The Man The System Could Not Beat

Until 9:15 P.M. (Chicago time) on Friday night, the majority opinion of Floyd Patterson among the professional wise guys of boxing held that he was a brash upstart of a fighter who, though promising, had been brought along much too fast for his own good; that he was scarcely even a proper heavyweight, let alone a true contender, and, sadly, that his manager Cus D'Amato, one of the more independent minds of our time, was about to get his well-deserved comeuppance. A small, left-of-center group gave Patterson a pretty good chance to beat Archie Moore for the world's heavyweight title. A minuscule hard core of extremists picked Patterson to win.

The hard-core extremists had a wonderful good time celebrating until sunup on Saturday morning. Floyd Patterson, facing only his 32nd professional opponent, knocked out the wily Archie Moore of the power-packed punch in two minutes 27 seconds of the fifth round and thereby became the youngest world's heavyweight champion ever.

Among the celebrating radicals was SPORTS ILLUSTRATED, which, on January 30, 1956 (exactly 10 months before), reported that "it is now as clear as anything can be in the future books of boxing that a lithe young Brooklyn Negro named Floyd Patterson—who celebrated his 21st birthday this month by challenging Rocky Marciano—will be the next Heavyweight Champion of the World." At that time Champion Marciano was three months from unsuspected and undefeated retirement and Patterson was not even listed among the heavyweights in The Ring magazine's authoritative rankings. He had not put on quite enough weight to be considered seriously.

There was another handicap. Manager D'Amato was beyond the pale of the ring's ruling powers. Patterson had been unable to get fights in the big time because D'Amato would not yield to demands that he give up 50% of his interest in the fighter in order, as the boxing saying goes, to "move him." But D'Amato had a few staunch friends and, in the end, was able to beat the system. They included Emil Lence, a pleasant, soft-spoken man who earned a living in the dress business and, mostly for sport, promoted fights at one of New York's lesser arenas, Eastern Parkway. Lence and his matchmaker, Vinnie Cerola, gave Patterson the fights he needed to create localized but intensive public interest in his career. It became apparent from these early fights that Patterson deserved far better recognition than he was getting. It became apparent also that he would have trouble getting it.

But on Patterson's 21st birthday, D'Amato raised a shout. He demanded a shot at Marciano. He harried the International Boxing Club (James D. Norris, president) and, finally, was admitted to the presence of the president. He had been offered $4,000 for an IBC television shot at Hurricane Jackson. He got $40,000. Floyd Patterson was on his way. The hard-core extremists began to wear grins.

But even these hardy fundamentalists were astounded by the high quality of Patterson's victory. They had expected him to win, but not so beautifully. This youth, an Olympic amateur champion only four years ago, performed with the poise of a skilled veteran, at ease and in charge at all times. In one poisoned punch he displayed a power that would not have shamed a Louis or a Dempsey. In somewhat less than five rounds he showed the defensive skill and tactical assault genius of a Tunney. He did not fight in the style of any of these three—he fought like a Patterson—but he stepped grandly into their illustrious company.

To the extremists who favored him this was the real surprise of the fight. For Patterson, performing against a seasoned opportunist, did not once indulge himself in an all-out version of the almost suicidal Gazelle Punch (SI, Nov. 26) that he has employed with Dionysian rapture against lesser opponents. ("I get a kind of elation out of it," says Patterson.) It was as though, in a single night, he had abandoned all the little raw pleasures of amateurism and had grown suddenly into a mature professional. He protected himself at all times. He made no false moves. He exposed himself to danger only to gain a calculated advantage.

Trainer Dan Florio takes a bow here. He has been at Patterson's side ever since Floyd returned from Helsinki four years ago with the Olympic 165-pound title. In the final two weeks of training at Sportsman's Park, Chicago's Cicero race track, Florio gave Floyd an intensive course in self-defense. In the minds of Florio and D'Amato there was only one fear: that Moore, a coiled spring, would lash out with one of his deadly sneak punches at a moment when the often-impetuous Patterson had his guard down. It was, indeed, just about Moore's only chance. But he never quite got it.

Self-defense did not mean that Patterson was to stay away from Moore. On the contrary, he was to engage Moore at close quarters, force him into incessant, evasive action and wear him down with the speed and fury of the famous Patterson combinations. In short, he was to keep Moore so busy that Archie would be unable to retaliate—except, of course, when Patterson would necessarily withdraw from these engagements in order to gather himself for a new attack. At such moments a fighter is in deadly danger of the misnamed sneak punch, a perfectly legitimate weapon with the virtue of catching an opponent by surprise as he is concentrating on his next maneuver and has momentarily forgotten his defenses.

Patterson was instructed to come away from each assault with his hands protecting each side of his chin and his upper arms and elbows guarding his flanks. He was drilled in this daily and ordered as well to maintain a half crouch that would leave Moore little more target than the top of Patterson's head.