On the evening of May 25, 1965, beneath the flickering lights of a modest hockey rink in Lewiston, Maine, an unexpected twist of history unfolded. The Central Maine Youth Center, a humble arena that usually echoed with the slap of pucks and the scrape of skates, played host to a spectacle that seemed so far removed from its pine-scented surroundings it might as well have been dropped there from another planet. That night, the heavyweight championship of the world was contested between Muhammad Ali and Sonny Liston, a rematch of one of the most controversial bouts in boxing history. And Lewiston, a quiet mill town in the far reaches of New England, suddenly found itself the center of global attention.
The story of how this tiny town came to host such a colossal event reads like something out of a novel. The rematch had initially been scheduled for Boston Garden, but just weeks before the bout, authorities pulled the plug. Massachusetts officials, deeply uneasy about the influence of organized crime in boxing, had begun investigating the fight and didn't like what they found. They cited concerns over the mob, possible violence, and security risks. The promoters were left scrambling. They needed a new location, one that could host the fight quickly and quietly, with minimal red tape. And, almost inexplicably, they found it in Lewiston.
Lewiston in 1965 was a fading mill town. Its textile industry, once the economic heart of the region, was in decline. Downtown storefronts were starting to empty. Young people were leaving. It was not the kind of place where the world heavyweight championship dropped in unannounced. But it had something other cities did not: Sam Michael, a local boxing promoter, businessman, and tireless self-promoter. Michael seized the opportunity. When he got wind that the fight was looking for a new home, he offered up the Central Maine Youth Center. The building held just over 5,000 people. It was not glamorous. It did not have luxury boxes or press lounges. It had hockey boards and bleachers. But it was available, and more importantly, it was in a state that would say yes.
Within days, Maine’s Republican Governor John Reed gave his approval. Local officials, no doubt dazzled by the attention, greenlit the event. Reporters and television crews began descending on the town. There were murmurs of disbelief. People in Lewiston couldn’t quite understand how their quiet corner of the world had become a magnet for sportswriters, celebrities, and suspicious men in dark coats who spoke in low voices and traveled with briefcases. The contrast was stark. Lewiston had barely seen a professional sports event, let alone something of this magnitude. And here was Muhammad Ali, already one of the most electrifying figures in America, coming to fight under the bare rafters of a hockey arena across the street from a grocery store.
Ali himself was only 23 years old at the time but already well on his way to becoming a global icon. He had shocked the world by defeating Liston in their first bout the year before. That fight had also ended in mystery. Liston, a bruising former champion with mob connections and a fearsome reputation, had quit on his stool after six rounds, claiming a shoulder injury. Many suspected he had thrown the fight. The rematch was supposed to be a chance for redemption or at least resolution. Instead, it would only deepen the confusion, adding another layer of mystery to the already enigmatic event.
In the lead-up to the fight, the atmosphere in Lewiston was strange and tense. Security was tight. Local police, unused to events of this scale, were bolstered by state troopers and private guards. Every spectator entering the arena was frisked. There were rumors that the Nation of Islam might be targeting Ali. There were counter-rumors that Liston’s associates had made threats of their own. The media, sensing the tension, descended in force. There were over 200 reporters in attendance, nearly one for every 20 people in the crowd. Howard Cosell was there. So was Norman Mailer. There were more journalists in Lewiston that night than had covered the Normandy landings, or so the local legend goes.
The fight itself was over almost before it began. A minute and 44 seconds into the first round, Ali threw a short right hand that struck Liston on the side of the head. Liston collapsed onto his back. What happened next was a scene of chaos that remains one of the great mysteries in the history of sports. Ali, instead of going to a neutral corner, hovered over Liston, shouting at him to get up. The referee, Jersey Joe Walcott, was caught between enforcing the rules and trying to separate the fighters. Liston rolled over, struggled to his feet, then went down again. The entire scene was chaotic. The count was inconsistent. At one point, Walcott looked to the timekeeper and Ring Magazine’s Nat Fleischer for clarification. After nearly two minutes of confusion, Walcott declared the fight over. Ali had won. The phantom punch, as it came to be known, had settled the rematch in less time than it took most people to find their seats.
For years afterward, people would argue about whether the punch was real. Theories abounded. Some believed Liston dived, possibly under orders from mob associates. Others claimed he had been caught off guard, never seeing the punch coming. Ali insisted the blow was real and that Liston had fallen because of its speed and precision. The truth may lie somewhere in between. The film footage shows a quick but seemingly glancing punch. Liston fell awkwardly. But there was no doubt that Ali believed he had won fairly. The image of him standing over Liston, snarling and pointing, became one of the most iconic sports photographs of all time.
That moment, frozen forever in Neil Leifer’s camera lens, has since adorned posters, T-shirts, murals, and magazine covers. It is Ali in full command of his myth, young and brash and victorious, standing in a ring surrounded by smoke and confusion. Behind him, Maine state troopers lean against the ropes. The crowd looks stunned. It is as if the entire world was caught off guard. And it was.
After the fight, the town quickly settled back into its usual rhythm. The reporters left. The television crews packed up. The ring was disassembled. Within days, the Central Maine Youth Center resumed hosting high school hockey games and community events. But the memory lingered. For years, people in Lewiston would tell stories about the night Ali came to town. There were rumors of payoffs, of mobsters in the audience, of fixed results. There were ticket stubs passed down like relics. For many, it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened there.
Ali would go on to become the most famous athlete in the world. He fought in the Rumble in the Jungle, the Thrilla in Manila, and a dozen other bouts etched in the annals of boxing. But for all his triumphs, the Lewiston fight remained singular, not for its quality or competitiveness, but for its oddness. It was the night the heavyweight championship came to a place that seemed utterly disconnected from the world of international sports. It was a spectacle that lived on not because of what happened in the ring, but because of where it happened, how quickly it ended, and how unforgettable the scene became.
Decades later, when Ali returned to Lewiston in 1995 for a commemorative visit, the city greeted him like a returning king. By then, he had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. His hands shook, and his voice was faint. But the power of his presence had not faded. He visited the arena. He met with locals. He posed for photos beside the ring where he had once stood in triumph. There was a quiet reverence in the air, an acknowledgment that, despite the strange twists and unresolved questions, the fight had marked something meaningful for the town. It was their moment in the spotlight, their brush with legend.
Even today, the ghost of that night hangs over Lewiston. There is now a statue of Ali, installed downtown in 2025, immortalizing the moment when he stood over Liston. It serves as a reminder that history can unfold anywhere. That even the most unexpected places can become stages for greatness. And that once, for a fleeting moment, a quiet corner of Maine became the center of the world.
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