(8 of 9)
"Get Cassius! Go get him, Doug!" the fans chanted. "Get that loudmouth!" And in the first round, Doug almost did. Cassius leaned back, and a looping right caught him flush on the side of the jaw. Clay's knees buckled, his eyes glazed, and he grabbed the ring rope for support. Desperately, Clay shot jabs at Jones's forehead—light, harmless punches designed only to keep Jones at arm's length, to survive the round. The second was even, and in the third, his head clear now, Cassius took command. He raked Jones with left hooks, and the crowd grew surly and silent. Then it was the fateful fourth the round in which Jones must fall.
He didn't. Irreverently, he snapped off two stiff lefts, spun Cassius around, and landed a thumping afterthought on the back of his head. Angry now, Cassius retaliated, exhausting his repertory in a flurry of incredibly swift punches that were enough to win him the round but not immortality. The boos followed him back to his corner.
By the end of the eighth round, Clay knew he was not going to knock out Jones. He knew something else too: that he was behind in the fight. Jab, jab, jab, hook hook, hook, he poured it on in the ninth and tenth. A hard right to the face rocked him, but still Cassius kept flailing throwing five punches to every one of Jones's piling up precious points. The huge crowd' knowing it was close, waited tensely for the verdict. Announcer Johnny Addie called for the mike. "Both judges score it five ... four ... one even—for Clay! Referee Joe Loscalzo scores it . . ."
The crowd exploded with a wave of ugly sound that engulfed Addie's voice t was a good thing: the referee's card (eight rounds for Clay, one for Jones one even) was absurd. The chant started in the upper balconies: "Fix! Fix! Fix! Fake! Fake! Fake!" A photographer at ringside was knocked cold by a flying object that creased the back of his skull Peanuts rained onto the ring. Casually, Cassius Clay picked up a handful, cracked the shells, and tossed the nuts into his mouth.
On with the Hunt. Not everybody agreed with the crowd. In Miami, where the fight was on closed-circuit TV, Sonny Liston smiled at the catcalls. "He won it," said Liston. "It was Clay's fight." Did Cassius show him anything? Replied Liston: "He showed me I'll get locked up for murder if I fight him." Some sportswriters agreed. Feeling that they had been fooled, they turned on Cassius. He had no punch, no stamina, no stomach for the likes of Liston. they said. Others spotted nuggets of greatness. Work, they decided, clean living, experience—given these, Clay has an unlimited potential. In his dressing room, Cassius was as sassy as ever. "The referee was the most accurate," he said. "See, I'm as pretty as a girl. There isn't a mark on me." He was still hunting big game. "I want Liston. He can't move as fast as Jones. Doug didn't fall, that's all. But Liston will still go in eight."