It Was a Very Bad Year

ONE

Las Vegas Convention Center, July 22, 1963

‘Hang on to your hat,’ Nick Conte said. ‘This isn’t gonna take long.’

Richard Conte — a tough-guy actor whose close friends all called him ‘Nick’ for the simple reason that it was his real first name — was seated to my right, Frank Sinatra to my left.

‘You’re crazy,’ Frank said. ‘That first fight was a fluke. Liston’s way too slow for Floyd.’

Conte leaned forward to look past me at Frank.

‘Wanna double the bet?’ he asked.

‘You’re on, pally,’ Frank said. ‘Floyd takes his title back tonight.’

Nick looked at me. ‘You want a piece?’

‘I’m not gamblin’ on this fight,’ I said. ‘My heart is with Floyd, but. . I don’t know. Liston looks tough.’

‘See?’ Nick said to Frank. ‘Even Eddie says Liston wins.’

‘He didn’t say that,’ Frank said. ‘He just said Liston looks tough. Well, he ain’t gonna scare Floyd to death.’

‘Well, he scared him enough to KO him in two minutes the first time,’ Conte said. ‘I don’t see it goin’ too much longer than that this time.’

‘You’re crazy. .’ Frank said, but I didn’t hear the rest.

I had to admit, Sonny Liston was sorta scaring me to death, and I wasn’t even in the ring with him. The knockout in the first fight — which actually came at two minutes six seconds into the first round — had been devastating to Floyd. I wasn’t sure he was fully recovered yet, psychologically. And he did look less than confident to me in the ring.

‘What the hell-’ I heard Frank say.

‘What?’ I asked, turning around.

He was looking not at the ring, but across it.

‘What’s that bum doin’ here?’ he asked.

‘Who?’

‘Across the ring.’ He pointed. ‘That fella’s name is Amsler, Joe Amsler.’

I tried to see who he was pointing at.

‘Which one?’

‘The young guy,’ Frank said, ‘right across from us. He went to high school with my Nancy.’

I saw an animated young man talking earnestly with another man about the same age. It looked to me like they weren’t looking at the ring either, but past it to us — at Frank.

‘I take it you don’t like him?’

Frank looked at me and said, ‘I never like any boy who hangs around Nancy. Keep that in mind, Eddie.’

‘Hey,’ I said, referring to my one close encounter with Frank’s daughter, ‘she flirted with me.’

‘Just remember, pally,’ he said, poking me in the chest with his forefinger.

After that we ignored Amsler and went back to watching the action in the ring.

Richard Conte nudged me and asked, ‘Would it be bad taste for me to light up a victory cigar now?’

‘I don’t think Floyd’s camp would appreciate it.’

‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’ll hold off. Floyd may not be able to beat Liston, but he could kick my ass with no trouble.’

‘You and me both,’ I agreed.

We watched as the fighters came to the center of the ring for their instructions.

A left took Floyd’s legs out from under him, and set up the first knockdown.

‘Oops,’ Conte said, happily.

Floyd got up and indicated to the ref that he was all right, but you could see he had no legs. A barrage of punches put him down for a second time, and Conte happily took out his cigar. He was just taking the cellophane off when Floyd went down for the third and final time.

He was knocked out at two minutes ten seconds of round one.

He had lasted four seconds longer than the first fight.

Liston would defend his title against Cassius Clay the following year.

Conte’s blue cigar smoke surrounded us as we waited for the fight crowd to clear out.

Conte puffed away happily.

Sinatra fanned away the smoke and said, ‘Gloat now, Nick, but Cassius Clay will take the title away from Liston when they meet.’

‘You wanna bet now?’ Conte asked, smiling.

I didn’t get in on that bet, either. I didn’t think anyone would be beating Sonny Liston for a long time.

By the time we left the Las Vegas Convention Center I had completely forgotten about Joe Amsler.