My View from the Corner

by Angelo Dundee

  Another of a trainer's unlisted undertakings is to ride herd on his fighters, making sure they are not only in the best condition for the fight but also in any condition for the fight. As with Willie Pastrano and others, that takes the form of watching over them like a shepherd over his flock to make sure they don't stray just before a fight. One of my Miami Beach fighters was Doug Vaillant who, in his own words, claimed a liking for "booze, women, and drugs." Great! So, before a fight out on the Coast I sent Luis Sarria, an assistant trainer who had come over with the flood of Cubans, to watch over him and see to it that Vaillant didn't fall prey to any of his stated pleasures. Unfortunately, when I arrived a couple of days before the fight, I found both of them drunk. When I asked Sarria what happened, he just said, "He got drunk, I got drunk." Two days of sobering up Vaillant and he went on to win the fight, but it was a fight before the fight.

  Fortunately, I didn't have too many problems like those. My problems were usually in training, teaching my fighters the ABCs of boxing balance as demonstrable as old-fashioned math; also, I had to teach them defense, counterpunching, and all the other fundamentals. My hope was to get to the point where I could, as Charlie Goldman best said it, "Learn them to do all things right without thinking ... all they have to think about is what they want to do."

  But my real hands-on experience didn't come with those at the 5th Street Gym. Instead, it came with my first champion, Carmen Basilio.

  Basilio was a true warrior, one who wore all his marks like a Heidelberg dueling academy graduate with more stitches than could be found on a baseball. He might have looked like a prime prospect for selling pencils on a street corner, but Carmen was everything you wanted a fighter to be. And more.

  The first time I saw Carmen was in an eight-rounder in New York when he fought Mike Koballa in 1950. I was working Koballa's corner that night, and he outboxed Carmen to win the decision. In the dressing room afterward, one New York writer, Lester Bromberg, suggested to Carmen that he "should retire." Carmen merely looked at him and, in typical Carmen fashion, sniffed back, "Forget it.... I'll be champ." (Years later Howard Cosell confronted that same Carmen before his Chicago fight with Sugar Ray Robinson and told Carmen, "Nine out of ten sportswriters say you'll lose." Carmen merely said, "Well, nine out of ten sportswriters are wrong," and walked away, leaving Cosell to fuffump his way through the rest of his telecast.)

  The next time I saw Carmen was two years later when he came down to Miami Beach to face a tough middleweight named Baby Williams. Carmen had come with his two comanagers and no trainer. ("The local promoter was too cheap to give me enough airplane tickets," groused Carmen—the local promoter being Chris, who as usual was trying to squeeze buffaloes off nickels.) So Carmen asked me to work the corner. I figured I'd be the bucket guy and watch the action and learn. Little did I know I was to be the guy.

  So now I had to get Carmen ready and prepare him. Usually Carmen was his own guy and, not trusting anyone else to attend to him, brought all his own stuff with him in a bag—medications, liniments, wraps, and whatnots, down to the Q-tips. But this time, extending his hands in my direction, he said, "Wrap 'em." And so I wrapped 'em, the first time I had since that night in White Plains when Chickie Ferrara had thrown tape in my direction and told me to wrap some kid's hands. But this was a main-eventer, and, believe me, I was extra careful, barely laying the stuff on Carmen's hands. And when I was finished Carmen, who liked his wraps loose as a goose, felt them, banged them together, and said two of the nicest words I had ever heard other than "check enclosed": "Nice job."

  You see, fighters all have their own feelings on how they want their hands wrapped. Some like it tight and strong; some like a grip underneath. There's a variety of ways to wrap hands. And because the hands are a fighter's most precious, and yet fragile, asset, the art of hand wrapping is all important. Muhammad Ali, for example, had trouble with his hands—protruding knuckles and calcium deposits. I'd try to ease the point of the knuckle and do it on each side and cut a hole in the bandage so that all his strength wouldn't be on the point of the knuckle. And sometimes I'd use Kotex and cut a hole in it. I used everything. By the end of his career, I would use sponges with the permission of the other manager. I'd say, "What are you worried about? He won't punch as hard." All just to protect his hands.

  That is the real reason you carefully wrap hands, to protect them. It's not, as old stories go, to load them up. I don't how many times I've heard stories about Jack Dempsey's hands being "loaded" in his fight against Jess Willard. All I can say to that is baloney. Ray Arcel, who knew Jimmy DeForest, Dempsey's trainer, told me that DeForest had told him that it was Doc Kearns who circulated the story after Dempsey's career because he was involved in lawsuits with Dempsey and that there was nothing to Kearns's tale of having put plaster of paris on Dempsey's bandages and then sprinkling water on his gloves. DeForest, who had wrapped Dempsey's hands himself, said that, yes, he had sprinkled water on Dempsey's bandages but only after Dempsey complained about the stifling, one hundred-and-ten-degree heat in Toledo that afternoon. Nothing more.

  So what happened with Carmen? After the fight, a tough ten-round win over Williams, Carmen said, "Angie, that was the first time in two years I didn't wrap my own hands." "Why?" I asked. "So I wouldn't break 'em," he answered. I was glad he told me after the fight and not before, if you know what I mean.

  But Carmen, whose craggy eyebrows were so susceptible to cuts that in later years I would always kid him that he bled at press conferences, on this night got busted up but good by Williams. And I also had to be a "cutman," what A. J. Liebling called "a short-order plastic surgeon." You've got to be a cool cat when you're working with cuts. You can't get excited. I had learned how to treat cuts by watching Whitey Bimstein, Freddie Brown, Charlie Goldman, and especially Chickie Ferrara, who was always very patient with me, teaching me everything, including how to tie shoes. Each had his own techniques, his own ways of treating cuts. Charlie had all these little bottles in his pocket, everything you ever needed to stop a cut—even magic elixirs, like aromatic spirits of ammonia flavored with spearmint. Freddie used Monsel solution to coagulate the blood. And old-time trainer Doc Bagley used to chew tobacco during a fight, believing that, as he told his protégé Ray Arcel, spit was good for treating cuts. So, on Doc's recommendation, Ray tried chewing tobacco and told me that after three rounds he was under the ring, sick to his stomach.

  When I was on my own, back in New York, I had this kid, Johnny Williams. One night Johnny got this big hematoma on his eye, and I was afraid it might bust open. So I asked Teddy Crystal, who was working the corner with me, "Teddy, what would you do if the eye busts open?" And he said, "I'd use pressure and Vaseline." And from that day forward, I learned how to take care of cuts on my own.

  Like the time, the next year, when Carmen faced Pierre Langlois. During the fight Carmen's eye was badly lacerated, with the skin of the eyelid split. I used a styptic ointment that became known as "the Dundee ointment," and then I applied thymol iodine and alum and, pressing a solution of chloride 1:1000 into the wound, carefully pushed the loose skin upward until it was immersed into the ointment, stopping the blood. Then I secured it with Vaseline. Carmen made it through the fight without further damage and won the decision.

  From then on, I knew I could handle any cuts—especially those sustained by Carmen, who would never have a fight stopped because of them.

  Carmen would go on to win the welterweight crown from Tony DeMarco in as two-sided a bout as I've ever seen. And in the picture of the man holding Carmen aloft? Why it's Angelo Dundee with his first champion.

  By 1960, to quote a popular song of the day, everything was coming up roses for little Angelo Dundee. I now had a family, my fighters were regulars on TV and rising in the ratings, and I had some new kids to train, many of whom looked as though they had the potential to become champions. I didn't think it could get any better.

  But it would. For 1960 was the year that the same youngster who had f
irst knocked on my hotel door in Louisville would once again knock on my door. And this time it opened the door of opportunity for both of us.

  FOUR

  The "Greatest" Hook-Up of My Life

  Copyright © 2008 by Angelo Dundee and Bert Randolph Sugar Click here for terms of use.

  My fighters were now known worldwide. At least that part of the world in and around Miami Beach. But as their reputations continued to grow, other parts of the boxing world began to know them, too. One such place was Louisville where promoter Bill King booked them for fights—Willie Pastrano, three times; Luis Rodriguez, twice; Ralph Dupas, once; and Joey Maxim, once. And every time I went to Louisville I would run into that same handsome youngster I had first met in the hotel room with Pastrano—the youngster who had introduced himself as Cassius Marcellus Clay.

  He was always there with a big, infectious smile, and an even bigger voice, calling out, "Angelo Dundee, Mr. Cutman." For every one of my fights in Louisville, I got passes for him and his family. But young Clay, barely eighteen at the time, was not content to be part of the boxing crowd. No, he desperately wanted to be part of the boxing scene.

  Before one of Rodriguez's fights, he befriended Clay. Even though Rodriguez spoke little English, that didn't stop the talkative Clay from yapping with him about boxing. As he came into the arena toting his bag before one of his fights, Luis ran into Cassius standing in the entrance hall. Cassius reached down for the bag saying, "I'll carry that bag for you, Mr. Cuban Champion." To which Luis responded, "That's nice, Mr. Amateur Champion." The next thing I knew the youngster was walking in with Luis, carrying his bag.

  The kid always wanted to work with my guys. He was always at the gym waiting for me, sometimes for two hours, hitting the heavy bag, the light bag, working out—just waiting for me. "C'mon," he'd say, "let me work with your guy," meaning Willie Pastrano, whom he now called "Sweet Willie." I'd wave Cassius off, saying something like, "What's the matter with you? I don't like my guys working with amateurs." I've always had this thing that amateurs and professionals don't mix any more than oil and water; that amateurs are for amateurs and professionals are for professionals. But he would persist, continually badgering me. Finally, I gave in and let him spar two rounds with Willie. After just one round I called time, and told Willie, "Oh, man, you're stale ... no more sparring for you." But Willie, correctly sizing up the sparring session, said, "Jesus, I got the hell kicked out of me." The kid was that fast.

  The next time I saw those fast hands was three months later, at the 1960 Rome Olympics when Clay beat the bejabbers out of a Polish fighter with 231 amateur fights and thirteen letters in his name. I was glad Cassius had gone to the Olympics. Before the Pastrano–Alonzo Johnson fight, Cassius had come to me and asked whether he should turn pro or go to the Olympics. I told him, "Don't turn pro now. Go win the gold medal ... you'll make more money." And then, as an afterthought, added, "Then you can come and see me."

  The newspapers were filled with his exploits over in Rome: challenging track star Wilma Rudolph to a race; calling out to Floyd Patterson after winning the gold, "Floyd Patterson, some day I'm going to whup you ... I am the greatest ..."; and being interviewed by a Russian reporter who asked him, "How does it feel to win something for a country where you can't eat at the same table with a white man?" Clay answered, "Tell your readers we got qualified people working on that problem. America is the greatest country in the world and as far as places I can't eat goes, I got lots of places I can eat, more places I can than I can't." He was a one-man public relations machine.

  Returning to Louisville, still wearing his gold medal around his neck, Cassius was hailed as the conquering hero, toasted and paraded throughout the city. Soon he was being besieged with offers to turn pro. Cus D'Amato, using José Torres as an intermediary, approached him. So, too, did Sugar Ray Robinson, former Olympic heavyweight gold medalist Pete Rademacher, and Archie Moore, who handed Cassius his card that said: "If you want a good, experienced manager, call me, collect."

  The first time I saw Cassius after the Olympics was when, as usual, I had a fighter fighting in Louisville. This time, without the big hello, he came over and, with a puzzled look on his face, asked, "How come you never approached me to handle me?" I could only answer, "It's this simple ... you know my business is boxing. That's all I do. I have a gym in Miami Beach, and if you ever want to become a fighter, come down and see me and I'll work with you." More than somewhat taken back, all he could say was, "You've got to be some sort of nut. Everybody approaches me, offers me all kinds of money and cars. And you, all you can offer me is to come down to Miami Beach?"

  "Certainly," I said. "What I'm offering you is what talent I have. I'm sure I can do a good job with you." With that Cassius said, "You've got to be some sort of nut," and turned on his heel and walked away.

  Through boxing's most reliable source, the grapevine, I heard that the youngster had signed with a group called the Louisville Sponsoring Group, thus becoming the first athlete-corporation in sports. The group, comprised of eleven men, mostly millionaires associated with, or related to, the Brown families of Brown & Williamson Tobacco and Brown-Forman Distilleries, had given Clay a $10,000 signing bonus, a guarantee of $4,000 for the first two years—or $200 a month—and $6,000 as a draw against future earnings for the following four years.

  The kid seemed well set. But then again, nothing in boxing is ever written in stone, as I was to find out one afternoon a couple of months later.

  There I was, sitting at my desk in my brother Chris's office the day of a fight (Chris had moved his operations over to Convention Hall when Jackie Gleason took over the Auditorium) trying to make disorder out of chaos when the phone rang for the umpteenth time that afternoon. With Chris down on the Convention Hall arena floor, undoubtedly giving the TV folks assurances he couldn't possibly keep and yours truly the only one in the office giving his best impression of a one-armed paperhanger, I reached over and picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Angelo Dundee," I mechanically answered. An unfamiliar voice came back, "Hi, Angelo ... this is Bill Faversham. I'm calling from Louisville." The voice went on without a break, "We met in the gym here.... Cassius Clay introduced us." Great, another introduction I didn't remember! Lying through my teeth, I said, "Oh, sure, what can I do for you?" fully expecting to have another deadbeat put the arm on me for tickets. The voice, now identified, launched into an explanation of the Louisville Group, how he was acting as its head, and, further, that the Archie Moore–Cassius Clay relationship hadn't taken. "I wanted Clay to learn some tricks from the 'old professor,'" Faversham said. "But it hasn't worked out."

  Faversham told me that an old friend of mine, Lester Malitz, who had once produced the Wednesday night fights for New York advertising exec Archie Foster, one of the eleven-man Louisville syndicate, had dropped my name to Foster as a potential trainer. Foster, in turn, had referred Malitz's suggestion to Faversham. Hence the call.

  Faversham said he had brought my name up as a possible trainer and the syndicate and Clay both liked the idea. Now he wanted to know if I was interested. "Well, Bill," I said, grateful for the consideration but mindful that I was already up to my nasal passages in commitments, "thanks for thinking of me. But Dick Sadler is a friend of mine, and he's running Moore's training camp, and I don't want to step on his toes. From what I hear, Cassius is in training for his first pro fight. I don't like to come in half-cocked, so let things stay as they are until after that fight. Then we can talk."

  During the next few weeks Faversham and I had several telephone conversations. Then he came down to Miami Beach to interview me, asking me questions like what I thought I would do with Clay under my guidance. I told him I'd start him out with six-round fights until he learned and that Miami would be an excellent spot for Clay since we had six two-minute rounds here—something Chris had created for Willie Pastrano and Ralph Dupas. Moreover, I told him the changeover from amateur to professional, while hard, wouldn't be difficult for Clay because of the s
horter rounds and the work in the gym with seasoned fighters, some of whom he already knew.

  Apparently Faversham liked what he heard because he got back to me with an offer—either so much a week for every week of training and for the week of the fight or a piece of the action. My brother Chris was a charter member of the take-the-money-and-run school. He advised me that "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," or something like that, and that I should take the immediate money rather than the prospective money. Now I was taught to respect my elders, and since Chris was my elder, I listened to him. Marone! Did I ever miss out on big-time "scratch" by listening to Chris's advice!

  Knowing that Cassius had been training under the tutelage of Dick Sadler, in tandem with Archie Moore, I put in a call to Dick to find out what had happened to end what Faversham called their "relationship." "What was the problem?" I asked, already suspecting it had been a case of two star qualities, each set in their own ways, clashing. Stating the obvious, Dick said, "He's some character.... He came with Archie and me to Texas. We traveled by train, and at every hick stop, deep in the heart of Texas, he would stick his head out the window and shout, 'I'm the greatest.' I thought we were gonna get lynched." Then Dick, calling the training camp "a salt mine," tried to explain what really happened to cause the breakup. "Cassius would come to Archie every day pleading for a fight," he said, "but Moore would always tell him, 'You're not ready yet.' Then one day Archie gave Cassius a broom and told him to sweep the floor. Clay didn't like that. He said to Archie, 'I don't do that for my Ma, and I ain't gonna do it for you,' and handed the broom back to Archie. And that did it!"

  I told Dick that Faversham, head of the Louisville Group, had hired me to train Clay. "If you train that kid," he said, "you deserve a purple heart with seven clusters." A purple heart with seven clusters? Helen loved that.