The twins both made winning debuts in down-the-bill six-rounders at Harringay Arena on 14 September 1954. This was long before Harringay became Haringey. Henry floored veteran Harry Painter twice in the first round with the left hook that was to bring him fame and fortune, and the referee counted out an opponent who at 14st 13lb was more than a stone heavier than Our Enery. Being outweighed would become the norm for Henry. In only eight fights throughout his career did he have a weight advantage.
George had a tougher scrap in his debut, surviving a brutal butting attack before winning on points against a wild young Welsh giant called Dick Richardson, who would figure in Henry’s future fight programme.
Me and George felt like millionaires that night. We shared £70 plus £35 expenses. Dear old Jim did not take his percentage, and it was a couple of years before he did collect the 25 per cent cut he was entitled to. It would have taken four weeks or more to earn that kind of dosh plastering.
We went out next morning and bought Mum and Dad their first television set, a thirty quid black-and-white Pye with a nine-inch screen that you had to watch in a darkened room, and with a giant H-shape aerial on the roof that looked as if it could have collected signals from Mars. It was state of the art then and there was only the one BBC channel. I remember sitting watching presenters McDonald Hobley in a dickie bow and Sylvia Peters in a ball gown and feeling undressed without a tie on.
We just wanted to show our appreciation to Mum and Dad for the way they’d always got behind us and encouraged us. Life had been really tough for them. Dad worked on the trams and then cleaning out furnaces, and never earned more than eight quid a week, and Mum slaved as a charlady to help feed Bernie, George and me in the wartime and ration book days. We were hungry young hounds, as you can imagine. We weren’t exactly tiny chaps, were we! Fancy having to feed and clothe us. Gawd knows how they managed it, but they did.
George and me used to wear hand-me-downs from big brother Bernie and used to go through shoes in weeks because we were always kicking stones around if we couldn’t get a ball to kick, and we were forever tearing our clothes while clambering around the bomb-blitzed buildings near the docks. Back in those days I was dreaming of following either my idol Joe Louis as a boxer or England goalie Frank Swift as a goalkeeper. I was useful between the sticks and got to play in goal for South London schoolboys, but boxing won out in the end because George was as mad on it as I was, so we settled on fighting rather than football. Think we chose well, because footballers back then were only earning about seventeen quid a week, not like today’s millionaire players.
Mum worked miracles during the war. Dad was away fighting in Burma and she brought us up on her own for nearly four years. She could be as tough as Dad with the old discipline bit. If we misbehaved she would clip us round the ear, and if that didn’t work she’d take her shoe off and tan our arses. As kids, you don’t realise at the time how tough it must have been for your parents. Looking back on it, Mum deserved a medal for the way she managed while Dad was doing his bit for King and Country. As George and I started to earn from our boxing, we were able to repay our parents for all the sacrifices they’d made to bring us up. They did a fair old job considering everything.
Henry took his love of his parents to the extreme of having ‘Mum and Dad’ tattooed on his left arm. I don’t think I was the first boxing scribe to describe his left jabs and hooks as giving his opponents a mummy and a daddy of a hiding.
His professional career got off to a promising start, with nine straight wins in seven months, all but two inside the distance and including an impressive eight rounds points win over the huge Birkenhead-based Jamaican Joe Bygraves. ‘Jolting Joe’, built like a brick outhouse, had turned professional within days of chinning a referee who had disqualified him during a Wales v. England international. The same referee had earlier disqualified Henry, who responded with a more sedate shrug of the shoulders. Bygraves would come back to haunt (and hurt) our hero.
The Cooper style of boxing had not changed noticeably from his amateur days. He was still as upright as a guardsman and advanced from behind a rat-a-tat-tat left-hand lead that was the precursor for a left hook that was always delivered with venom. His right hand was held high, protecting his chin from counters, and he would use it sparingly, mostly as a supplement to a sudden burst of combination punches perfected on the speedball in the gymnasium. His favourite blend was a short left to the ribs, bringing down his opponent’s guard, and then an instant left hook to the jaw. When it worked to perfection it was like violent poetry, but for the opponent on the receiving end nothing rhymed. One of his specialities that he produced throughout his career was a left hook counter, delivered while drawing his opponent forward and with his weight on his back foot, then suddenly shifted to the front to give what he described as a car-collision impact as the punch landed on the jaw of his advancing adversary.
Henry and George could have put on a Vaudeville act with their side-by-side synchronised rope skipping, and both could get up on their toes and dance around the ring, but for their big punches they used to plant their feet for maximum impact.
Taking on his first Continental opponent in his tenth fight, a red curtain descended on Cooper’s world and it was a portent of things to come. He was well in command against Italian champion Uber Bacilieri when a clash of heads midway through the second round opened a deep gash on his left eyebrow. Jim Wicks called the fight off as soon as Henry returned to his corner at the bell. It was not that the cut was so bad as Jim not wanting to risk further damage. ‘We couldn’t see out of the eye because of the blood,’ ‘triplet’ Jim reported afterwards. ‘It’s a pity because we were in great shape and well on top. It would have been insanitary for us to carry on.’ Jim, of course, meant insanity.
Henry quickly got back to winning ways once the eye had healed, and in his twelfth fight avenged his defeat by Bacilieri at London’s White City on 13 September 1955, knocking the Italian cold in the seventh round. ‘We knew we could take him out anytime but wanted to get a few rounds under our belt,’ said The Bishop. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Henry.
It was unlucky thirteenth for Henry when he was narrowly outpointed over ten rounds by his old foe Joe Erskine in an eliminator for the British heavyweight title at Harringay Arena on 15 November 1955.
In these days of monster heavyweights, it seems incredible that Henry was fretting that he was coming into the ring too heavy at 13st 11lb.
My best fighting weight was a few ounces either side of 13st 6lb. I know it sounds ridiculous that a couple of pounds can make a difference, but I was finding out that if I went into the ring at, say, more than 13–9 I was sluggish and unable to get into my rhythm.
I dared not carry any extra pounds against a wily old git like Joe, who was the cleverest and craftiest boxer I ever met. I used to tell him he boxed like he played cards. We played for hours when in the Army together, and when he was holding the pack he had a sleight of hand that somehow ghosted just the card he wanted on to the table. I couldn’t kick up a fuss because I could never prove he was doing it, but I used to say to him, ‘You should belong to the Magic Circle, Joe.’ And that was how he boxed – now you see me, now you don’t.
He was an absolute master at making you hit thin air and for a card shark he had the perfect poker face. You never knew what he was thinking or whether you had hurt him with a punch. His expression just never changed from one round to the next. If he had been able to punch his weight he would definitely have won a world title. Him beating us in that vital eliminator was the biggest choker we’d had in our career to date. Meantime, George was having problems with recurring cut eyes, and so that was a low time for us and we had to work at trying to lift each other’s spirits. We were both still living at home with Mum and Dad and a blanket of gloom dropped over our little house.
George had sharper, more protruding cheekbones and eyebrows, and leaked blood in virtually every fight. He eventually went into Queen Victoria Hospital at East Grins
tead, where a plastic surgeon sort of planed the edge off his eyebrows. But sadly for George it did not really cure his problem.
It could easily have been that the press were reporting the death rather than the defeat of Henry after his points loss to Erskine. Driving home after the fight in their old, second-hand Ford Prefect, the twins were involved in a terrifying crash, and to make it worse big brother Bernie and his pregnant wife, Cory, were passengers in the back. They collided with a huge Wolseley at a crossroads in Hackney and the car somersaulted twice, with the Coopers trapped inside. Miraculously nobody was seriously hurt, but the driver of the Wolseley did a double take when he saw Henry climb out of the wreckage with his face still bruised and bloodied from his losing fight with Joe. ‘We were lucky as hell to survive the crash,’ Henry said. ‘Our only concern was for Cory and the unborn baby. She had a check-up and everything was all right. Scared the life out of us all, but we later had a good laugh at the look on the other driver’s face when he clocked my cuts and bruises!’
Henry quickly restored his reputation and ranking in his fifteenth fight, with a sensational first round victory over ‘Blackpool Rock’ Brian London, who had won the 1954 Empire Games heavyweight title in Vancouver, boxing as Brian Harper. When turning professional he took the ring surname of his father Jack London, who had been a British professional heavyweight champion in the immediate post-war years. Always shooting from the lip, Brian had made no secret of what he intended to do to Cooper. He had rushed to twelve victories since turning professional, eleven of his wins coming in quick time. Henry had beaten his brother, Jack, as an amateur and Brian had stopped George Cooper in four rounds as a pro, so it was a real family feud when rookie promoter Freddie Mills brought them together at the Empress Hall on May Day 1956.
The fight was barely a minute old when Henry had London sending out distress signals. He made him grunt with a short right to the body and London momentarily dropped his hands. That was like sending a gilt-edged invitation for Henry’s left hook, which he smashed against London’s unguarded jaw with such force that it knocked him back into the ring post in a neutral corner. He was out on his feet, propped up against the post, and as Henry unleashed a string of combination punches the referee jumped in and led the outgunned and out-to-the-world London back to the safety of his corner.
‘We like to do our fighting with our fists, not our mouths,’ declared The Bishop. ‘Brian said some very naughty things about us and we had to make him pay for it. Now we want to be considered back in contention for the top titles.’ Over to Henry: ‘Whatever Jim says we’ll do, yeah.’ They were the best double act in boxing.
The confidence of the Cooper camp evaporated before the year was out when Yorkshire heavyweight prospect Peter Bates opened the left eye wound again to force a fifth round stoppage after Henry had dropped him for a nine count and was just waiting to deliver the coup de grâce.
Then came Henry’s annus horribilis, a year in which he seriously considered hanging up his gloves. He became disillusioned after three title fight defeats in succession in 1957.
The first setback was against Joe Bygraves, whom he had outpointed two years earlier. This time the British Empire title was up for grabs and the Cooper camp made the mistake of sending Henry into the ring at his heaviest ever, 13st 13lb, to try and counter the Incredible Bulk that was Bygraves. Aitch (that’s what his Cockney pals called him) fought that night at Earls Court as if he was on sinking sand rather than a ring canvas. There was no snap in his punches and his footwork was more Old Mother Kelly than Gene Kelly.
In the ninth round, with the scorecards even, Bygraves threw a short right from close range that caught Henry in the solar plexus. The punch literally took his breath away and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, as the referee tolled the ten-second count. Jim Wicks, his face longer than a bishop’s cassock, told the press: ‘We couldn’t breathe. If we’d stayed on our feet it would’ve been even worse, so we dropped to our knees. It was just a freak punch. We’ll be back.’ Henry nodded, ‘We’ll be back, yeah.’
Next stop Stockholm and a European title challenge against the handsome, dimpled Swede Ingemar Johansson, who had won his sixteen professional fights to date but had many doubters, who considered him too cautious to make it to the top. Blackening his CV was a controversial performance in the 1952 Olympics, when he had suffered the humiliation of being disqualified for ‘not giving of his best’. Johansson appeared to have frozen with fear and did not throw a punch in the final against American giant Ed Sanders. He was literally running away around the ring, and eventually the referee spread his arms and declared enough of one of the most embarrassing exhibitions ever seen in an Olympic ring. Years later Ingemar had the disqualification expunged from the records, when his explanation that he was trying to draw Sanders on to a counter punch was finally accepted.
Ingemar was an unashamed playboy, who took his girlfriend to his training camps and said he put all his faith in his ‘toonder and lightning’ right hand, Ingo’s Bingo.
Strangely enough, his fight with Henry was taking a similar pattern to the notorious Olympic final. Ingemar hardly threw a punch for the first four rounds and as Henry had decided he would also use counter punching tactics it was becoming a toothless tango. Both boxers circled around the ring without any risk or danger of making physical contact as the sun set over the open-air arena on a beautiful May evening in Stockholm. Over to Henry:
The crafty so-and-sos saw to it that I had the corner facing the setting sun and I was blinded for much of the fight. That’s not an excuse, that is fact.
If I’d paid to see the fight I’d have been asking for my money back after four rounds of nothing more exciting than shadow boxing. It was weird because there was so little atmosphere in the enormous stadium that I could hear the conversations of ringsiders.
Like a mug, I got impatient and decided to change my tactics and go after Johansson. Big mistake. As I went forward in the fifth round hunting him, he drew me towards the setting sun. I could not see a thing and then b-o-o-m he let his looping right hand go. The next I knew I was down on my knees in a kneeling position and by the time I scrambled up the referee was shouting ‘Nine, ten… Out.’ Bleedin’ Bingo!
Apart from amateurish flicking left hands, it was about the only punch he threw in the fight. I felt more embarrassed than hurt because we’d not had a proper fight. Of course, a couple of years later he goes and does the same thing to Floyd Patterson and wins the world title. Ingemar was a real charmer out of the ring but, let’s be honest, he was not the best of world champions. All he had was that right hand, but what a punch – and it made him a fortune.
Never having been knocked out in my life – my boxing career ended with two broken wrists in an East London schoolboys’ championship contest that I won – I asked Henry what it was like. ‘You know as much as me,’ he said. ‘The lights go out, and when you come round you wonder what hit you. When the punch is to the jaw you don’t even feel any pain, and the next thing you know you’re on the floor and the ref is counting over you, and you wonder why your legs won’t obey you. The worst knockout for me was when Joe Bygraves landed that punch to my solar plexus. Your breath just leaves you and for a moment you cannot help but panic, wondering whether you’re going to get your breath back. One thing I know is that I preferred giving rather than receiving!’
The heartbreak hat-trick of defeats that best-forgotten year was completed by Joe Erskine, who successfully defended the British heavyweight title he had taken from Johnny Williams with a narrow fifteen rounds points victory over Henry at Harringay Arena on 15 September 1957. This gave him a 3–2 lead in their series since first meeting as amateurs. For all their thumping of each other, they remained good pals and Henry was sporting enough to say after his defeat: ‘Good luck to Joe. I hope he goes on and takes the European and world titles. He’s good enough.’
Henry kept to himself that he was depressed to the point that he was considering throwing in the towe
l and going back to taking up the trowel. He was still living at home with his parents, was leading the Spartan life of the dedicated sportsman, did not drink or smoke, allowed no distraction from the opposite sex, trained consistently and conscientiously and here he was, a four-times-on-the-trot loser. Meanwhile, his brother George was proving he could make as much money plastering as fighting, and the trowel did not hit you back.
After stewing at home for a month, Henry realised he could not do without boxing. He was literally hooked on it.
Henry phoned The Bishop and said he was ready to get back into the ring.
‘I knew you’d come to that conclusion, Enery,’ Jim told him. ‘I’ve arranged a nice little trip for us. We’re going to Germany.’
ROUND 3
HENRY ÜBER ALLES
Even with all his Barnum and Bailey blarney, Jim Wicks could not cajole home promoters into using Henry after his four successive defeats. It would have been easier to sell ice lollies to Eskimos.
So Jim broadened his horizons and arranged for Henry to fight away from critical British eyes against German champion Hans Kalbfell in Dortmund on 16 November 1957. Suddenly Henry was cast in the role of journeyman, and only a victory could save him from the ignominious slide towards fighting purely for money and being ‘the opponent’.
Kalbfell stood 6ft 4in tall, looked as if he had been hewn out of German granite and had more than a stone weight advantage. He was being groomed for a world title challenge, and his promoters and supporters saw Henry as just a stepping stone. Instead, our hero stepped all over Kalbfell. He boxed his ears off with a magnificent display of controlled aggression, dominating the ten-round fight from first bell to last.
Henry Cooper Page 3