It all depended on Clay defeating Liston. Malcolm believed that Allah had delivered Cassius to him, and Allah would not have brought the two together in that Detroit luncheonette, shown the boxer the light of truth, and allowed him to ascend to the top of the heavyweight division only to abandon him now. Surely, if he could talk to Elijah, he could convince him of the divine importance of the match in Miami.
Early on the day of the contest, Malcolm phoned “Chicago.” Whether he talked directly with Elijah or one of the Prophet’s leading aides is unclear from the FBI informant’s report. But it hardly mattered—“Chicago” was Elijah Muhammad. Malcolm and Elijah engaged in a conversation, even if it traveled through a third person. Malcolm repeated his absolute belief that Clay would defeat Liston, making the boxer potentially the Nation’s most important convert and marketable asset. What would the heavyweight champion be worth in terms of world prestige, propaganda, and revenues? What would be the value of his image on the pages of Muhammad Speaks, and how much power would it carry among young black men stifled in the ghettoes of America? Could Elijah imagine the waves of emotion that would roll across the auditorium when Malcolm, yes Malcolm, delivered Cassius and the title to the Supreme Minister at the Saviours’ Day convention on February 26? It would mark a new age for the Nation of Islam and elevate Elijah to new heights. And all it would cost was Malcolm’s full reinstatement.5
“Chicago” turned him down flat. Clearly, Elijah, Raymond Sharrieff, and the other Muslim leaders thought that was Malcolm daydreaming. They agreed with the experts that Liston would dispatch Clay in a few rounds, ending the meteoric rise of the boisterous contender. Once defeated, and possibly even humiliated, “he would be just another boxer,” battered, scarred, on the road to oblivion. Malcolm, they judged, was as bad at evaluating boxers as he was sizing up political infighters. What was more, if by some chance Clay did upset Liston, the Nation was prepared to push Malcolm out of the picture and claim Cassius as their own, reaping all the rewards.
WHILE MALCOLM TRIED to barter Clay for his reinstatement, Cassius prepared for the final act in his psychological campaign against Liston. A few days before, he had told the press, “I’m tired of talking . . . I’m ready to go to war.” But he had one more set piece planned before he stepped into the ring.6
At precisely ten thirty a.m., he burst into the Cypress Room in the Miami Convention Center for the weigh-in. Cassius wore a blue denim jacket with “Bear Huntin’” embroidered in red, carried a bamboo cane given to him by Malcolm, and appeared highly agitated. Drew “Bundini” Brown and Sugar Ray Robinson flanked him. Sugar Ray looked a bit sheepish, like a man who had been stationed in the center stage for no apparent reason. Bundini, however, played his part in the farce with consummate professionalism. Dressed in a yellow plaid sports jacket fit for a Las Vegas showroom, he appeared wide-eyed and wild, a sweating, mumbling, shouting provocateur ready to burst with excitement. Bundini, Angelo Dundee claimed, “charged Clay’s battery.” Together with Cassius he exhorted: “Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee—rumble, young man, rumble—aaahhhh!—rumble, young man, rumble!” They repeated the lines again and again, admiring each other’s performance and stretching out the open-mouthed “Aaaahhhh!” to remarkable lengths. Jim Murray of the Los Angeles Times thought Cassius acted “like Donald Duck on a bender.”7
As Cassius ranted, his voice rose higher and then turned hoarse with strain. “I’m ready to rumble, I’m the champ, I’m ready to rumble,” he kept repeating. “You can tell Sonny I’m here with Sugar Ray,” he yelled. “Liston is flat-footed, and Joe Louis is flat-footed, but me and Sugar Ray are two pretty dancers.” While Robinson shifted about uneasily, Cassius continued. “Round eight I’ll prove I’m great.” Then the “spaniel-eyed” Bundini joined in for another chorus of “float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.”
William Faversham, the main representative of the Louisville Sponsoring Group, waded into the middle of the activity to restore order. He was soon in over his head—having recently suffered from heart problems, his futile, hectic efforts to pull Clay out of the mess threatened his life. When Clay and his group retired to a dressing room to strip down for the weigh-in, the exhausted Faversham turned to LSG lawyer Gordon Davidson and told him to take over. “Gordon,” he instructed, “go back to the dressing room and tell Clay that if he causes a scene they’re gonna fine him, and it’s gonna be his money, not ours. Tell him to behave himself.”8