as if he knew a secret nobody else did, as if fear were an alien concept. But that night when Cassius left him at the Hampton House, he did not visit the hotel's jazz club. He sat in his room, plotting his future. At the heart of his plan was Cassius Clay.

It all depended on Clay defeating Liston. Malcolm believed that Allah had delivered Cassius to him, and Allah would not have brought the two together in that Detroit luncheonette, shown the boxer the light of truth, and allowed him to ascend to the top of the heavyweight division
only to abandon him now. Surely, if he could talk to Elijah, he could convince him of the divine importance of the match in Miami.

Early on the day of the contest, Malcolm phoned “Chicago.” Whether he talked directly with Elijah or one of the Prophet's leading aides is unclear from the FBI informant's report. But it hardly mattered—“Chicago” was Elijah Muhammad. Malcolm and Elijah engaged in a conversation, even if it traveled through a third person. Malcolm repeated his absolute belief that Clay would defeat Liston, making the boxer potentially the Nation's most important convert and marketable asset. What would the heavyweight champion be worth in terms of world prestige, propaganda, and revenues? What would be the value of his image on the pages of
Muhammad Speaks
, and how much power would it carry among young black men stifled in the ghettoes of America? Could Elijah imagine the waves of emotion that would roll across the auditorium when Malcolm, yes Malcolm, delivered Cassius and the title to the Supreme Minister at the Saviours' Day convention on February 26? It would mark a new age for the Nation of Islam and elevate Elijah to new heights. And all it would cost was Malcolm's full reinstatement.
⁵

“Chicago” turned him down flat. Clearly, Elijah, Raymond Sharrieff, and the other Muslim leaders thought that was Malcolm daydreaming. They agreed with the experts that Liston would dispatch Clay in a few rounds, ending the meteoric rise of the boisterous contender. Once defeated, and possibly even humiliated, “he would be just another boxer,” battered, scarred, on the road to oblivion. Malcolm, they judged, was as bad at evaluating boxers as he was sizing up political infighters. What was more, if by some chance Clay did upset Liston, the Nation was prepared to push Malcolm out of the picture and claim Cassius as their own, reaping all the rewards.

W
HILE
M
ALCOLM TRIED
to barter Clay for his reinstatement, Cassius prepared for the final act in his psychological campaign against Liston. A few days before, he had told the press, “I'm tired of talking . . . I'm ready to go to war.” But he had one more set piece planned before he stepped into the ring.
⁶

At precisely ten thirty a.m., he burst into the Cypress Room in the Miami Convention Center for the weigh-in. Cassius wore a blue denim
jacket with “Bear Huntin'” embroidered in red, carried a bamboo cane given to him by Malcolm, and appeared highly agitated. Drew “Bundini” Brown and Sugar Ray Robinson flanked him. Sugar Ray looked a bit sheepish, like a man who had been stationed in the center stage for no apparent reason. Bundini, however, played his part in the farce with consummate professionalism. Dressed in a yellow plaid sports jacket fit for a Las Vegas showroom, he appeared wide-eyed and wild, a sweating, mumbling, shouting provocateur ready to burst with excitement. Bundini, Angelo Dundee claimed, “charged Clay's battery.” Together with Cassius he exhorted: “Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee—rumble, young man, rumble—aaahhhh!—rumble, young man, rumble!” They repeated the lines again and again, admiring each other's performance and stretching out the open-mouthed “Aaaahhhh!” to remarkable lengths. Jim Murray of the
Los Angeles Times
thought Cassius acted “like Donald Duck on a bender.”
⁷

As Cassius ranted, his voice rose higher and then turned hoarse with strain. “I'm ready to rumble, I'm the champ, I'm ready to rumble,” he kept repeating. “You can tell Sonny I'm here with Sugar Ray,” he yelled. “Liston is flat-footed, and Joe Louis is flat-footed, but me and Sugar Ray are two pretty dancers.” While Robinson shifted about uneasily, Cassius continued. “Round eight I'll prove I'm great.” Then the “spaniel- eyed” Bundini joined in for another chorus of “float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.”

William Faversham, the main representative of the Louisville Sponsoring Group, waded into the middle of the activity to restore order. He was soon in over his head—having recently suffered from heart problems, his futile, hectic efforts to pull Clay out of the mess threatened his life. When Clay and his group retired to a dressing room to strip down for the weigh-in, the exhausted Faversham turned to LSG lawyer Gordon Davidson and told him to take over. “Gordon,” he instructed, “go back to the dressing room and tell Clay that if he causes a scene they're gonna fine him, and it's gonna be his money, not ours. Tell him to behave himself.”
⁸

Davidson pushed through the crowded room and into the dressing room. He found Clay lying on a rubdown table, relaxed and serene. “Cassius looked like he didn't have a worry in the world,” he remembered. “Like it was just another day at the office.” Davidson warned
Cassius that the boxing commission was going to fine him. “They're gonna hit you pretty good.”

Clay brushed off the threat like it was a lone raindrop on his shoulder. “Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it.” It was the cost of doing business, he figured, and not worth a second thought. Davidson's effort to domesticate Clay by threatening him with a fine was as pointless as telling Malcolm X not to express an opinion.

For half an hour, first Davidson and then Faversham talked to Cassius about proper behavior and decorum. All the while, in the Cypress Room, hundreds of reporters and cameramen jockeyed for position for the show. At 11:09, when Davidson led Clay, Bundini, and Sugar Ray out of the dressing room, it seemed like a scene from a Hollywood premiere. The place pulsated with flashes from camera bulbs. Wearing a terrycloth robe and trunks, Cassius moved through the throng toward the weigh-in platform.

Then Liston emerged from his dressing room. Cassius exploded. Excitedly, he jumped up and down screaming, “Hey, sucker, you a chump. Are you scared?” He hollered that he was the real champ, that Liston had not fought anybody, and that he would knock him out. He promised, “Somebody's gonna die at ringside tonight.” Cassius was uncontrollable. One reporter commented that Sugar Ray and Bundini “patted him on the shoulders as if they were trying to calm a skittish colt” and grabbed him around the waist to keep him away from Liston, but Clay continued to rage and shout and threaten.