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At Small's Paradise in Harlem, his victory party was already in full swing when Clay arrived. Pretty girls—"those foxes." in Cassius' vocabulary—leaned close for pictures. The band blared. The management rustled up a cake decorated with roses and strawberries, and plunked it proudly under Cassius' nose. Cassius smiled, then frowned. He pushed the cake away, popped a pill in his mouth. A doctor whispered in his ear. Suddenly, Clay shoved back his chair and lurched out into the night. All at once, people remembered that he was only 21— and for the first time all evening, he was acting his age.
But did everything turn to ashes in his mouth? No sirree. Another day, and Cassius was back home in Louisville, hurrying over to Standard Cadillac Co. to collect his reward. He rushed into the showroom, flung his arms high, and shouted: "Tomato-red Cadillac convertible, I am here!" Tomato-red Eldorado wasn't there, and there wasn't one in all of Louisville. But it will be, and in the meantime Cassius could console himself with his $13,500 out of the purse and $10,000 from the 38-city telecast.
As he rode home in a rented Chevrolet, Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. was already working out the details of his next dream. "There ain't no such thing as love for me," he mused sadly. "Not while I'm goin' on to that championship. But when I get that championship, then I'm goin' to put on my old jeans and get an old hat and grow a beard. And I'm goin' walk down the road until I find a little fox who just loves me for what I am. And then I'll take her back to my $250,000 house overlooking my $1,000,000 housing development and I'll show her the Cadillac and the patio and the indoor pool in case it rains. And I'll tell her: 'This is all yours, honey' 'cause you love me for what I am."'