The tragic story of the great Sonny Liston and his bare gravestone – a man unloved until the end

Before the Formula One caravan arrived in Las Vegas last week, I took a taxi a few miles down East Flamingo Road, away from the Strip and its neon lights, into the suburb that was called Paradise Township in 1966, when Sonny Liston bought the house 2058 Ottawa Drive.

Liston’s career was already in decline at this point, following consecutive losses to Muhammad Ali in 1964 and 1965 in Lewiston, Maine, where many believe he took a leap. Most days he walked or biked about a mile through the quiet, affluent streets to where Joe Louis lived at 3333 Seminole Circle.

The two men sat on the floor of Louis’ bedroom playing dice for hours. Louis, once revered as the Brown Bomber, was long retired by this point and would soon be working as a greeter at the newly opened Caesar’s Palace. He was the closest thing to a hero that the much younger Liston had.

Louis was one of the great American heroes of the 20th century, a fighter who brought joy and escape to Americans during the Depression of the 1930s and who enlisted in the Army during World War II. More than sixty million of his compatriots watched his rematch with Max Schmeling at Yankee Stadium in 1938.

However, by the time he started spending time with Liston, Louis had already become addicted to heroin and cocaine. Nick Tosches’ brilliant book about Liston, Night Train, quotes a mutual friend of the two fighters as saying that Louis was a degenerate bastard, “an alchemist who turns money into shit.” Soon Liston began to falter too.

Sonny Liston was living in Las Vegas in 1966 when he bought the house at 2058 Ottawa Drive

Joe Louis (right), once revered as the Brown Bomber, was the closest thing to a hero that the much younger Liston (left) had

Liston (on the ground) was the subject of one of the most famous sports pictures of all time after he was knocked out by Muhammad Ali (above).

I was standing in front of the house on Seminole Circle, a flat cul-de-sac off East Desert Inn Road, for a few minutes, trying to recognize the house number and thinking it looked so dilapidated that it might have fallen into disrepair, when I heard a voice and turned around to see an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman marching towards me.

Her tone was uncompromising. She wanted to know what I was doing there. I told her I was interested in the history of great fighters who had lived in Vegas. That didn’t appease her. She said there had been break-ins at the old Louis house. I told her I didn’t plan on breaking in.

That didn’t appease her either. Quite the opposite. She said there have been problems with squatters. The house had been damaged by fire. She said she was on the phone when she saw me standing outside. “The police are coming,” she said. “And there will be people with guns coming too. Just so you know.”

I wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth or not, but I didn’t wait to find out. I walked toward Ottawa Drive, down the quiet side streets that Liston would have walked, until I came to the modest house that borders the 16th fairway of what is now the Las Vegas Country Club, the house where Liston lived and died.

An olive tree, a symbol of peace, dominates the small front yard, a few freshly planted oleanders guard the steps leading to the home’s modest facade, and a stack of bricks lies in front of the ocher garage doors. A real estate agent website suggests the home is for sale. Not that his story would help him.

America loved Joe Louis, but it didn’t love Sonny Liston. It was afraid of him and for a while, before the Ali fights, it was in awe of him. He was such a formidable fighter, his style so brutal and overwhelming, that most considered him invincible. He was described as a monster.

He won the world title by defeating Floyd Patterson in Chicago in 1962, knocking him out two minutes into the first round. Sports Illustrated writer Gilbert Rogin noted that “the final left hook slammed into Patterson’s cheek like a diesel car going downhill with no brakes.”

Louis was there for that fight. “Nobody will beat Liston except age,” he said. Liston, who had emerged from a childhood of rural poverty in Arkansas, whose birthplace, date of birth and age of death remained unknown and the subject of persistent rumors that he was controlled by the Mafia, was feared and despised by white America.

America loved Joe Louis, but it didn’t love Sonny Liston – it was afraid and in awe of him

Liston (right) won the world heavyweight title by defeating Floyd Patterson in Chicago in 1962

Liston, about whom there were persistent rumors that he was controlled by the mafia

When Liston’s wife Geraldine (left) returned home from a week-long trip in January 1971, she found his decomposing body in the bedroom of the house on Ottawa Drive

The American poet Amiri Baraka called him “the big black Negro in every white man’s hallway, waiting to finish him off.”

This was still a time when white America required black athletes to play by its rules – Louis was told he could never be photographed with a white woman – and Liston was treated with open hostility by press and public alike and only barely disguised racism.

He had bad company in Las Vegas, which is easy to do. When his wife returned home from a week-long trip in January 1971, she found his decomposing body in the bedroom of the house on Ottawa Drive. The coroner’s report was inconclusive. Some said he died of a heroin overdose. Most believed he was murdered by the mob. He was 38 years old, the documents say.

I took another taxi ride a few miles south to the Paradise Memorial Gardens, where the planes fly low over the cemetery as they land at the airport and the strip stands out against the mountains beyond. You have to work hard to find Liston’s gravestone.

It’s in a section not far from the entrance, not far from a row of children’s graves decorated with toy trucks and a Captain America and rubber ducks that were left there on the Day of the Dead a few weeks earlier.

Liston’s grave is bare and the inscription is short. It bears his name and the year of his birth and death. And then two words, and only two words: “A MAN.”

Liston’s grave is bare and the inscription is short. It bears his name and the year of his birth and death. And then two words, and only two words: “A MAN.”

Clippers ownership limits executives’ experiences

Former Microsoft CEO Steve Ballmer, the owner of NBA team LA Clippers, is building a new arena for the franchise so they no longer have to share space with the LA Lakers. Scheduled to open next fall, the Intuit Dome is based on the revolutionary idea of ​​encouraging fans to watch the game.

Ballmer, who hates the idea that sports should be an afterthought at a game where people spend their time in the hospitality area or staring at their phones, has limited the number of executive boxes in the new arena and needed convincing , also allowing this a television screen.

He wants to create an atmosphere in which fans are once again active, vocal participants in games, rather than just semi-engaged spectators too concerned with posting on social media to adequately support the team.

If there’s anything to help hinder the way so many fans seem to have to cancel their experience of watching sporting events by holding up their cell phones rather than watching the game with their own eyes, then Ballmer has basketball rendered an invaluable service.

Former Microsoft CEO Steve Ballmer, the owner of NBA team LA Clippers, is building a new arena for the franchise

Mayweather’s nickname gift

Boxing is full of grandiose and catchy nicknames, but I discovered a new favorite when I went to the Top Rank show at the T-Mobile Arena in Las Vegas on Thursday night.

Bantamweight Floyd “Cashflow” Diaz pushed his record to 10 wins in his first 10 fights with a split decision win, presumably ensuring that cash flow won’t be disrupted. I asked him how he got the nickname.

“Floyd Mayweather gave it to me,” he said. It shows.