The Great Shark Hunt Part 42

That's the way it is, that's the way it's been ever since I held the crown, I didn't have nothing to gain by fighting Bugner. I didn't have nothing to gain by fighting Jean-Pierre Co-opman. I didn't have nothing to gain by fighting a lot of people.

You sure as h.e.l.l will next time by fighting Leon. That will be real pressure.

Oh yeah, I like the pressure, need the pressure. . . the world likes. . . people like to see miracles. . . people like to see. . . people like to see underdogs that do it. . . people like to be there when history is made.

Raw Eggs and Beer in the Top Rank Suite. . . A Sea of Noise and Violence. . . An Eerie, Roaring Chant. . . The Final Bell One thing that Ernest Hemingway had always told me was that it was a bad idea to get to know an active fighter and become interested in his career. Sooner or later he was going to get hurt in the ring, and beaten, and it would be an almost unbearable thing to see if he were a friend.

-- GEORGE P PLIMPTON, Shadow Box Shadow Box Well. . . I wondered why George never showed up in Las Vegas. Muhammad Ali is a friend of Norman Mailer's, too, and also Budd Schulberg's; along with most of the other big-time boxing writers who skipped the Spinks fight. I was too strung out on the simple horror of spending two weeks in the Las Vegas Hilton to understand anything more complex than fear, hunger and daytime TV, at the time, to grasp my own lack of sensitivity.

And at first I thought it was some kind of monumental botch on my part. Sybil Arum tried to rea.s.sure me, but others said I was paranoid. Day after endless day, I would check into Top Rank Headquarters on the fifth floor "Director's Suite" and ask as casually as possible if George or Norman had showed up yet -- and the answer was always the same.

Or perhaps I was overcompensating, somehow, for my shameful malaria freakout in Zaire by showing up for this one two weeks earlier than anybody except Arum and Leon.

After a week or so of feeling so conspicuously alone in my role of "behind the scenes fight writer" I finally began pa.s.sing myself off as the official Top Rank bartender, instead. I began to get seriously paranoid about the situation. What was wrong, I wondered? Had I chosen the wrong hotel? Were all the heavies staying somewhere else like the Aladdin or Caesar's Palace, where the real action was?

Or maybe I was working too hard; doing unnatural things like waking up at ten o'clock in the morning to attend the daily promo/strategy meetings down in Arum's Top Rank "Director's Suite". . . taking voluminous notes on such problems as the Ghanaian featherweight challenger's baffling refusal to wear "Everlast" gloves for his fight with Danny Lopez; and whether the public should be charged one or two dollars to attend Ali's daily workouts -- if if and when Ali finally showed up for any workouts at all; he was not taking the fight seriously, according to rumors out of Dundee's gym in Miami, and to make matters worse he was also refusing to talk to anybody except his wife. and when Ali finally showed up for any workouts at all; he was not taking the fight seriously, according to rumors out of Dundee's gym in Miami, and to make matters worse he was also refusing to talk to anybody except his wife.

There was also the matter of how to cope with a mind-set ranging from blank apathy to outright mockery on the part of the national boxing press. The only fight writers who could be counted on for daily ink were locals such as Tommy Lopez from the Review Journal Review Journal and Mike Marley from the and Mike Marley from the Las Vegas Sun Las Vegas Sun -- which was good for -- which was good for me, me, because they both knew a h.e.l.l of a lot more about the "fight game" than I did, and between the two of them I was getting a dose of education about the technical aspects of boxing that I have never known much about. . . But the New York media continued to dismiss the fight as either a farce or a fraud -- or perhaps even a because they both knew a h.e.l.l of a lot more about the "fight game" than I did, and between the two of them I was getting a dose of education about the technical aspects of boxing that I have never known much about. . . But the New York media continued to dismiss the fight as either a farce or a fraud -- or perhaps even a fix, fix, as frustrated challenger Ken Norton would suggest afterward; and Arum's humor grew more and more foul as Leon absorbed more and more b.u.m-of-the-month jokes from the national boxing press. Arum was shocked and genuinely outraged as the prefight coverage dwindled down to a one-line joke about "this upcoming mystery match between as frustrated challenger Ken Norton would suggest afterward; and Arum's humor grew more and more foul as Leon absorbed more and more b.u.m-of-the-month jokes from the national boxing press. Arum was shocked and genuinely outraged as the prefight coverage dwindled down to a one-line joke about "this upcoming mystery match between one fighter who won't talk, and another who can't one fighter who won't talk, and another who can't."

Spinks wandered in and out of the suite from time to time, seeming totally oblivious to what anybody in the world -- including me and Arum -- had to say about the fight or anything else. He was not even disturbed when his mother arrived in Las Vegas and told the first reporter she met that she thought it was "a shame" that her son was going to have to "get beat up on TV" just to make a bundle of money for "big business people from New York."

Leon Spinks is not one of your chronic worriers. His mind moves in pretty straight lines, and the more I saw of him in Las Vegas, the more I became convinced that the idea of fighting his boyhood idol for the Heavyweight Champions.h.i.+p of the World didn't bother him at all, win or lose. "Sure he's The Greatest," he would say to the few reporters who managed to track him down and ask him how he felt about Ali, "but he has to give it up sometime, sometime, right?" right?"

He was polite with the press, but it was clear that he had no interest at all in their questions -- and even less in his own answers, which he pa.s.sed off as casually as he dropped two raw eggs in every gla.s.s of beer he drank during interviews.

Nor did he have any interest in Arum's desperate scrambling for pre-fight publicity.

No half-bright presidential candidate, rock star or champions.h.i.+p boxing promoter would do anything but fire any ranking adviser who arranged for him and his wife to spend two weeks in a small bedroom adjoining adjoining the main suite/bar/war room and the base of all serious business. . . But this is what Bob Arum did in Las Vegas, and it was so entirely out of character for the main suite/bar/war room and the base of all serious business. . . But this is what Bob Arum did in Las Vegas, and it was so entirely out of character for anybody anybody dealing in Power & Leverage & Money on that scale that it made me suspicious. Bob and I have been friends long enough for me to be relatively certain he wasn't either dumb dealing in Power & Leverage & Money on that scale that it made me suspicious. Bob and I have been friends long enough for me to be relatively certain he wasn't either dumb or or crazy. But I have a lot of strange friends and I still trust my instincts in this area about niney-eight percent, despite a few glaring exceptions in the area of Southern politicians and black drug dealers wearing Iron Boy overalls, and until Arum pulls that kind of switch on me I will still call him my friend and treat him the same way. crazy. But I have a lot of strange friends and I still trust my instincts in this area about niney-eight percent, despite a few glaring exceptions in the area of Southern politicians and black drug dealers wearing Iron Boy overalls, and until Arum pulls that kind of switch on me I will still call him my friend and treat him the same way.

Indeed. . . and now that we've settled that, let's get back to this twisted saga and my feeling in Las Vegas, as the day of the fight approached and my lonely perceptions with regard to its possible meaning meaning and in fact my whole understanding of professional boxing as either a sport and in fact my whole understanding of professional boxing as either a sport or or a business came more and more into question. . . Well, I began to feel very a business came more and more into question. . . Well, I began to feel very isolated, isolated, down there in the huge Vegas Hilton, and when even my good friends smiled indulgently when I said on the phone that I was having a h.e.l.l of a hard time getting a bet on Leon Spinks at down there in the huge Vegas Hilton, and when even my good friends smiled indulgently when I said on the phone that I was having a h.e.l.l of a hard time getting a bet on Leon Spinks at ten ten or even or even eight to one eight to one, I had a few nervous moments wondering if perhaps I really was was as crazy as so much of the evidence suggested. as crazy as so much of the evidence suggested.

This was, however, before before I'd read Plimpton's book and found out that I was the only writer in America so cold-hearted as to show up in Las Vegas to watch Muhammad Ali get I'd read Plimpton's book and found out that I was the only writer in America so cold-hearted as to show up in Las Vegas to watch Muhammad Ali get beaten. beaten.

Whatever else I might or might not have been, I was clearly no friend of The Champ's. . . Which was true on one level, because I not only showed for the fight, but wallowed so deep in the quicksands of human treachery as to bet against him. bet against him.

At ten to one.

Let's not forget those numbers -- especially not if the difference between ten and five is really the difference between a friend and an enemy.

When the bell rang to start number fifteen in Vegas, Leon Spinks was so tired and wasted that he could barely keep his balance for the next three minutes -- and now, after watching that fight on videotape at least twenty times, I think that even World Lightweight Champ Roberto Duran could have taken Leon out with one quick and savage combination; a hard jab in the eyes to bring his hands up in front of his face just long enough to crack him under the heart with a right uppercut -- then another left into the stomach to bring his head forward again, to that target point in the cross hairs of Ali's brittle but still murderous bazooka right hand, at twenty or twenty-one inches. . .

No fighter except Joe Frazier had ever survived one of Muhammad's frenzied killer-combinations in a round as late as the fifteenth; and, until those last, incredibly brutal three minutes in Las Vegas, Leon Spinks had never gone more than ten rounds in his life. When he shuffled half-blindly out of his corner for number fifteen against The Champ, who was obviously and terminally behind on points on points after fourteen, Leon Spinks was "ready to go," as they say in that merciless, million-dollar-a-minute world of "the Squared Circle." after fourteen, Leon Spinks was "ready to go," as they say in that merciless, million-dollar-a-minute world of "the Squared Circle."

. . . But so was Muhammad Ali: fight films shot from a catwalk directly above the ring, looking straight down from the high ceiling of the Hilton Pavilion, show both both fighters reeling off balance and virtually holding on to each other at times, just to keep from falling down in that vicious final round. fighters reeling off balance and virtually holding on to each other at times, just to keep from falling down in that vicious final round.

There was no more strategy strategy at that point, and the blood-l.u.s.t-howl of the small crowd of 5000 or so white-on-white pro-Spinks high rollers who had made the fight a cynical and almost reluctant sellout in a town where a shrewd promoter like Arum or Don King or even Raoul Duke could sell 5000 tickets to a World Champions.h.i.+p c.o.c.k Fight, told Muhammad Ali all he needed to know at that point in time. The same people who'd been chanting at that point, and the blood-l.u.s.t-howl of the small crowd of 5000 or so white-on-white pro-Spinks high rollers who had made the fight a cynical and almost reluctant sellout in a town where a shrewd promoter like Arum or Don King or even Raoul Duke could sell 5000 tickets to a World Champions.h.i.+p c.o.c.k Fight, told Muhammad Ali all he needed to know at that point in time. The same people who'd been chanting "All-eee! All-eee!" "All-eee! All-eee!" just a few minutes ago, when it looked like The Champ had once again known exactly what he was doing, all along, as Leon looked to be fading badly in the late rounds. . . These just a few minutes ago, when it looked like The Champ had once again known exactly what he was doing, all along, as Leon looked to be fading badly in the late rounds. . . These same people same people were now chanting, as if led by some unseen cheerleader: but they were no longer saying were now chanting, as if led by some unseen cheerleader: but they were no longer saying "All-eee!" "All-eee!"

As it became more and more obvious that Muhammad was just as dead on his feet as Spinks seemed to be, the hall slowly filled with a new sound. It began late in the fourteenth, as I recall, and since I was by that time engulfed in the h.e.l.l-on-earth chaos that had overtaken the fifty or so close friends and Family members in The Champ's corner where people like ex-Heavyweight Champ Jimmy Ellis and Ali's hot-tempered brother, Rachaman had been clawing at the ring ropes and screaming doomed advice at Muhammad ever since Bundini had become sick and collapsed right next to Angelo Dundee in the corner at the end of round number twelve, causing Kilroy and Patterson to start yelling into the mob for a doctor. Patterson, right in front of me, was holding Bundini with one arm and waving at Kilroy with the other. "Drew's had a heart attack," he shouted. "A heart attack."

Ali's corner was a deafening mix of fear, madness and emotional dysfunction at that point, a sea of noise and violence. . .

Total chaos; and then came the eerie roaring chant from the crowd: ". . . LEE-ONN! LEE-ONN LEE-ONN! LEE-ONN!. . ." The chant grew louder and somehow malignant as the fifteenth round staggered on to its obvious end. . . "LEE-ONN! LEE-ONN! LEE-ONN!"

Muhammad Ali had never heard that chant before -- and neither had Leon Spinks. . .

Or me, either.

Or Angelo, or Bundini, or Kilroy, or Conrad, or Pat Patterson -- or Kris Kristofferson either; who was hanging on to Rita Coolidge just a few feet away from me and looking very stricken stricken while the last few seconds ticked off until the bell finally rang and made every one of us in that corner feel, suddenly, very while the last few seconds ticked off until the bell finally rang and made every one of us in that corner feel, suddenly, very old. old.

Billy the Geek Calls New Orleans: Even Odds & Rancid Karma The Ali-Spinks rematch on September 15th will not be dull. The early rumor line has Ali a two to one favorite, but these numbers will not hold up-- or, if they do, Spinks as a two to one underdog will be a very tempting bet, even for me: and anything higher than that will be almost irresistible.

When I arrived in Las Vegas two weeks before the last fight I told Bob Arum that I figured Leon had a twenty percent chance of winning. That translates into four to one odds, which even the nickel-and-dime "experts" said was a bad joke. The fight was considered such a gross mismatch that every bookie in Vegas except one had it "Off the Board," meaning no bets at all, because Ali was such a prohibitive favorite even ten to one was deemed a sure way to lose money. As late as the thirteenth round, in fact, freelance bookies at ringside were still laying eight to one on Muhammad. My friend Semmes Luckett, sitting in one of the $200 seats with a gaggle of high rollers, watched the round-by-round destruction of one poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d who lost at least at least $402,000 in forty-five minutes -- betting on Ali first at ten to one, then down to eight to one after the first six or seven rounds -- then four to one after eleven, and finally all the way down to two to one at the end of thirteen. $402,000 in forty-five minutes -- betting on Ali first at ten to one, then down to eight to one after the first six or seven rounds -- then four to one after eleven, and finally all the way down to two to one at the end of thirteen.

The man was in a blathering rage by the time the fight was over. "I was betting on a G.o.dd.a.m.n legend," he shouted. "I must have been out of my mind."

I have watched the videotape of that fight enough times to risk wondering out loud, at this point, on the subject of what may or may not have been wrong with Ali's right hand in that fight. It was totally ineffective. The jab was still there, even with five or six pounds of flab to slow it down. . . and the right was getting through Leon's guard with a consistency that would have ended the fight in ten or eleven rounds if Muhammad had been able to land it with any power at all. Spinks must have taken twenty-five or thirty right-hand shots from Ali, and I doubt if he felt more than one or two of them.

That was the real key to the fight, and if Ali's right hand is as useless in New Orleans as it was in Las Vegas, Spinks will win by a TKO in eight or nine rounds. Both fighters understand, at this point, that Ali has already tried what he and his handlers felt was the best strategy best strategy for dealing with Leon: that was the time-tested rope-a-dope, which a.s.sumed that a frenzied, undisciplined fighter like Spinks would punch himself out in the early rounds, like George Foreman, and become a tired sitting duck for Ali by the time the bell rang for number ten. for dealing with Leon: that was the time-tested rope-a-dope, which a.s.sumed that a frenzied, undisciplined fighter like Spinks would punch himself out in the early rounds, like George Foreman, and become a tired sitting duck for Ali by the time the bell rang for number ten.

That was a very bad mistake, because Leon did not not punch himself out -- and there is no reason to think he will in the rematch. Which means that Ali will have to fight a very different fight this time: he will have to risk punching punch himself out -- and there is no reason to think he will in the rematch. Which means that Ali will have to fight a very different fight this time: he will have to risk punching himself himself out in the first five or six rounds in what Arum is calling "The Battle of New Orleans," and the odds on his getting away with it are no better than fifty-fifty. And he will have to be in miraculously top shape, even then -- because if he can't come zooming out of his corner at the opening bell and whack Leon off balance real quick, Muhammad will not last ten rounds. out in the first five or six rounds in what Arum is calling "The Battle of New Orleans," and the odds on his getting away with it are no better than fifty-fifty. And he will have to be in miraculously top shape, even then -- because if he can't come zooming out of his corner at the opening bell and whack Leon off balance real quick, Muhammad will not last ten rounds.

If I were a bookie I would make Leon a sixty-forty favorite, which is exactly the same way Bob Arum was seeing it, even before the fight finally found a home in New Orleans.

There are some people in "the Fight Game" who will tell you that Arum doesn't know boxing from badminton -- but not one of them went on the record last time with anything riskier than the idea that Leon "might have a chance."

Bob Arum called it sixty-forty Ali at least six weeks prior to the fight -- which stunned me at first, because I thought my own twenty percent figure was borderline madness, at best.

But Arum stuck with his forty percent bet on Leon, all the way up to the fight. . . and after watching Leon for two weeks in Vegas my own figure went up to thirty or thirty-five percent; or perhaps even forty or forty-five percent on the day of the fight when I heard Arum screaming at Spinks on the house phone at 2:30 in the afternoon, telling him to stop worrying about getting tickets for his friends and get ready to do battle against a man that a lot of people including me still call the best fighter who ever climbed into a ring. . . and if I had known, before the fight, that Leon forced his handlers to get him a steak for lunch at 5:00, I would probably have called the fight even.

That's how The Battle of New Orleans looks to me now: Dead Even -- and if the numbers turn up that way on September 15th, I will bet on Muhammad Ali, for reasons of my own. I hate to lose any bet, bet, but losing on this one would not hurt that much. The last twenty years of my life would have been just a little bit cheaper and duller if Muhammad Ali had not been around to keep me cranked up, and there is no way I could bet against him this time, in what could well be his last fight. I figure I can afford to bet but losing on this one would not hurt that much. The last twenty years of my life would have been just a little bit cheaper and duller if Muhammad Ali had not been around to keep me cranked up, and there is no way I could bet against him this time, in what could well be his last fight. I figure I can afford to bet on on him and lose; that is an acceptable risk. . . But something very deep inside me curdles at the thought of what kind of rancid karma I could bring down on myself if I bet against him, and he him and lose; that is an acceptable risk. . . But something very deep inside me curdles at the thought of what kind of rancid karma I could bring down on myself if I bet against him, and he won. won.

That is not an acceptable risk.

The Roving Tripod, the Experts at the Hilton Bar. . . A Final Adventure in Fish-Wrap Journalism Muhammad Ali has interested a lot of different people for a lot of very different reasons since he became a media superstar and a high-energy national presence almost two decades ago. . . And he has interested me, too, for reasons that ranged from a sort of amused camaraderie in the beginning, to wary admiration, then sympathy & a new level of personal respect, followed by a dip into a different kind of wariness that was more exasperation than admiration. . . and finally into a mix of all these things that never really surfaced and came together until I heard that he'd signed to fight Leon Spinks as a "warmup" for his $16 million swan song against Ken Norton.

This was the point where my interest in Muhammad Ali moved almost subconsciously to a new and higher gear. I had seen all of Leon's fights in the 1976 Montreal Olympics, and I recall being impressed to the point of awe at the way he attacked and destroyed whatever they put in front of him. I had never seen a young young fighter who could get away with planting fighter who could get away with planting both both feet and leaning forward when he hooked with either hand. feet and leaning forward when he hooked with either hand.

Archie Moore was probably the last big big fighter with that rare combination of power, reflexes and high tactical instinct that a boxer fighter with that rare combination of power, reflexes and high tactical instinct that a boxer must must have to get away with risking moments of total commitment even occasionally. . . But Leon did it have to get away with risking moments of total commitment even occasionally. . . But Leon did it constantly, constantly, and in most of his fights that was and in most of his fights that was all all he did. he did.

It was a pure kamikaze kamikaze style: The Roving Tripod, as it were -- with Leon's legs forming two poles of the tripod, and the body of his opponent forming the third. Which is interesting for at least two reasons: 1) There is style: The Roving Tripod, as it were -- with Leon's legs forming two poles of the tripod, and the body of his opponent forming the third. Which is interesting for at least two reasons: 1) There is no tripod no tripod until a punch off that stance connects with the opponent's head or body, so the effect of a miss can range from fatal to unnerving, or at the very least it will cause raised eyebrows and even a faint smile or two among the ringside judges who are scoring the fight. . . and, 2) If the punch connects solidly, then the tripod is formed and an almost preternatural blast of energy is delivered at the point of impact, especially if the hapless target is leaning as far back on the ropes as he can get with his head ducked in and forward in a coverup stance -- like Ali's rope-a-dope. until a punch off that stance connects with the opponent's head or body, so the effect of a miss can range from fatal to unnerving, or at the very least it will cause raised eyebrows and even a faint smile or two among the ringside judges who are scoring the fight. . . and, 2) If the punch connects solidly, then the tripod is formed and an almost preternatural blast of energy is delivered at the point of impact, especially if the hapless target is leaning as far back on the ropes as he can get with his head ducked in and forward in a coverup stance -- like Ali's rope-a-dope.

A boxer who plants both feet and then leans forward to lash out with a hook has his whole weight and also his whole balance and also his whole balance behind it; he cannot pull back at that point, and if he fails to connect he will not only lose points for dumb awkwardness, but he'll plunge his head out front, low and wide open for one of those close-in jackhammer combinations that usually end with a knockdown. behind it; he cannot pull back at that point, and if he fails to connect he will not only lose points for dumb awkwardness, but he'll plunge his head out front, low and wide open for one of those close-in jackhammer combinations that usually end with a knockdown.

That was Leon's style in the Olympics, and it was a terrifying thing to see. All he had to do was catch his opponent with no place to run, then land one or two of those brain-rattling tripod shots in the first round -- and once you get stunned and intimidated like that in the first round of a three-round (Olympic) bout, there is not enough time to recover. . .

. . . or even want want to, for that matter, once you begin to think that this brute they pushed you into the ring with has no reverse gear and would just as soon attack a telephone pole as a human being. to, for that matter, once you begin to think that this brute they pushed you into the ring with has no reverse gear and would just as soon attack a telephone pole as a human being.

Not many fighters can handle that style of all-out a.s.sault without having to back off and devise a new game plan. But there is no time for devising new plans in a three-round fight -- and perhaps not in ten, twelve or fifteen rounds either, because Leon doesn't give you much time to think. He keeps coming, swarming, pounding; and he can land three or four shots from both both directions once he gets braced and leans out to meet that third leg of the tripod. directions once he gets braced and leans out to meet that third leg of the tripod.

On the other hand, those poor geeks that Leon beat silly in the Olympics were amateurs. . . amateurs. . . and we are all a bit poorer for the fact that he was a and we are all a bit poorer for the fact that he was a light-heavyweight light-heavyweight when he won that Gold Medal; because if he'd been a few pounds heavier he would have had to go against the elegant Cuban heavyweight champion, Teofilo Stevenson, who would have beaten him like a gong for all three rounds. when he won that Gold Medal; because if he'd been a few pounds heavier he would have had to go against the elegant Cuban heavyweight champion, Teofilo Stevenson, who would have beaten him like a gong for all three rounds.

But Stevenson, the Olympic heavyweight champ in both 1972 and '76, and the only modern heavyweight with the physical and mental equipment to compete with Muhammad Ali, has insisted for reasons of his own and Fidel Castro's on remaining the "amateur "amateur heavyweight champion of the world," instead of taking that one final leap for the great ring that a fight against Muhammad Ali could have been for him. heavyweight champion of the world," instead of taking that one final leap for the great ring that a fight against Muhammad Ali could have been for him.

Whatever reasons might have led Castro to decide that an Ali-Stevenson match -- sometime in 1973 or '74 after Muhammad had won the hearts and minds of the whole world with his win over George Foreman in Zaire -- was not in the interest of either Cuba, Castro or perhaps even Stevenson himself, will always be clouded in the dark fog of politics and the conviction of people like me that the same low-rent political priorities that heaped a legacy of failure and shame on every other main issue of this generation was also the real reason why the two great heavyweight artists of our time were never allowed in the ring with each other.

This is one of those private opinions of my own that even my friends in the "boxing industry" still dismiss as the flaky gibberish of a half-smart writer who was doing okay with things like drugs, violence and presidential politics, but who couldn't quite cut the mustard in their their world. world.

Boxing.

These were the same people who chuckled indulgently when I said, in Las Vegas, that I'd take every bet I could get on Leon Spinks against Muhammad Ali at ten to one, and with anybody who was seriously into numbers I was ready to haggle all the way down to five to one, or maybe even four. . . but even at eight to one it was somewhere between hard and impossible to get a bet down on Spinks with anybody in Vegas who was even a fifty-fifty bet to pay off in real money.

One of the few consistent traits shared by "experts" in any field is that they will almost never bet money or anything else that might turn up in public on whatever they call their convictions. That is why they are "experts." They have waltzed through that mine field of high-risk commitments that separates politicians from gamblers, and once you've reached that plateau where you can pa.s.s for an expert, the best way to stay there is to hedge all your bets, private and public, so artistically that nothing short of a thing so bizarre that it can pa.s.s for an "act of G.o.d" can damage your high-priced reputation. . .

I remember vividly, for instance, my frustration at Norman Mailer's refusal to bet money on his almost certain conviction that George Foreman was too powerful for Muhammad Ali to cope with in Zaire. . . And I also recall being slapped on the chest by an a.s.sociated Press boxing writer in Las Vegas while we were talking about the fight one afternoon at the casino bar in the Hilton. "Leon Spinks is a dumb midget," dumb midget," he snarled in the teeth of all the other experts who'd gathered on that afternoon to get each other's fix on the fight. "He has about as much chance of winning the heavyweight champions.h.i.+p as he snarled in the teeth of all the other experts who'd gathered on that afternoon to get each other's fix on the fight. "He has about as much chance of winning the heavyweight champions.h.i.+p as this guy." this guy."

"This guy" was me, and the AP writer emphasized his total conviction by giving me a swift backhand to the sternum. . . was me, and the AP writer emphasized his total conviction by giving me a swift backhand to the sternum. . .

I have talked to him since, on this subject, and when I said I planned to quote him absolutely verbatim absolutely verbatim with regard to his prefight wisdom in Vegas, he seemed like a different man and said that if I was going to quote him on his outburst of public stupidity that I should at least be fair enough to explain that he had "been with Muhammad Ali for so long and through so many wild scenes that he with regard to his prefight wisdom in Vegas, he seemed like a different man and said that if I was going to quote him on his outburst of public stupidity that I should at least be fair enough to explain that he had "been with Muhammad Ali for so long and through so many wild scenes that he simply couldn't go against him on this one." simply couldn't go against him on this one."

Well. . . this is my final adventure in fish-wrap journalism and I frankly don't give a f.u.c.k whether or not it makes sense to the readers. . . especially since you chintzy greedheads tried to put a double-page, full-color H----* ad right in the middle of this story. . .

* The name of this manufacturer was deleted at the last minute by the publisher after angry & greedy consultations with the RS advertising department.

Somewhere in my files I have a letter from Honda's U.S. ad agency that says they would just as soon avoid any image identification with R ROLLING S STONE. . . and those lame/tin b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have heaped enough abuse on me over the years to make me wonder what kind of mentality we're dealing with if they've come so far around the bend that they now want to put a gigantic Honda ad right in the middle of and those lame/tin b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have heaped enough abuse on me over the years to make me wonder what kind of mentality we're dealing with if they've come so far around the bend that they now want to put a gigantic Honda ad right in the middle of my my article. article.

f.u.c.k those people. I wouldn't ride a Honda to Richard Nixon's funeral. . . and in fact the last person I knew who owned a Honda was Ron Ziegler; that was down in San Clemente, just before The Resignation, and I recall that Ron was eager to lend the thing to me, for reasons I never quite understood. . . but I remember a c.o.c.ktail party down at Nixon's house, crazed on mescaline and bending the casual elbow with Ron, Henry Kissinger, General Haig and others of that stripe, who were all very friendly at that point in time. Even to me. . . Annie Leibovitz was there and I was negotiating with Ziegler about trading me his Honda for my Z-Datsun for a few days, while Ziegler's deputy, Gerald Warren, was laughing with Annie about how Kissinger thought I was "an Air Force Colonel in mufti. . ."

"Tell him he's right," I whispered to Annie. "Then let's trade for Ziegler's bike and run it straight off the Laguna Beach pier tomorrow morning. I'll take the b.u.g.g.e.r out over the water at top speed while you get a few good shots, then I'll get off in midair before it hits. . . Right, and we'll give Ron an autographed photo from 'The Colonel.' "

Whoops. . . here we go again, drifting back to the good old days, when men were men and fun was fun and a well-mannered Air Force Doctor could still have c.o.c.ktails with the President without causing a scandal.

That was "before the circus left town," as d.i.c.k Goodwin put it so starkly as we sat in a Was.h.i.+ngton peg-house on the day of Nixon's resignation. . . And, indeed, everything since then has been downhill. Hamilton Jordan is too fat to ride a motorcycle and Jody Powell is too slow.

Jesus! How low have we sunk! Was Ron Ziegler the last free spirit in the White House? Jimmy's sister, Gloria, rides a big Honda -- but they won't let her north of Chattanooga and the rest of the family is laying low, working feverishly on a formula to convert peanuts into Swiss francs.

Ah. . . mother of raving G.o.d! What are we into? How did we get down in this hole! And how can we get out?

Or -- more on the point -- how can this cross-eyed story be salvaged, now that I've spent a whole night babbling about Ron Ziegler and Hondas and that crowd of flabby clubfoots in the White House?

What about the rest of the story? What about serious journalism? And decency. . . decency. . . And truth? and Beauty. . . the Eternal Verities. . . and Law Day in Georgia? Yes, that's almost on us again, and this time they want And truth? and Beauty. . . the Eternal Verities. . . and Law Day in Georgia? Yes, that's almost on us again, and this time they want me me to deliver the main address. Why not? to deliver the main address. Why not?

For $100,000 I'll do anything, anything, just as long as the cash comes up front. . . What? Ye G.o.ds! What have I said? Should we just as long as the cash comes up front. . . What? Ye G.o.ds! What have I said? Should we cut cut that last outburst? Or maybe just print the b.u.g.g.e.r and get braced for a Spinks-like a.s.sault from the Secret Service? that last outburst? Or maybe just print the b.u.g.g.e.r and get braced for a Spinks-like a.s.sault from the Secret Service?

No, this s.h.i.+t can't go on. . . it could get me in serious trouble. . . And what a tragedy it would be if I got locked up now, now, after ten years of abusing the White House for what were always good reasons. Ziegler said it was because I was crazy and Kissinger thought I was some kind of rogue Air Force Colonel: but my old friend Pat Buchanan called it "a character defect". . . which may or may not have been true; but if calling Richard Nixon a liar and a thief was evidence of a "character defect," what in the h.e.l.l kind of defect, disease or even brain damage would cause a man to spend ten years of his life writing angry, self-righteous speeches for Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew? after ten years of abusing the White House for what were always good reasons. Ziegler said it was because I was crazy and Kissinger thought I was some kind of rogue Air Force Colonel: but my old friend Pat Buchanan called it "a character defect". . . which may or may not have been true; but if calling Richard Nixon a liar and a thief was evidence of a "character defect," what in the h.e.l.l kind of defect, disease or even brain damage would cause a man to spend ten years of his life writing angry, self-righteous speeches for Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew?

"No Vietcong Ever Called Me 'n.i.g.g.e.r.' "

Muhammad Ali said that, back in 1967, and he almost went to prison for it -- which says all that needs to be said right now about justice & gibberish in the White House.

Some people write their novels and others roll high enough to live them and some fools try to do both -- but Ali can barely read, much less write, so he came to that fork in the road a long time ago and he had the rare instinct to find that one seam in the defense that let him opt for a third choice: he would get rid of words altogether and live his own movie.

A brown Jay Gatsby -- not black and with a head that would never be white: he moved from the very beginning with the same instinct that drove Gatsby -- an endless fascination with that green light at the end of the pier. He had s.h.i.+rts for Daisy, magic leverage for Wolfsheim, a delicate and dangerously vulnerable Ali-Gatsby shuffle for Tom Buchanan and no answers at all for Nick Carraway, the word junkie.

There are two kinds of counter punchers in this world: one learns early to live by his reactions and quick reflexes, and the other -- the one with a taste for high rolling -- has the instinct to make an aggressor's art of what is essentially the defensive, survivor's style of the Counter Puncher.

Muhammad Ali decided one day a long time ago, not long after his twenty-first birthday that he was not only going to be King of the World on his own turf, on his own turf, but Crown Prince on but Crown Prince on everybody else's. . . everybody else's. . .

Which is very, very High High Thinking -- even if you can't pull it off. Most people can't handle the action on whatever they chose or have to call their own turf; and the few who can usually have better sense than to push their luck any further. Thinking -- even if you can't pull it off. Most people can't handle the action on whatever they chose or have to call their own turf; and the few who can usually have better sense than to push their luck any further.

That was always the difference between Muhammad Ali and the rest of us. He came, he saw, and if he didn't entirely conquer -- he came as close as anybody we are likely to see in the lifetime of this doomed generation.

Res Ipsa Loquitor.

Rolling Stone, #265, May 18, 1978 #265, May 18, 1978 Bibliography of Works by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, by Kihm Wins.h.i.+p * NO is used below as an abbreviation for is used below as an abbreviation for National Observer. National Observer.

"Renfro Valley" Chicago (Sunday) Tribune; February 18,1962 " 'Leary Optimism' at Home for Kennedy Visitor," National Observer, National Observer, June 24, 1962, p. 11. On President Valencia of Colombia. June 24, 1962, p. 11. On President Valencia of Colombia.

"n.o.body Is Neutral Under Aruba's Hot Sun," NO, NO, July 16, 1962, p. 14. Bar chat and politics in Aruba, with photo of Thompson on the beach. "The author, Hunter S. Thompson, is a free lance writer reporting for the July 16, 1962, p. 14. Bar chat and politics in Aruba, with photo of Thompson on the beach. "The author, Hunter S. Thompson, is a free lance writer reporting for the National Observer National Observer during a lengthy tour of S. America." during a lengthy tour of S. America."

"A Footloose American in a Smugglers' Den," NO, NO, August 6, 1962, p. 13. Smuggling from Aruba to Colombia, with photos by Thompson. August 6, 1962, p. 13. Smuggling from Aruba to Colombia, with photos by Thompson.

"Democracy Dies in Peru, But Few Seem to Mourn Its Pa.s.sing," NO, NO, August 27,1962, p. 16. Aftermath of Peruvian election and subsequent coup, with photos by Thompson. August 27,1962, p. 16. Aftermath of Peruvian election and subsequent coup, with photos by Thompson.

"How Democracy is Nudged Ahead in Equador," NO, NO, September 17, 1962, p. 13. Role of U.S.I.S. in Equador. September 17, 1962, p. 13. Role of U.S.I.S. in Equador.

"Ballots in Brazil Will Measure the Allure of Leftist Nationalism," NO, NO, October 1, 1962, p. 4. Upcoming elections in Brazil. October 1, 1962, p. 4. Upcoming elections in Brazil.

"Operation Triangular: Bolivia's Fate Rides With It," NO, NO, October 15, 1962, p. 13. Tin mining, strikes, etc. October 15, 1962, p. 13. Tin mining, strikes, etc.

"Uruguay Goes to Polls, With Economy Sagging," NO, NO, November 19, 1962, p. 14. Politics and economy in Uruguay. November 19, 1962, p. 14. Politics and economy in Uruguay.

"Chatty Letters During a Journey from Aruba to Rio," NO, NO, December 31,1962, p. 14. Samples of correspondence between Thompson and his editor, with photo of Thompson. December 31,1962, p. 14. Samples of correspondence between Thompson and his editor, with photo of Thompson.

"Troubled Brazil Holds Key Vote," NO, NO, January 7, 1963, p. 1, 10. January 7, 1963, p. 1, 10.

"It's a Dictators.h.i.+p, but Few Seem to Care Enough to Stay and Fight," NO, NO, January 28,1963, p. 17. Paraguay's upcoming election and current situation. January 28,1963, p. 17. Paraguay's upcoming election and current situation.

"Brazilian Soldiers Stage a Raid in Revenge," NO, NO, February 11, 1963, p. 13. Army soldiers destroy a clip-joint after some difficulties the week before. "Hunter S. Thompson, author of this account, is a February 11, 1963, p. 13. Army soldiers destroy a clip-joint after some difficulties the week before. "Hunter S. Thompson, author of this account, is a National Observer National Observer special correspondent." special correspondent."

"Leftist Trend and Empty Treasury Plague the Latin American Giant," NO, March 11, 1963, p. 11. Economic conditions in Brazil after election.

"A Never-Never Land High Above the Sea," NO, NO, April 15, 1963, p. 11. Bolivia's political and economic problems. April 15, 1963, p. 11. Bolivia's political and economic problems.

"Election Watched as Barometer of Continent's Anti-Democratic Trend," NO, NO, May 20,1963, p. 12. Election in Peru. May 20,1963, p. 12. Election in Peru.

"A Time for Sittin', Listenin', and Reverie," NO, NO, June 3, 1963, p. 16 National Folk Festival in Covington, Ky. A contrast in the music and the following morning's newspapers. June 3, 1963, p. 16 National Folk Festival in Covington, Ky. A contrast in the music and the following morning's newspapers.

"He Haunts the Ruins of His Once-Great Empire," NO, NO, June 10, 1963, p. 13. Plight of the Inca Indians in Cuzco, Peru. June 10, 1963, p. 13. Plight of the Inca Indians in Cuzco, Peru.