Comic Opera

It was a tea-and-cakes farce from the beginning. Britain's boot-jawed Brian London, flabby but only 24, plainly had no business in the same ring with lean-trained Heavyweight Champion Floyd Patterson. Back in January, London had lost the British Empire title in convincing style to Henry Cooper. But in the mind of Cus D'Amato, Patterson's manager, London was still a logical contender for Patterson's crown.

Under the shadowy guidance of Cus, the arrangements became a gallimaufry of confusion. First the fight was going to be in Las Vegas, then it was switched to Indianapolis. Along with that came a switch in promoters. Britain's Boxing Board of Control, fearing a horrendous mismatch, forbade London to go through with the fight. London ignored them, came to the U.S., and promptly disappeared from public view (he registered in a New York City hotel under his real name, Brian Harper). To mollify the frustrated sportswriters, Cus delivered speeches on how much boxing's moral tone had improved since the U.S. Supreme Court ordered the breakup of Jim Norris' International Boxing Club. Grumbled Columnist Red Smith: "The fistfight industry needs a great big shot of Sinister Influence, triple-strength, quick, before it wastes away and dies of Moral Uplift."

To drum up a little action, London was described as a Blackpool bullyboy, sportswriters wrote of his devastating right. But Sweden's Ingemar Johansson, Patterson's next foe, ungallantly offered the opinion that London stood a chance only if given an ax and the opportunity to strike the first blow.

London's punch proved to be a powder puff. For nine rounds he cradled his jaw protectively in both hands, emerged only to paw clumsily at Patterson. Patterson shrugged them off, went back to pounding the clumsy challenger about the body. But he took a long time about it. Confronted with an opponent who offered no real offensive threat, Patterson missed outrageously. When he did manage to land he stepped back and let his man recover. But at the end of the tenth round, Britain's human punching bag sagged to his knee. In the eleventh, a roundhouse left by Patterson grazed London's forehead, sent him stumbling backward onto the canvas. London put his head down and took the count as boos rang in his buzzing ears.

After the fight, a television announcer interviewing London remarked that London seemed so busy defending himself that he could not start an offensive of his own. Was that true? Said London, with engaging candor: "You saw the fight, didn't you?"

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