It was a damn good thing they held the fight (?) in Lewiston, Me. If it had been in the Garden the fans would have ripped the place apart, seat by seat. As it was, the bewildered thousands who watched on four large television screens as the Big Bear kamikazed to the canvas were screaming fix before Jersey Joe could raise Muhamimad All's "thunderous" right hand.

"Like a crappysubmarine, like a crappy sub, watta dive," a hulking 200 pounder muttered over and over in the second balcony. "Five lousy dollars, for the worst fiasco since the first Patterson job. He never even touched him. Watta put-up."

While the danse macabre was replayed in slow motion on video tape, the baffled Boston fans could only mutter they'd been had. The buddy of Mr. 200 suspected it would happen: "When they ran out of Bud an hour before the fight, I knew it was all over. A sign, that's what it was, a sign." No one could believe that the ugly Liston had been felled by a love tap.

As Mr. 200 suffled out of the second balcony, he stopped to watch a crap game that had started in a dark corner, by the men's urinal. He pondered for a moment, and grunted, "Loaded dice." That seemed to be the concensus.