Read Online The Devil and Sonny Liston by Nick Tosches - Free Book Online
Authors: Nick Tosches
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Harrison, a thirty two year old former boxer who had become a coach and trainer.
Harrison went to Jefferson City in late February 1951 , in the company of his partner and fello w trainer, William (Tony) Anders on , who ran a gym with Harrison on Olive Street. They brought with them thirty two year old Thurman Wilson, considered to be the best heavyweight fighter in St. Louis.
At this time, Sonny's trainer in prison was a fellow inmate, Sam Eveland , a young 1950 Golden Gloves champion who had been sent from Algoa to Jefferson City for aiding the attempted escape of two fellow prisoners.
"I was in the pen with Sonny," Sam told me. "I had just won the Golden Gloves in Kansas City. They gave him to me to teach him how to box, and I was his coach in the pen.''
"There was a bunch of trainers in there," Sam told me , "but none of them was ever a champ. They was just guys helping out." Father Stevens "didn't know nothing about boxing." One of those "guys helping out" was an inmate named Joe Gonzalez, who claimed to have given Liston the ring name of Sonny Boy. Sam himself believes that Liston got his nickname from " his grandma." He is not alone in believing that the nickname dated to childhood. George Morledge, Jr., said that Liston was known as Sonny back on the plantation.
Eveland remembered Harrison and Anderson coming to the joint. They were " short heavyset black people. Good people. " And he remembered Liston's fight with Thurman Wilson. "Sonny destroyed him. I mean, there was no contest."
Wilson is said to have gone two rounds with Sonny, then called it quits with the words " I don't want no more of him."
When I asked David Herleth, the cop who busted Liston, to describe him, he thought awhile, his words wandered, and then, plainly and firmly he answered: " Big overgrown kid." Father Alois Stevens had described him as " big but very much a boy, just barely dry behind the ears."
I asked Sam Eveland what Sonny was like back then. Was he a good guy?
"He wasn't a guy." Sam said affectionately. There was a hard edged sort of sympathy in his voice. "He was a kid. Yeah, he was an anima l, all right. He was still a kid, though. A good kid. He had a good heart."
And, as fighters go?
"Nobody could beat Sonny," he said , "and they knew that." From between two pages of a tattered scrapbook, Sam handed me an old Christmas card from Sonny, the three-cent stamp on its e nvelope postmarked Philadelphia, December 8, 1961. He showed me a note from around that same time: Sonny had learned to write his name longhand, and the note opened to reveal one of his first autographs, which he wanted Sam to have.
"Yeah, poor Sonny," Sam said, at the end of a long talk. "Poor kid."
Monsignor McGuire remembered Liston much as Father Schlattmann had: "an enormous man," but a basically good and kind and simple man - simple, he added, "in the best sense of the word." But he also echoed the epitaph of Sam Eveland's description: "the poor man," said the good monsignor with an elliptical sigh: "the poor man."
On the night of February 22, 1951, Muncey Harrison rushed grinning into Burnes's office at the Globe-Democrat . "He was breathless," Burnes wrote many years later.
"You finally found me a live one," Harrison told him.
It was Burnes's hope that his friend Muncey Harrison would become Liston's manager, but his friend knew that he could not do it alone.
Monroe Harrison was respected well and widely as a trainer. He had been Joe Louis's favorite sparring partner, and he had trained Archie Moore, who learned from Harrison the "shell style," or "turtle defense," that became his greatest fighting maneuver. But his career brought him less money than satisfaction, and he worked as a school custodian to make ends meet. Harrison knew that he lacked the capital to manage alone a fighter of Liston's astounding potential.
He turned to Frank W Mitchell, the forty-five-year-old pub lishing heir of the St. Louis Argus , which was founded in 1912 and was the
Harrison went to Jefferson City in late February 1951 , in the company of his partner and fello w trainer, William (Tony) Anders on , who ran a gym with Harrison on Olive Street. They brought with them thirty two year old Thurman Wilson, considered to be the best heavyweight fighter in St. Louis.
At this time, Sonny's trainer in prison was a fellow inmate, Sam Eveland , a young 1950 Golden Gloves champion who had been sent from Algoa to Jefferson City for aiding the attempted escape of two fellow prisoners.
"I was in the pen with Sonny," Sam told me. "I had just won the Golden Gloves in Kansas City. They gave him to me to teach him how to box, and I was his coach in the pen.''
"There was a bunch of trainers in there," Sam told me , "but none of them was ever a champ. They was just guys helping out." Father Stevens "didn't know nothing about boxing." One of those "guys helping out" was an inmate named Joe Gonzalez, who claimed to have given Liston the ring name of Sonny Boy. Sam himself believes that Liston got his nickname from " his grandma." He is not alone in believing that the nickname dated to childhood. George Morledge, Jr., said that Liston was known as Sonny back on the plantation.
Eveland remembered Harrison and Anderson coming to the joint. They were " short heavyset black people. Good people. " And he remembered Liston's fight with Thurman Wilson. "Sonny destroyed him. I mean, there was no contest."
Wilson is said to have gone two rounds with Sonny, then called it quits with the words " I don't want no more of him."
When I asked David Herleth, the cop who busted Liston, to describe him, he thought awhile, his words wandered, and then, plainly and firmly he answered: " Big overgrown kid." Father Alois Stevens had described him as " big but very much a boy, just barely dry behind the ears."
I asked Sam Eveland what Sonny was like back then. Was he a good guy?
"He wasn't a guy." Sam said affectionately. There was a hard edged sort of sympathy in his voice. "He was a kid. Yeah, he was an anima l, all right. He was still a kid, though. A good kid. He had a good heart."
And, as fighters go?
"Nobody could beat Sonny," he said , "and they knew that." From between two pages of a tattered scrapbook, Sam handed me an old Christmas card from Sonny, the three-cent stamp on its e nvelope postmarked Philadelphia, December 8, 1961. He showed me a note from around that same time: Sonny had learned to write his name longhand, and the note opened to reveal one of his first autographs, which he wanted Sam to have.
"Yeah, poor Sonny," Sam said, at the end of a long talk. "Poor kid."
Monsignor McGuire remembered Liston much as Father Schlattmann had: "an enormous man," but a basically good and kind and simple man - simple, he added, "in the best sense of the word." But he also echoed the epitaph of Sam Eveland's description: "the poor man," said the good monsignor with an elliptical sigh: "the poor man."
On the night of February 22, 1951, Muncey Harrison rushed grinning into Burnes's office at the Globe-Democrat . "He was breathless," Burnes wrote many years later.
"You finally found me a live one," Harrison told him.
It was Burnes's hope that his friend Muncey Harrison would become Liston's manager, but his friend knew that he could not do it alone.
Monroe Harrison was respected well and widely as a trainer. He had been Joe Louis's favorite sparring partner, and he had trained Archie Moore, who learned from Harrison the "shell style," or "turtle defense," that became his greatest fighting maneuver. But his career brought him less money than satisfaction, and he worked as a school custodian to make ends meet. Harrison knew that he lacked the capital to manage alone a fighter of Liston's astounding potential.
He turned to Frank W Mitchell, the forty-five-year-old pub lishing heir of the St. Louis Argus , which was founded in 1912 and was the
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