Theater of the Absurd

Nobody can deny that Cassius Marcellus Clay, 23, has an affinity for fantasy. Last week in Lewiston, Me., Cassius fought a fight that did not seem to be a fight, threw a punch that did not look like a punch, scored a knockout that the referee did not realize was a knockout, and set a record that turned out to be no record. In the process, Cassius clearly established himself as the heavyweight champion of the world and a consummate actor--in the theater of the absurd.

The background music was perfect: outside the Central Maine Youth Cen ter teen-age carolers chanted The Mickey Mouse March. So was the lighting: to ensure a "perfect" picture for the closed-circuit telecast that carried the action to 257 theaters across the U.S., technicians installed huge klieg lights that sent the temperature at ringside to 100DEG. Then there was the supporting cast. Spooked by reports that followers of the late Malcolm X planned to avenge their leader's death by assassinating Black Muslim Clay, some 300 Lewiston police, county sheriffs, state troopers, firemen and civil defense workers milled around the arena in a ratio of roughly one lawman for every 14 fans.

Ponderous Punches. The prop for the farce, of course, was an overrated bum named Sonny Liston. He must be close to 40; he was bulky at 2151 Ibs. (to Clay's 206), was 2 in. shorter, and about as nimble as a Gila monster. Somehow he had persuaded quite a few people--including the underworld characters hanging around his training camp --that he would button the lip of the twinkle-toed loudmouth who took his title away in Miami last year. Oddsmakers made him the 6-5 favorite, and in Miami the word was that one mobster bet $30,000 on Liston to win.

The bell for the first round had barely sounded when Clay quickly banged a right off Listen's ear and went hippity-hopping around the ring, effortlessly slipping Sonny's ponderous punches. Clay hung his arms at his sides; Liston attached his arches to the canvas. The pursuit grew slower and slower, stopped altogether when Clay unloaded a solid right to Listen's head. Straining to reach Cassius with a left hook, Listen bent forward and swung. From somewhere in the general direction of his right hip, Clay flicked a right-hand chop that traveled no more than a foot to the side of Sonny's head. Listen sank to the canvas, rolled over onto his back, struggled to his knees, and went down again.

Standing over the prostrate challenger, Clay grimaced with rage. "Get up!" he screamed. "Get up, you yellow bum!" Under Maine rules, Timekeeper Francis McDonough could have delayed the count for the knockdown until Clay went to a neutral corner. But he didn't. He ticked off the seconds by pounding on the ring mat with a wooden mallet. When McDonough reached twelve, he quit. Liston was still on the floor, and Clay was still in the middle of the ring. Unable to pull Cassius away, Referee Jersey Joe Walcott, who seemed even more confused than the spectators, gave up and walked away. He never got Clay to a neutral corner; he never picked up the count. Another eight seconds passed. At ringside Nat Fleischer, editor of The Ring and high priest of boxing, screamed at Walcott: "The bum is out! The fight is over! The fight is over!" Walcott nodded, turned back--only to discover that Liston had managed to get on his feet. At that point, Joe grabbed Cassius' arm and hoisted it high into the air. Clay was the winner by a knockout. The official time of the K.O.: 1 min. of the first round--fastest ever in a heavyweight title fight.

Payday. It was nothing of the kind. Referee Walcott stopped the fight at 2 min. 12 sec.--which would make it only the seventh fastest. That was the least of the problems. Most of the fans in the arena had not seen the knockout punch; neither had the 500,000 others watching on closed-circuit TV. "Fix! Fix! Fix!" they chanted. "Fake! Fake! Fake!" At ringside, Joe Louis conceded that Clay had landed a right, "but it wasn't no good." Snapped Canadian Heavyweight George Chuvalo: "It's a phony, a real phony." Even Cassius was confused. "I think I hit him with a left hook and a right cross," he said. "But I want to see the video tape."

When he saw the tape, Cassius had a new story. The punch that flattened Liston, he insisted, was his secret "anchor punch"--so named because it anchors opponents to the floor. The punch was taught to him by a darkface comedian named Stepin Fetchit, who learned it from Jack Johnson, first of the great Negro champions. Said Clay: "It's a chop, so fast you can't see it. It's karate. It's got a twist to it. Just one does the job."

That was ridiculous. And so was Liston's explanation. Said Sonny, whose half of the fighters' purse comes to a cool $600,000: "I've been hit harder. A couple of times." Why did he fall down? "I was stunned." And why didn't he get back up? "Just lost my balance, I guess."

Boxing writers, politicians and editorialists proclaimed it the fight to end all fights--if they had anything to say about it. In Pennsylvania and New York, legislators instantly introduced bills to ban the sport; in Washington, Senator John Tower called for a Congressional investigation. But fix and fraud are not synonymous. The truth was simply that a big, tough, fast young boxer hit a woozy old stiff in the face. Nobody will ever be sure just how hard Cassius Clay's punch was, but it was hard enough to make Sonny Liston call it a payday.

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