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First Impressions is an occasional memory loop by Robert Lipsyte as he looks back at hall-of-fame subjects who left indelible prints on his soul as well as in his notebook. Robert Lipsyte is a long-time journalist whose career took him to the New York Times, CBS, NBC and PBS. He kicks off First Impressions with Muhammad Ali, The Greatest. His name was Cassius Clay, and I was prepared to be underwhelmed. This self-promoting cutie-pie had jabbed (mostly against tomato cans) and jabbered (he predicted his winning rounds in rhyme) his way to a payday he hadn't earned – and into a beating, according to the smart money. In fact, the New York Times was so sure that Gaseous Cassius would be knocked out early in his heavyweight title fight with Sonny Liston that instead of sending the boxing writer down to Miami Beach the paper sent a kid off night rewrite whose time was less valuable. Me. My instructions were stark: As soon as I landed, I was to drive my rental car from the arena to the nearest hospital, mapping the quickest route. The paper didn't want me to waste any deadline time following the 22-year-old Clay to intensive care.  Shortly after his introduction to The Beatles, Cassius Clay introduced himself to Sonny Liston. On my way back from the hospital on Feb. 18, 1964, I stopped at the seedy old Fifth Street gym to watch Clay's daily training session. He hadn't arrived yet, but the joint was packed with tourists – Clay had been on the cover of Time Magazine for his coffee house doggerel readings, and people wanted to see and hear the Louisville Lip before it was buttoned or split for good. As I climbed the splintery stairs, four little guys around my age in matching white terry-cloth cabana suits herded up behind me. Someone said it was that hot new British rock group on their first American tour. I was annoyed. Bad enough this disgrace to poetry was sullying boxing, now these noisy mop tops were trying to cash in on the sweet science. The great British photographer Harry Benson had wanted to pose them with Sonny Liston, but the champ had refused. "Not with them sissies," he was supposed to have said - and now they were settling for a photo-op with the challenger. When the Beatles found out that Clay had not yet arrived, they cursed and turned to leave. But a couple of security guards blocked the way and crowded them into an empty dressing room. I pushed in with them, figuring to get a funny quote or two. Had I really understood who these four little guys were, I might have been too shy to become, briefly, the fifth Beatle. But then I was also clueless about Clay. The Beatles were very cranky in that damp dressing room, stomping around, chattering among themselves. I introduced myself. John shook my hand, saying he was Ringo, and introduced me to Paul, who he said was John. I asked for their predictions. We all agreed that Liston would destroy Clay, the silly little over-hyped wanker. Then they ignored me to snarl among themselves again. Silly little over-hyped wankers, I thought. Suddenly, the locker-room door burst open, and Cassius Clay filled the doorway. The Beatles and I gasped. He was so much bigger than he looked in pictures. He was beautiful. He seemed to glow. He was laughing. "Hello there, Beatles," he roared. "We oughta do some road shows together, we'll get rich."
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