Sonny Liston by Rob Steen

Author:Rob Steen [Steen, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781907532665
Publisher: Aurum Press

Nine

King of the World

He thought he was the King of America

Where they pour Coca-Cola just like vintage wine

Now I try hard not to become hysterical

But I’m not sure if I am laughing or crying

I wish that I could push a button

And talk in the past and not the present tense

And watch this hurtin’ feeling disappear

Like it was common sense

It was a fine idea at the time

Now it’s a brilliant mistake.

(Elvis Costello, Brilliant Mistake)

‘Camera, lights, action – and cue Ed . . .’ It is the first sabbath of Sonny’s reign. The opening titles of The Ed Sullivan Show scoot past. Armchair America sits up. ‘Now, out in our audience,’ intones the eponymous host in that snooty nasal twang of his, ‘the new heavyweight champion of the world, Sonny Liston.’ Applause ensues, most of it merely polite. Like some would-be Moses commanding the Red Sea to part, Sullivan thrusts out his right arm toward the seats. The cameraman is so besotted with the odd-looking fellow on stage that he takes a while to scan the scene beyond. Eventually, the lens picks out a man whose dark, neatly-pressed suit blends disconcertingly with his shaven head and wispy moustache. Slowly, sedately, Sonny stands up, turns around and waves to the sea of white faces. The smile is broad, theirs too. Warmth is absent. ‘Grand to have you here, Sonny,’ whinnies Mr Ed. Welcome, my son, welcome to the machine.

The telegram from James H.J. Tate, the Mayor of Philadelphia, had certainly augured well. ‘Your feat demonstrates that a man’s past does not have to dictate his future,’ it began. ‘I know all Philadelphians join with me in extending best wishes for a successful reign and that you will wear the crown in the fine tradition of Philadelphian champions before you.’ Sonny, though, hardly seemed the type to get carried away. Experience had repeatedly thrust home the absurdity of that. The night he beat Patterson, he rang his mother, who asked him how he was; he said he felt fine, but tired. After a reciprocal inquiry, he paused, then signed off, saying only, ‘Well, I’ll be seeing you.’ However, on the flight home from Chicago on the afternoon of 27 September, the dam broke. Sonny simply bubbled. It was as if Tate’s missive was the final seal of approval. Friends, moreover, had told him of plans for a home-coming parade. Forget those press punks. He had arrived. The tribulations of the past were surely behind him now. As the newly-crowned king of the world, he was looking forward to a regal welcome and duly spent the journey practising a speech. Never, it seemed, had life smiled on him with such unadulterated beneficence.

‘He used me as sort of a test auditor, dry-running his ideas by me,’ Jack McKinney, who sat next to Sonny throughout the flight, told William Nack of Sports Illustrated three decades later. ‘There’s a lot of things I’m gonna do,’ Sonny informed McKinney who, unbeknownst to his companion, had been frantically ringing City Hall, trying to persuade a representative to meet Sonny at the airport.

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