What Elijah did not know was that Malcolm already had plans to return to New York City so that he could attend the biggest prizefight of the year, a bout involving Cassius Clay. Since meeting Malcolm nine months earlier, Cassius had attended more Muslim meetings, ingratiating himself with the Harlem minister. But no one outside the Nation suspected that Malcolm had taken an interest in the young boxer. Elijah himself had no idea that Malcolm planned to sit ringside at Madison Square Garden during his next match.
When a reporter asked Malcolm what he thought about prizefighting, he called it “a racket.” “Commercialized sport is the pleasure of the idle rich,” he said. Rich white men exploited poor men who beat up other poor men. “The vice of gambling stems from it.” No one appreciated this better than Big Red. He was, after all, a product of the street, a former “sport” who had lived the life of urbanity, gambling, and vice. It was the same world occupied by boxers, promoters, and hustlers who ran the fight game. It was a world of backroom deals, late-night escapades, and easy women.7
Malcolm nevertheless understood the cultural power wielded by champions. He had matured during the age of Joe Louis, the most admired and talked-about black man of the 1930s. He recalled that in 1937, when Louis defeated heavyweight champion James Braddock, “all the Negroes in Lansing, like Negroes everywhere, went wildly happy with the greatest celebration of race pride our generation had ever known. Every Negro boy old enough to walk wanted to be the next Brown Bomber.”8
Malcolm recognized that unlike Joe Louis, Cassius Clay refused to let white men control him. The brash young boxer had shown an independent side, an unwillingness to play by the white man’s rules, asserting his freedom in the world of boxing. Sometimes he defied Angelo Dundee’s instructions and ignored his advisers in the Louisville Sponsoring Group. Many white fans and sportswriters who disapproved of his gloating in the ring would have preferred that he stand in the corner after he won a match, like Louis, gracious and expressionless.
The fact that Cassius spoke his mind, attended Muslim meetings, and reached out to the minister, risking his career, convinced Malcolm that he was not the white man’s puppet. Perhaps, Malcolm thought, he could mold him like a lump of clay, sculpting him into a new kind of black champion—a champion of Black Nationalism. But to do that, to become the heavyweight champion of the world, the Muslim’s champ, and a powerful voice carrying Malcolm’s message, Clay had to beat Doug Jones.9
CASSIUS WAS IN New York City to sell tickets. Scheduled to box third-ranked heavyweight contender Doug Jones in Madison Square Garden on March 13, 1963, he faced a daunting promotional task. Jones was a very good boxer, small for a heavyweight, though a fine defensive fighter with solid punching power. He had won twenty-one of his twenty-five professional matches, and his three losses and one draw had been by decision to boxers of his caliber. Competent and workmanlike in the ring, he was undistinguished outside the ropes, and he most emphatically was not a drawing card.
Cassius had to do the talking for both men, a task he attacked with relish. On Sunday, February 3, he kicked off his campaign with an appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, a popular variety program. Once a sportswriter and still a boxing fan, Sullivan regularly introduced boxers on his show and plugged upcoming matches.10
Sullivan tried to put the boxer at ease by asking him if he had a prediction for the Jones fight. “I understand that Jones likes to mix, but he must fall in six,” Cassius replied.
“Suppose I were to box you, how far would I go?” the host asked.
“Well, Ed, if you run, I’ll have to cut it to one.”
“One round?”
“No, one punch.”
Then, for a moment, Clay became nervous and misspoke. “I’m not just a musician in the ring, I’m not . . . ah, ah . . . I’m not just a musician in the ring, I’m the same out of the ring.” He meant to say that he was a magician in and out of the ring, and to prove his point he took a blue scarf out of his pocket, waved it a few times, and, presto, transformed it into a cane.