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Marcellus vanquished Carthage, Cassius laid Julius Caesar low, And Clay will flatten Douglas Jones With a mighty, measured blow.
Madison Square Garden was sold out five days before the fight for the first time in history. In Room 1049 at tne Plymouth Hotel, Cassius Clay was in a happy mood. "The Garden is too small for me," he crowed. "Where are the big places? That's what I need. Maybe the Los Angeles Coliseum. I was up in Harlem today, arguing with 500 people on the corner. I get them to come down here and see Cassius in the Garden. Boxing people are paying their way in. They're wiping off the seats where the pigeons used to sit."
Like Old Times. The day of the fight Clay had insomnia. He got up at 6:30 slipped silently out of the Plymouth, and walked two blocks to Madison Square Garden. Nobody recognized him staring up at the marquee that read TONIGHT —BOXING—CLAY vs. JONES. Clay eturned to his room, sprawled on the bed. At 10 he was up again, restless, bubbly' puckish. At the weigh-in, Cassius burst into the room and strode toward the scales —startled laughter in his wake. Even Doug Jones could not resist a smile. There, plastered across the Mighty Mouth, was a 2-in.-wide strip of adhesive tape.
It was still afternoon, but across the street from the Garden, the fight mob began to gather. It was always like that in the old days, when there were fights worth going to and fighters worth talking about. Then the mob gathered on Jacobs Beach, the sidewalk at 49th and Broadway. Now they sit at grey Formica tables in the Garden Cafeteria gulping matzo-ball soup, or at Jack Dempsey's bar sipping Rob Roys. Promoter Jack Solomon was in from London to see the fight. Lester Collins, ten years a manager and now a California businessman flew to New York because "I heard so much about Clay I had to find out if he's really that good." Ernie Braca, Sugar Ray Robinson's ex-manager, said that even the scalpers were out of tickets. "The wires are red-hot," he said. "Businessmen that never called before. They're offering $75 for a $12 ticket. There are 19 million people out there trying to get into 18,000 seats."
It was supposed to be a Clay crowd. In the Boston Herald, Bud Collins had complained that nobody wanted Jones to win. "It is a holy war," he wrote. "Cassius, the savior of boxing, against an opponent whom . he calls 'that ugly little man.' Where is the good old American sentiment for the underdog?" By fight time there was plenty of sentiment. Half of Harlem trooped to the Garden to root for New Yorker Jones. For other fans rooting against Clay was practically a moral obligation. Prideful Cassius was due for his fall, and they were there to trip him if they could. The lights dimmed. A spotlight caught Jones, a black fireplug of a man, in a yellow and purple robe. The crowd cheered. Then the spot swung around and picked up Clay, dressed all in white—white robe, white trunks, white shoes. The crowd hooted. There was warm applause for the ring introductions—Gene Tunney, Jack Dempsey, Sugar Ray Robinson, Rocky Graziano, Barney Ross, Dick Tiger—champions all. Then more boos for Clay. And still more, as he danced and waved and made faces at his tormentors.