At the first exchange, Liston knocked his new sparring partner down with a body shot. It didn’t look like much of a punch but the pain was very real. The boxer writhed about the canvas in agony. In the end he could not continue. Disgusted, and out of sparring partners, Liston climbed out of the ring and began banging the heavy bag. This went on for three timed rounds.

As the workout ran down, Liston gave a rope-skipping exhibition on the solid maple floor of the depression-era dance hall. The record player continued to blare “Nighttrain” as Kid Dynamite looked about the sparse crowd. Most of them were reporters jotting notes on press pads. Kid Dynamite heard one of the trainers tell a Life magazine reporter that during training Liston ate nothing but rare steak, carrot juice, goat’s milk, and vegetables. He said Sonny Liston was the only private citizen in America to own a carrot juicer.

Kid Dynamite was amazed at Liston’s speed and by the compactness and economy of his movements. After watching so many amateur fighters, this look at a professional heavyweight left him awestruck. Liston had a left jab that would decapitate anyone with less than a seventeen-inch neck. His display on the big bag was frightening, was light-years beyond what Kid Dynamite imagined possible. Vic gave him a nudge and said, “Bet the farm on this man. Patterson is dead.”

Liston had surprisingly fast legs and was doing double crossovers with the skip rope. Kid Dynamite looked at the fighter’s feet, and when he looked back at Liston’s face, he discovered Liston’s baleful stare was locked in on him. Charles “Sonny” Liston was the most frightening person Kid Dynamite had ever seen, and at this moment Charles did not seem very happy. He met Liston’s gaze but found it almost impossible to sustain eye contact. Soon it became an exercise in the control of fear. Sonny Liston gave Kid Dynamite the slightest hint of a smile and winked. Vic nudged Kid Dynamite again, and leaned over, whispering, “Your eyes. He’s looking at your eyes.”

Kid Dynamite had forgotten about his black eyes. Vic laughed and said, “I almost shit in my pants before I figured it out. That is one mean nigger.”

As soon as the workout concluded, a handler tossed Sonny Liston a towel. He mopped off his face, which was glistening with Vaseline and crystal droplets of sweat. Another handler helped him into a terry-cloth robe. The towel man cut off Liston’s bandages. His hands were like hams. On his way to the shower, Liston stopped just short of Kid Dynamite to sign a few autographs. He paused briefly to talk with sports writers and then looked back at Kid Dynamite. He said, “What are you, kid, a lightweight?”

Kid Dynamite jumped back as if he had been shot with a forty-five. His voice squeaked. “No sir, I’m a welterweight.”