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Only Three. As fight time approached, Miami Beach's 16,448-seat Convention Hall (scaled in price from $20 to $250) was only half full, and Promoter Bill MacDonald grimly contemplated a $300,000 loss. A rumor circulated that Clay was on a plane headed for Mexico; another had it that he was in the hospital—in a straitjacket. Huh-uh. Resplendent in a tight black tuxedo, Cassius was standing quietly in the back of the auditorium, watching his brother Rudolph Valentino Clay pound out his first pro victory in a preliminary bout. United Press International took a prefight poll of 46 reporters at ringside. Only three gave Cassius a chance to win.
Rarely have so many been so wrong. "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee," was Clay's strategy—and it proved brilliant. Out shuffled Liston, planning to pot his patsy early. Out danced Cassius, chin out, gloves dangling carelessly alongside his thighs, a certain invitation to disaster. Or was it? Liston jabbed with his left—whiff! He hooked with his right—whiff! He hooked with his left —whiff! Bobbing, weaving, ducking, back-pedaling,Cassius slipped punch after punch. Then, stopping suddenly in his tracks, he drove a volley of eight stiff punches to Liston's head. The crowd roared with delight—so loudly that neither fighter heard the bell until it rang for the third time.
"He's Human!" Between rounds, Clay sprawled indolently on his stool. Trembling with rage, Liston refused to sit. At the bell, he roared out, throwing rabbit punches, kidney punches, backhand punches, leaping "kangaroo" punches. A few landed. But Clay effortlessly dodged the crunchers. Now it was Round 3 and Clay counterattacked. Eyes wide with excitement, he drove Liston into the ropes, cut loose with a slashing one-two. The left landed squarely on Sonny's right eye, instantly raising a puffy purple bruise; the right opened a deep gash under his left eye. Blood spurted from the wound, Liston wiped it off with his glove, glanced at it curiously. "My God!" exclaimed a woman at ringside. "He's human! He bleeds."
"It's all over," said one fan. "Only a lucky break can save Liston." But if the fight was surprising until then, it now became fantastic. In the fourth round, Clay got a stinging substance in his eyes—coagulant from Liston's cut perhaps, or liniment from his gloves. Blinking furiously, Cassius staggered back to his corner. "I can't see," he told Trainer Angelo Dundee. "Cut off my gloves, Angelo," he pleaded. "Leave me out of here." When the bell rang for the fifth round, Cassius was still sitting on his stool. "Clay, get out here," yelled Referee Barney Felix. Trainer Dundee hastily shoved Cassius into the ring. "This is a big one, daddy," he said. "We aren't going to quit now."
Amazingly, Cassius stuck out his left hand and propped himself against Liston's nose—like a drunk leaning on a lamppost. And always he kept moving —never allowing the great, lumbering Liston to plant his feet, never presenting a stationary target. Wild with rage, Liston could not hit him. He was defeated—totally, utterly, bewilderingly.