Henry Cooper

by Norman Giller

  Her quotes were twisted in the Italian papers to read that she was ashamed to be Italian and her family were given a rough time for a while. Jim told Albina that in future she should not say a word to the press, but to pass the calls on to him. It was a tough way to learn that you had to know which journalists you could trust. I got on with most of them, but there were some that Jim would not allow anywhere near me.

  All the British ringside reporters in Rome were in agreement that they had not seen a rougher championship contest. How the referee didn’t see Tomasoni’s low blows I’ll never know. Jim said he must have been watching a different fight. I showed my protector to the reporters after the fight and they were amazed to see it was concaved.

  Peter Wilson, the legendary columnist with the Daily Mirror, described it as looking like an old sardine can that had been kicked in; he added in his report that he had never seen a fighter ‘so wickedly fouled’. And Peter had witnessed hundreds of fights. But it was the first one where he had been whacked on the side of the face with an orange the size of a grapefruit while typing his report. He had a bigger bruise on his face than I did!

  Donald Saunders of the Daily Telegraph told me he thought Rocky Marciano was the roughest fighter he had ever seen until he clapped eyes on Tomasoni. I was glad to get back to London in one piece – I had a date to keep at the Palace.

  Our hero, with Albina proud as punch by his side, arrived at Buckingham Palace in his Bentley to receive his OBE and the Queen showed she was well informed by asking him about his knee. ‘It’s fine now, ma’am, after the operation,’ he responded, little realising that he would soon be back under the surgeon’s knife… and minus all three of his titles.

  ROUND 11

  BUST-UP WITH THE BOARD OF CONTROL

  Henry Cooper OBE carried a secret into the ring with him when he battled with the brawling Piero Tomasoni: he was being lined up for another world heavyweight title fight. Muhammad Ali had been stripped of the championship because of his refusal to join the US Army, citing his Islamic beliefs and claiming to be a Conscientious Objector.

  Jimmy Ellis, Ali’s chief sparring partner, won the WBA version of the championship at what was the start of the alphabet-soup diluting of the world titles. Negotiations were under way for him to defend his crown against Henry in London on a Jack Solomons promotion, when the British Boxing Board of Control announced they would veto the contest because they did not recognise the WBA.

  Jim Wicks exploded with rage. ‘What way is this to treat Britain’s greatest boxing hero?’ he complained to anybody who would listen. ‘The Board is supposed to represent us, not be our enemy.’

  Avoiding malapropisms and picking his words carefully, The Bishop announced: ‘We’re giving up our British and Empire titles in protest. The Board know where they can stick them. Our Enery has been their best earner for years. Now let’s see how they get on without having their hands in our pockets.’ I had never seen Jim so angry. He was almost purple with indignation, which come to think of it was a perfect hue for The Bishop.

  Of course, Jim knew he and Henry had the European title to fall back on and could look to the Continent for lucrative defences as Henry moved into the autumn of his career. But first he was determined that they would go through with the world title fight with Ellis in an unsanctioned contest in either Rome or Dublin. If he could beat Ellis, it would open up the world market again.

  But the best-laid plans of mice, men and boxers oft go astray. Henry’s knee problem came back to haunt and hurt him, and as he was carted off to hospital for a cartilage operation he had to reluctantly surrender his European crown.

  From being British, Empire (as it was then) and European heavyweight champion, our hero was suddenly bereft of any titles.

  We couldn’t believe it when the Board refused to get behind our world title bid. They tied us up with political tape, saying they didn’t support the WBA version of the title but the New York one. I was really worried about Jim – he was so angry I thought he was going to have a stroke. Don’t forget he was no longer a spring chicken, but a tough old geezer into his seventies.

  I was choked that they were blocking my chance to challenge for the title. The one time in my career I needed them and they suddenly became invisible men. I knew in my heart that it was only the equivalent of half a world title, but half a loaf is better than none and I would have earned a nice crust against an opponent I was confident I could have beaten. Ellis was a useful boxer but not in the same class as Ali and Patterson. All these years later, people will wonder what the fuss is about, but back then we were still accustomed to just eight champions, one for each weight division. The alphabet boys hadn’t taken over.

  I had held the British and Empire titles since 1959 and had won a record three Lonsdale Belts outright. We thought the Board had treated us disgracefully after all the money they’d earned from our purses. We gave up the hard-earned titles to emphasise our disgust and then started training for a fight with Ellis that would have needed to be staged outside the Board’s jurisdiction. Jack Solomons was talking about Dublin or Rome.

  Then the old knee let me down again and I was in bloody agony. It was back to hospital and goodbye to my world title chance and also to my European championship. It all looked very depressing.

  It was widely predicted that Henry would never fight again, but he battled back to fitness with daily treatment and training at his favourite Highbury football ground, getting himself into such good shape that Jim Wicks (very reluctantly) patched up his quarrel with the British Boxing Board of Control. They accepted his argument that Henry was the logical number one contender for his old British and Empire titles that had now passed into the southpaw hands of a former victim, Jack Bodell.

  But before his return battle, Henry had to endure another rather more pleasing ordeal after being trapped by Eamonn Andrews and his Big Red Book. As a This Is Your Life scriptwriter for fourteen years, I knew the lengths they had gone to in their bid to keep the secret from him. Henry later told me it was one of the best, yet most nerve-wracking experiences of his life. ‘Jim Wicks set me up good and proper and as Eamonn came into view, I said, “You old rascal,” or words to that effect. You sit there dazed and bemused, wondering who the heck is going to come onto the set next. But it was a wonderful night and I just could not believe that Albina, Jim and George had kept the secret from me. What made it for me was when the boys, Henry Marco and John Pietro, came on. That really choked me up.’

  Muhammad Ali sent a filmed message from the United States and among the studio guests were Henry’s old opponents Billy Walker, Dick Richardson and the man who was going to be in the opposite corner for his next fight, Jack Bodell.

  The chicken farmer from Swadlincote showed the heart of a lion when defending his titles at Wembley Arena on 24 March 1970. He sensibly kept his chin tucked into his chest to avoid a repeat of his two-round demolition in their previous meeting, but he was just not in the same class as Our Enery, who left handed his way to a well-deserved but hard-earned fifteen rounds points victory to get the first notch on a fourth Lonsdale Belt. In the dressing-room after the fight Henry had to have treatment to bruises on his shins and feet, where the cumbersome Bodell had continually trodden on him and kicked him in his clumsy attempts to overpower the older opponent.

  A familiar face was missing in the dressing-room: trainer Danny Holland, who had worked with Henry throughout his professional career. He was recognised as the finest cuts man in the business, but he did not feel he was sufficiently rewarded for his skills and quit the camp after a bitter row with Jim Wicks over his wages. Former European welterweight champion Eddie Thomas, an experienced manager and cornerman, took Danny’s place in the Cooper team.

  ‘We had some good times with Danny,’ Henry said. ‘But these things happen in life. Don’t forget professional boxing is a business. Jim and Danny had been at loggerheads for a long time and it was causing an atmosphere. I had virtually been training myself anyway, with the he
lp of George, who continued to come to the gym with me and on training runs. It was sad to see Danny go, but it was not the big thing the press tried to make it.’

  Many experts considered Henry was taking on more than he could handle when he climbed back into the Wembley Arena ring on 10 November 1970 to challenge the fearsome Jose Urtain for the European title he’d picked up after Cooper had been forced to relinquish it.

  Urtain had won thirty-three of his thirty-five fights inside the distance and his only defeat was on a disqualification; thirty of his opponents had not got past the third round. On paper, it was a sensational record.

  In all my time watching and following boxing I had never known anybody quite like Urtain. He came from the Basque country, around San Sebastián, and was a champion rock lifter, with a muscular physique that could have been hewn out of the Pyrenees. Jose followed a long line of Urtains, who were folk heroes in the Basque territory of North-East Spain. His grandfather once won an unofficial world’s strongest man competition and Jose was considered equally strong, judged on the weight of rock he could lift with his bare hands. He also knew how to lift money from promoters and flatly refused to come to England to defend his title until Harry Levene agreed to pay what was then a record £50,000 purse. ‘I’ve been mugged,’ Harry moaned, after chasing the champion all over Spain to get his signature on a contract. ‘I feel as if he’s dropped one of his rocks on my head!’

  At twenty-seven, Urtain was nine years Henry’s junior and not too many punters fancied the veteran Londoner to win as he climbed into the ring to try and capture the European crown for a third time.

  People feared for me because of Urtain’s famous strength. But being a strong man doesn’t necessarily mean you can fight. If that was the case, the bodybuilders and weightlifters would all be champions, but most of them are too muscle-bound to be able to throw punches.

  Judging by Jose’s record of knockouts he had a wicked punch, but when I looked through his list of opponents I had hardly heard of any of them. I felt sure he had got to the top on the back of a bum-of-the-month campaign. I was quietly confident I could make it curtains for Urtain.

  I spent the first round feeling him out. He was stocky and built like a Spanish bull, with bulging biceps and powerful forearms that showed the evidence of his rock-lifting sideline. He was quickly swinging that right club of a fist of his but in such crude fashion that I was soon thinking to myself, ‘Take your time, Henry. You’ve got a right mug here. Just don’t do anything silly.’

  As he huffed and puffed, I set about giving him a boxing lesson. It was real bull and matador stuff. I was stabbing long left leads into his face and moving inside his swings that were even more obvious than those that Billy Walker had been throwing at me. A lot of boxing is in the eyes and I could quickly see that Señor Urtain was suddenly not fancying the job. From giving me the hard-man stare when we touched gloves at the start, he was now looking down at his feet and taking hopeful lunges.

  The only problem he gave me was with the dangerous use of his head and he opened a cut with an early charge; but Eddie Thomas was able to keep on top of it during the intervals, so it never really bothered me.

  Urtain was tiring himself out throwing big right handers that were putting ringside spectators in more danger than me. It is more tiring to throw and miss than land punches. And he was doing a lot of missing. As he began to slow, I stepped up my pace and started to double up with the left jab, and then began to add the occasional hook that came in at an angle and bounced off his tough nut. He had little finesse but was as hard as iron. It was like punching a coconut.

  There was just one scary moment in the fifth when he landed with a looping right to the body. It took my breath away, but I did not let on that I was hurt and let go with a two-fisted volley that stopped him in his tracks. From then on he dared not open up because he knew the moment he started to launch his right he was going to take two or three thumping lefts in the face.

  I gave him a real shellacking in the eighth round and he was now peering at me through badly swollen eyes. It had got to the stage where I was almost hitting him at will and very little was coming back at me. Jose was clearly very relieved when the referee rescued him as I drove him back across the ring with a combination of hooks and crosses. He looked as if a ton of rocks had fallen on him.

  Urtain was a classic example of a manufactured champion who had been fed a procession of pushovers and had not been able to learn his trade properly. He had all the equipment to become a top-quality champion, but had not been taught the fundamentals of the sport. It was one of my most satisfying victories.

  Little did we know that it would also be the last of Henry’s victories. Secretly, he and Jim decided on just one more fight. Waiting for him in the opposite corner was a young man from Bedford via Hungary, Joe Bugner.

  It was going to be one of the most controversial contests in the history of British boxing.

  ROUND 12

  WELL AND TRULY BUGNERED

  Win, lose or draw, Jim and Henry had quietly made up their minds that Joe Bugner would be the last opponent. Henry had fought the good fight and was now sensibly accepting that time had caught up with him; his body was sending out signals that it was finding the demands of training and fighting too much of a strain. The pain in his left elbow had become so bad that there were days when he could not even comb his hair, button his shirt or do up his shoe-laces. He was having regular Harley Street treatment to get himself fit enough for one final fight, and against an opponent who had been a young boy in revolution-torn Hungary when Henry was already into the early stages of his professional ring career.

  Not counting the brief period when he gave up the titles in protest over the Board of Control’s lack of support, Henry had been champion of Britain and the Commonwealth for a remarkable span of twelve years and he was justifiably proud of the fact that he had taken on and beaten all-comers. Joe Erskine, Brian London, Dick Richardson, Johnny Prescott, Jack Bodell and Billy Walker, from a golden era of heavyweights, had each been given their chance to take the crowns and Henry had beaten them all. He had never ducked a challenger and he was determined that he was not going to let a relative novice like Bugner ruin his record.

  Joe was just three days past his twenty-first birthday, while Henry was a couple of months short of his thirty-seventh. He had forgotten more than Bugner had learned about the hardest game (or, if you prefer, the sweet science) and was confident he could mess him about and cancel out the age difference by intelligent pacing and careful conservation of energy.

  Despite being knocked out early in his career, Bugner had since proved he had a strong chin and Henry trained with a fifteen-round distance contest in mind. Standing 6ft 4in and weighing near to sixteen stone, Joe had a superbly sculptured physique. In his school-days he was one of Britain’s finest young discus throwers and he was built just like one of those statues of a Greek discus-throwing god. But there were many critics who thought he often used to seem as mobile as a statute in the ring and he was not a natural, instinctive fighter.

  His manager, an intelligent, livewire Anglo-Scot called Andy Smith, had done a marvellous job in moulding and manufacturing him into an orthodox but predictable stand-up boxer. Andy had spotted Joe while he was still a schoolboy and, impressed by his physique and power, set about trying to shape him into a world-beater. Many saw Smith as something of a puppeteer and he was aided and abetted with the string-pulling by the shrewd matchmaking of Mickey Duff.

  Bugner’s life story was like something out of a Hollywood scriptwriter’s imagination. He was born in Szeged in southern Hungary, not knowing his father, and was just six at the time of the 1956 Hungarian revolution that triggered an invasion by Russian troops. Joe’s mother, with her son in tow, bravely joined the flood of refugees escaping from Hungary and they boarded a ship they thought was taking them to the United States. But they wound up in Britain, first of all in a refugee camp and then a family home in Bedfordshire, where Joe rev
ealed his all-round sporting prowess. He was an outstanding schoolboy athlete, but it was not until he was fifteen that he showed any interest in boxing. Just two years later he was making his professional debut under Andy Smith’s guidance.

  Young Joe was flattened in the third round of his professional debut against unsung Paul Brown, a defeat he avenged six months later. His fifteenth opponent, Ulrich Regis from Trinidad, tragically collapsed and died after a points defeat at Shoreditch Town Hall. This weighed heavily on Joe, who was then eighteen and already carrying the responsibility of being a husband and a father.

  By the time he got round to challenging Henry for his titles, Bugner had fought thirty-one times, winning twenty-nine and drawing one. He had been in the ring with only a handful of opponents of any real quality and in the case of Johnny Prescott (won points, eight rounds) and Brian London (won on a fifth-round stoppage), both his opponents were having the final fights of their careers and were way past the peak of their powers and ambition.

  Bugner had not won the public over to his side because too many of his performances were pedestrian and about as exciting as watching grass grow. He so much looked the part with his giant frame that fans expected fireworks from him, but too often all they got was a damp squib.

  Meantime, Henry’s popularity was at an all-time high. In December 1970 he won the coveted BBC Sports Personality of the Year award for a second time – the first was in 1967. He was at that point the only sports star to win the trophy twice, a mark of his astonishing status in the eyes of the general public – truly a living legend, while the young Bugner had hardly made a ripple.