Patterson told Goldman to ask Cus D’Amato, who was cautiously bringing Floyd along, not rushing him to spar fighters substantially better than he. D’Amato, to Patterson’s surprise, gave the OK. Early in the first round, Harrison unloaded twelve unanswered jabs, most landing in spite of Patterson’s bobbing and weaving. Those blows hurt Floyd, even though Harrison wore padded sparring gloves. In all his amateur career, even fighting for the championships of the AAU and the Olympics, Floyd never encountered punches as hard as these. It was a brutal introduction to just what Floyd could expect as a pro. The eyes of the Stillman’s cognoscenti locked onto Patterson as he took those heavy shots — Would the kid collapse? Patterson knew he had to do something. He timed Harrison’s next big jab. When it arrived, Patterson threw a stiff right cross above it, tagging Harrison in the face. The experienced pro staggered. After that, Floyd pursued Harrison, firing combinations that Harrison struggled to ward off. The men in the folding chairs nodded their approval, happy with how Floyd had overcome adversity, transforming it into an advantage.
A buzz began to spread around New York about D’Amato’s up-and-comer, a kid who someday soon just might be good enough to put in the ring with the likes of Sugar Ray Robinson.
There were plenty of questions about his manager, however, the most eccentric man in the New York fight community. He was a weirdo, someone who read too many books, someone who believed in flying saucers and welcomed visitors from another planet, someone who never smoked or drank — the latter all but unheard of in the world of professional boxing.
And there was more. For reasons no one could quite understand, D’Amato refused to play ball with the men who ran professional boxing. It seemed as if he bore a vendetta against something, but just what that something was left boxing insiders scratching their heads. It also seemed as if he were preparing for a war of some kind. He lived in his gym, sleeping in a small room to the left of the boxing ring, a baseball bat within easy reach, a gun or two hidden away, his fierce dog curled up on the floor next to him. He never rode subways, fearing enemies could push him onto the tracks as he waited for a train. But he was plotting to become the most powerful force in professional boxing.
(by W.K. Stratton)
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*A couple of years later in 1954, 15 fights into his professional career, and now weighing 169lbs, Patterson TKO'd Tommy Harrison in 89 seconds of the first round of their fight in Brooklyn. The fight report is testament to Patterson's nature as a boxer -
"Patterson staggered Harrison against the ropes, floored him with a clean flurry for "four" and the mandatory eight-count, and floored him a second time with a left-right combination to the head that sent Harrison down flat on his back. Harrison barely made the count of ten. But he lurched helplessly around the ring with his arms down. Referee Conn appeared contented to let the bout continue but Patterson refused to attack and implored him to step in."
