Sports have always been a fascination for me. I’m not sure where it came from since neither of my parents played any sports nor were they fans of any sports teams or individuals. My Uncle Joe, my father’s brother and Aunt Jane’s husband, loved to watch golf on television and cousin Jim’s father actually played golf many weekends. Yet, for some reason my early interest was not in golf but more in baseball, football, and boxing. Mom told stories of how her cousin Milt had been a professional heavyweight boxer but all I ever heard about his career was he had a glass jaw. While at Samuel Morse the Packers continued to dominate their opponents throughout the National Football League, and none of us believed the rumors that the Milwaukee Braves were going to move out of town. Wrestling carried some mystique because The Crusher was from Milwaukee, and his mother lived in a house on Tim’s paper route. Most of us didn’t really consider it a sport though because we had heard the matches were choreographed. Despite the stories of boxing being infiltrated by some of the most unsavory characters in the entire sports world there was a general consensus, at least among adolescent boys, that only a few fights were thrown and most were legitimate. Few would argue that Sonny Liston had won the heavyweight championship without so much as breaking a sweat when he pummeled Floyd Patterson to the canvas. Scowling, brooding, and sinister the immense and powerful hulk finished off his more affable opponent in a little more than two minutes to win, and ten months later to retain the championship. Everybody believed this massive menacing mauler would remain world champion for the rest of the decade, if not longer, much the same as Joe Louis or Rocky Marciano were able to win fight after fight as heavyweight champions. That is everyone except Mrs. McGuckin and me. She caught my friends arguing with me at lunch. They insisted Liston was just too big and powerful for anyone, especially a guy who shot his mouth off as much as Cassius Clay. Having seen the newsreels of Clay fighting his way to the gold medal at the Olympics I was convinced he could, “Float like a butterfly, and sting like a bee.” It seemed both poetic and completely feasible to me that a faster, smarter adversary could take down The Big Ugly Bear as he called him. So, I was willing to take all of my friends bets and wager my next three years earnings on a fight none of us was going to see live because we couldn’t afford to go to the theater to see a closed circuit broadcast in the days before HBO. This is where Mrs. McGuckin stepped in to take control. Never fortunate enough to have her in class, the former nun who asserted her belief in the 7:1 underdog said she didn’t want to see us throwing all our money away on a foolish bet. She convinced us that a single dollar was sufficient to honor our commitment. She held my dollar and the dimes and nickels that accrued from those who were certain I had just made the stupidest wager of my life. Sitting by the radio my palms were loaded with sweat when the first bell rang and I am pretty sure I didn’t take my next breath until the bell rang again to end the first round. Having made it through the first round was a good sign. Listening, it did seem like Clay was floating and stinging, and when Liston refused to come out for the seventh round my feet lifted off the ground. Mrs. McGuckin told me it was wrong to gloat and to accept my victory with grace and dignity. After all, she said there was little doubt the two fighters would have a rematch and it would be presumptuous to think the outcome might not be altered. No one would have guessed the next time they met it would be Liston on the canvas in the first round. One thing I was already sure of was Mrs. McGuckin was a class act. Comments welcome.
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