London trained in a holiday camp close to his home. Holiday camps, as understood in Britain, are establishments that appeal to people with an overwhelming nostalgia for barracks life. They are enormously popular, generating the impression that at any moment the inmates will burst cheerily forth in an old wartime favorite, the punch line of which is, "We'll soon have the Hun on the run, run, run." The barracks are only thinly veiled in these years of peace with brightly colored plastics and gaudy lighting. Brian London's sparring ring was set up in the Sunset Cafe of his particular camp, and he was photographed with a troupe of dancers in grass skirts and Carmen Miranda feathered headdresses. His most memorable comment came when he was asked whether Clay's habit of talking to opponents during a fight would upset him. "Clay insult me?" London responded bravely. "I'm too ignorant."
Such talk was difficult for even the loquacious Clay to match. His training establishment was a gym in Hampstead in northwest London. The windows were covered with brown paper to discourage peeping fans and the radiators were turned on to make the place feel like Miami. Clay said he was tired and worried. He even hinted of eventual retirement to a female reporter who literally shook in his presence. The doubts, guessed one writer, were "figments of a well-trained imagination, to give the box office a fillip."
The trouble was that the ticket sales of Promoters Jack Solomons and Lawrie Lewis needed the sort of boost that goes into a Gemini project. On the night of the fight the arena, which could have absorbed 18,000, was barely half full. No amount of persuasion had convinced the English public that London was anything but a pushover for Clay. And on the morning of the fight one daily even carried a report of the bout as if it had already taken place. The story was over-generous to London, saying he would be beaten in 11 rounds.
Clay's own training—or lack of it, as some believed—seemed to a minority of speculators to be London's only chance. Once it was reported in slightly aghast tones that Muhammad Ali had arrived at the gym two hours late. Some members of England's World Cup soccer team, who had waited patiently to see him train, left before he arrived. He sparred 26 rounds, all while in London, the last five almost a week before meeting his challenger. But in those five, according to Trainer Angelo Dundee, he reached his peak. "It is just a matter now," said Dundee, "of keeping him up there."
While Clay feigned lassitude, London was explaining energetically his plan of battle. He based his hopes on the theory that he was a fighter very much like George Chuvalo, the Canadian who went the distance with Clay last spring. "I would never say that Clay was anything but a great boxer," explained London, "but Chuvalo proved that a man can stay with Clay, and Henry Cooper proved that Clay dislikes being hit on the jaw. That is what I shall be going for. I want to crowd him and throw punches all the time. It is my intention to have a thump. Clay may cut me, outbox me, even beat me. But I'll be there at the end thumping."
Henry Cooper, helping the gate, pointed out that London does not bleed much but instead swells and puffs from punches. He conjured up a vision of London, swollen like an enraged toad, cutting down Clay's area for maneuvering with each blow received and finally pinning him with one grand thump before himself exploding.
But on serious analysis London's task seemed hopeless. A boxer who eschews hooks or straight punches, he normally moves forward while throwing arching blows, thus taking the sting out of his punches. At the weigh-in, where he scaled 200� pounds, nine less than Clay, London commented, "If we win, everybody else will be sick," and he could not have uttered a truer word. From Clay, strangely the more silent player in the masquerade leading up to the fight, there was at last a muted note of menace. "We'll see by the result of the fight," he remarked, "whether I'm ready or not."
The fight will probably rank as the nonfight of the year. Earls Court is also used for exhibitions, like the motor show, so perhaps what happened Saturday night can be excused on that basis. When it was over, London could not have been said to have landed one significant blow. "I wasn't wanting to waste my strength and energy early on," was his story. "I wanted to take my time." He did. He tried stalking Clay in the first round, his shoulders hunched, but the champion, enveloped in gay confidence, was on a carousel. London never could climb on. The wariness which Clay displayed for a time in the second fight with Cooper, watching out for Henry's proven left, had evaporated, and he was leaping in with lefts and rights, even leading with his right.
In the second round London again attempted to go after Clay and tie him up, but it was a futile gesture. "Rough him up, Brian," was the poor advice of an optimistic spectator in the audience. The gulf between the two fighters became quite clear when London moved as if to trap Clay in a corner, London's own corner, where the fight was soon to end. Clay nonchalantly danced out. Then, before the round was over, he hit London with a combination of left- and right-hand punches that left his opponent shaken and clearly doomed.
The rest of the contest, if it can be called that, took place in the London corner with the positions reversed. "It was hard until I caught him," Clay recalled later with a diplomat's flair. He had London trapped, and delivered a devastating series of about a dozen blows to his opponent's head in a little more than a few seconds. First lefts, as if he had a speed bag in front of him. Then left and right hooks and, lastly, two deadly right-hand punches similar to the one that put Liston out in his second fight with Clay. London slumped down on his side and was counted out after 1 minute 40 seconds of the third round.