Chuvalo

by George Chuvalo

  Over the last three rounds I stepped up the pressure and threw punches from every angle, not caring where they landed. I really wanted to knock this guy out, but DeJohn was tough—and brave.

  The fight ended up going the 10-round distance, and despite my scoring three knockdowns—and what should have been two legitimate knockouts—I didn’t have a good feeling standing in my corner as we awaited the decision. It must have shown on my face, because Asbury sidled over and said, “Why do you look so glum, George? You won by a country mile.”

  A moment later the scores were read. The two ringside judges had me winning by 47–42 and 46–42 … and Asbury scored it 49–49! A majority decision.

  There was a lot of booing after the scoring was announced and a bunch of ringside fans started chanting “ASS-bury! ASS-bury!” at the ref, but I was too tired to wonder what the hell was going through his mind to score it a draw. I hugged McWhorter and Dawson, and if you look closely at the tape you can see me blowing kisses to my pregnant wife and our sons back home. That felt good.

  A couple of hours after the fight, Bill King joined Teddy and me for dinner at a nice restaurant in downtown Louisville. Bill was apologetic because he couldn’t pay me right away, but he assured us that if we stuck around we’d get the cash the following night, right after a rock ‘n’ roll show he was promoting. He also invited us to the show, which was nice.

  In the meantime, we were sitting at the table for about half an hour without so much as a glass of water, so I finally called over a waitress and asked for menus. From the look on her face, you would have thought I’d asked for one of her kidneys. “Didn’t y’all see the sign?” she hissed. “We can’t serve you with him in here.” She was glaring directly at Teddy. “For coloreds, it’s takeout only.”

  McWhorter was hurt. He didn’t say anything, but I could see it in his eyes. He’d been down this road many, many times, but it still stung. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. We ended up going to a swankier place in Louisville’s black quarter, where we enjoyed a sumptuous feast. And those folks didn’t have any qualms about serving the only white guy in the joint.

  The following morning there was a headline on the front page of the Louisville Courier sports section that said, “Cassius refuses to fight Chuvalo.” In the accompanying story, Clay threw out a couple of disparaging remarks about Canada, then told the reporter, “I don’t like the way Chuvalo fights. He can cut you. He butts and does everything else dirty. He’s rough and tough and fights like an old washerwoman.”

  I thought it was kind of funny, but at the time I didn’t know what the hell Cassius was talking about. I thought it was just something that popped into his head while he was talking to the reporter. In fact, it wasn’t until 25 years later, when I was producing and hosting a syndicated TV series called Famous Knockouts, that I realized where the inspiration for the “washerwoman” handle came from. The show’s introduction included a clip of me pounding DeJohn over the top rope—and sure enough, it bore a striking resemblance to somebody using both arms to work an old-fashioned washboard!

  Over the next few years Cassius came up with a lot of imaginative nicknames for his opponents—Liston was “The Big Ugly Bear,” Patterson “The Rabbit” and Ernie Terrell “The Octopus,” to name a few—but I still think “The Washerwoman” was his most creative. To this day a lot of folks think it was mean and uncomplimentary, but I’ve always thought it was kind of cute.

  And though neither of us realized it at the time, we’d soon end up having some fun with it.

  ROUND 4

  A COUPLE OF DAYS AFTER THE WIN OVER DE JOHN, I was back at work at the Big D in Detroit, awaiting word on who I’d be fighting on November 8, now that Clay had reneged on his letter of intent.

  Ed Trotter, who’d helped set up the bout with DeJohn and traveled to Louisville to work my corner with Teddy, was now serving as sort of an interim manager, which allowed me to concentrate on training. But I was worried about Lynne. She was back home in Toronto with the kids and she was three months pregnant. I missed her and the boys terribly. The only good thing was that, thanks to the DeJohn fight, our finances were solid—at least for the next few months.

  In mid-October I got a call from Teddy Brenner, offering Tony Alongi as the substitute for Clay in Miami Beach. It was another TV fight, and my purse would be $4,750, plus a piece of the gate. A few days later, Cassius himself made a surprise visit to Detroit as part of a rock ‘n’ roll review at the Fox Theatre, the same place where I’d watched the closed-circuit telecast of his KO over Archie Moore the previous November.

  A lot of people don’t know that Cassius was a talented singer back in the day, even before he started all his “I Am the Greatest!” shtick. He hung around with guys like Miles Davis and Sam Cooke, and in 1964 he recorded a terrific version of Ben E. King’s classic, “Stand by Me.” Yeah, the cat could sing!

  While he was in town, Clay decided to drop by the Big D to do a little sparring with his pal Cody Jones. When word got around that he was coming down to the gym, every hooker, hustler and pimp in Detroit headed over to get in on the action.

  When Trotter and I found out that a local sportscaster named Dave Diles was going to do a live TV interview with Cassius after the sparring, we decided to make a “statement” of our own. Trotter found a costume rental place in the Yellow Pages, and when we got to the store I asked the proprietor if there was anything in stock that would be suitable for a 6-foot-1, 215-pound “washerwoman.”

  Half an hour later, decked out in a full-length flower-print dress, an old bonnet and granny glasses, I was nearly ready for my grand entrance. Trotter painted some red lines on my face to look like wrinkles, and as a final touch we loaded up an old bucket and a shopping bag with rags, a big box of Grandma’s Lye Soap and, of course, a mop, a scrub board and a contract. We made it back to the gym just as Clay and Jones were wrapping up their sparring and Diles was preparing to do his interview in the ring.

  The joint was packed, a full house, with people standing around the ropes. Stooped over, waving Clay’s letter of intent, I shuffled my way to the front of the crowd, chirping in my best Southern falsetto, “Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo! Is that Cautious Clay I see up there? Cautious, why are you afraid to fight a little ol’ washerwoman?”

  When I reached the ring, I swung the mop and bucket through the ropes and then climbed through. Out came the rags. Out came the box of Grandma’s Lye Soap. Cassius looked stunned. He was quiet and confused, just like he’d been when I’d chided him about his Popeye arms in Louisville.

  I knew full well how ridiculous I looked, but the stunt had the desired effect. Diles quickly instructed his cameraman to swing over to me before he stuck his microphone in my face. Naturally, I stayed in character. “Cautious Cassius backed out of fighting me,” I cackled, waving the letter of intent at the camera. “He’s chicken. How can he possibly be afraid of fighting someone like little ol’ me?”

  My stunt was the lead item on all the TV sportscasts later that evening, and in the next day’s papers Clay danced around the questions by saying he wasn’t going to fight anybody—least of all “that dirty Chuvalo”—before his upcoming title shot against Liston in February.

  My appearance in drag wasn’t the only excitement at the Big D that afternoon. While all the commotion was going on in the ring, somebody slipped into the dressing room and swiped Clay’s wallet. A handful of shady suspects who were hanging around the room were questioned, but the culprit was never found. I later found out that Cassius only had about $80 in his billfold, but he was furious that anyone would have the temerity to rob him. I guess he found out Detroit was a lot less friendly than Louisville.

  Shortly after we arrived in Miami for the Alongi fight, I was wrapping up a light workout at the Dundee brothers’ famous 5th Street Gym when I bumped into DeJohn, who’d dropped in to do some training. After we exchanged pleasantries, Mike invited me over to his house for a cup of tea. Neither of us knew it at the time, but he would never fight
again after the beating I’d laid on him in Louisville just five weeks earlier.

  It was kind of an odd feeling, because that was the only time during my whole career that I had a chance to sit down and talk to a guy I’d fought without the press being around. DeJohn was a real gentleman, and we spent an enjoyable hour or so talking about the fight game and some of our common opponents—a list that included Cleroux, Besmanoff and Miteff, among others. Then he surprised me by bringing up our fight. “I don’t remember a goddamned thing about it,” he said wistfully. “All I know is that they said you fouled me.”

  He didn’t seem angry, just a little confused.

  “Mike, when you get a chance to see the film you’ll see that I hit you fair and square,” I told him. “I had you bent over the ropes, but we both know there’s nothing in the rules that says I can’t hit you while you’re in that position.” He nodded in agreement but didn’t say anything more about it.

  I don’t know if Mike knew at that point that he was going to retire (he was only 32), but the fact he couldn’t remember anything about our fight was a pretty good indicator that he’d probably sustained a concussion and might want to think about doing something else. I sensed he was a little apprehensive about life after boxing, but we didn’t get into it. We wished each other luck and said goodbye. I never saw or spoke to him again.

  With a couple of days to kill before my fight with Alongi, we decided to liven things up a little in the Chuvalo camp by staging another pre-emptive strike by The Washerwoman. The target was the 5th Street Gym, where Angelo and Chris Dundee entertained sportswriters and TV crews almost on a daily basis.

  Once again, Trotter arranged for appropriate attire—but this time we had signs made up and mapped out a walking route for several blocks along Collins Avenue, right in the heart of Miami Beach. In addition to Trotter and me, our little raiding party included a very mortified Teddy McWhorter (who tried to hide behind his sign) and my sparring partner Chico Gardner.

  Angelo and Chris were genuinely horrified when we showed up at the gym, but once again it had the desired effect. We made the front page of The Miami Herald and all the local TV sportscasts, and it probably helped sell a few more tickets for the fight.

  Like DeJohn, Alongi was a tall transplanted northerner. Born in Clifton, New Jersey, he was an early protégé of Angelo Dundee and turned pro with him in Miami Beach in 1959. At 6 foot 3 and 205 pounds, he had a record of 31–2 going into our fight, with 19 KOs. The biggest wins on his résumé to that point were a KO of Don Warner two months earlier and a decision over George Logan at Madison Square Garden in 1961. Clay had knocked out both those guys in ‘62, so I wasn’t too worried.

  As it turned out, our fight was almost a replay of what happened with me and DeJohn.

  The first indication that it might be a long night came right after we were introduced to the full house at the Miami Beach Auditorium. After referee Cy Gottfried finished giving us his final instructions, he asked if there were any questions. Alongi, sounding like a frightened kid in the schoolyard, asked him to “watch out for the rough stuff.”

  What was this, ballroom dancing? Imagine a world-ranked heavyweight contender saying something like that!

  Tony had long arms and he was a decent counterpuncher, but right from the opening bell I was in his face, hammering him to the body. Every time he tried to clinch or push me off, I landed hard to the ribs or head. But Gottfried apparently took Tony’s pre-fight plea to heart because he repeatedly warned me about punching on the break—and I didn’t want a replay of what had happened in Louisville.

  Thirty seconds into Round 3, I staggered Alongi with an overhand right. He kind of sagged into the ropes, and on the tape it looks like his knee touches the canvas, but it wasn’t scored a knockdown. No matter. A minute later I floored him with another right to the head, and this time Gottfried started counting. Tony was on his feet at five, but I knew I had him.

  Over the last seven rounds Alongi kept looking up at the clock, as if hoping to speed things along through sheer willpower. I was outpunching him by about three to one—an output that prompted blow-by-blow commentator Don Dunphy to gush, “Wow! That man Chuvalo is a real street fighter!”

  Alongi was scoring some with his jab, but I was never in trouble. In the last two rounds I really opened up, looking to knock him out. He was staggered again in the ninth, and in the final round I landed three big hooks to the head that sent him reeling across the ring.

  Shouldn’t even be close, right? That was the consensus in my corner. But a few seconds later, when the ring announcer bellowed, “Judge Jimmy Ruby scores it 95–93 … Alongi!” I thought, “Here we go again.” The second judge, Bunny Lovett, got it right: 99–92, for me. Obviously nothing wrong with Bunny’s eyes. The deciding vote went to Gottfried, who scored it 95–93—for Alongi!

  Apparently Dunphy was as shocked as I was. He told the nationwide TV audience, “The crowd is vehement in disagreeing with this split decision.” I looked out into the sea of faces—remember, this was Alongi’s own backyard—and everybody was standing and booing. That made me feel a little better, but I was still very upset.

  Right after the fight, we filed a protest with the Miami Beach Boxing Commission, and the next day they met to review the scoring. It turned out that an error was made in adding up Gottfried’s scorecard, so the official verdict was changed to a draw. That was still highway robbery as far as I was concerned, and I told them so, in no uncertain terms.

  When I finished, Morris Klein, the chairman of the commission, made an insulting effort to smooth things over by offering me a “gift” of a used sports jacket. Can you believe that? I told Klein that I might only be a poor, struggling fighter from Canada, but I didn’t need clothing handouts from the Salvation Army, thank you very much.

  Another post-fight incident brought back memories of what had happened in Louisville a few weeks earlier, but with a different twist. An hour or so after we left the Auditorium, Teddy and I were unwinding at a nightclub in the black section of Miami. It was an upscale jazzy little place, and I was just sitting there, enjoying the music, when a nice-looking girl came over to our table and asked if I wanted to dance. Without giving it a second thought, I accepted and stepped out onto the floor.

  The music had only been playing for about 10 seconds when all of a sudden I felt someone tapping on my shoulder. I turned around, and there was the manager. “Sir, there is no mixed dancing here,” he said.

  While the guy was admonishing me, he was also glaring at the girl, who I suppose he assumed should have known better. I didn’t make a fuss, but I told the young lady I was sorry before walking back to the table.

  A minute or two later, who should appear at our table but Luis Rodriguez, the hammer-fisted Cuban who had won and lost the world welterweight championship in two decisions with Emile Griffith earlier that year. He looked like a Havana goodfella, all decked out in a pale blue suit, a frilly baby blue shirt and a snappy bow tie.

  “Hey George, what’s going on?” he said.

  “It’s no big deal, Luis. They just told me I can’t dance. Black and white don’t mix here, I guess.”

  “Who said that, the manager? The manager won’t let you dance?”

  I nodded.

  That’s all Rodriguez needed to know. As Teddy and I watched in amazement, he walked up to the manager, pulled a snub-nosed pistol from his waist, shoved it in the guy’s gut and snarled, “My friend Chew-valo can dance with whoever he want to, okay?”

  And dance I did. The rest of the evening was most enjoyable, to say the least.

  With the two nice paydays for DeJohn and Alongi, I was ending 1963 on a high note. Most of the money was already spoken for, thanks to a growing stack of bills back in Toronto, but I didn’t care. Lynne and the boys were coming down to Detroit for a short visit before we all went back home, and all I could think about was how nice it was going to be to spend Christmas with my family.

  Unfortunately, my rattletrap 1954 For
d product didn’t want to cooperate.

  No sooner had we left the Detroit city limits than the passenger-side window fell down into the door and couldn’t be coaxed back up again. Lynne, who was five months pregnant, solved that problem by balancing a suitcase on her shoulder in order to keep the wind and snow off Mitchell, Steven and Georgie Lee in the back seat. Twenty minutes later, the gas pedal broke. I stepped on the cotter pin, but that busted, too.

  I pulled over to the side of the highway and broke a branch off a small tree. “You’re going to have to get down on your knees and push this stick through the hole to give us gas,” I told Lynne. She looked at me like I was nuts, but since I was the only one with a driver’s license, she knew there was no other way.

  For the next two hours, the Chuvalomobile was transformed into a mini circus. Three little guys keeping up a steady banter when they weren’t snoozing or shivering in the back seat, and my pregnant wife on her hands and knees, depressing the gas linkage bar with a busted tree branch. “Okay honey, we’re going through a town now,” I would tell her. “You gotta slow us down.” Or, “We’re out on the highway now, dear, so we gotta do 60.”

  I didn’t know if Lynne was cursing or praying down there, but every time I looked at her I thought to myself, “She ought to be on television.” At one point Mitchell woke up and peered over the seat to see what his mom was doing on the floor. Very solemnly, he asked, “Papa, when are we going to get a new car?”

  Christmas came and went (and no, Santa didn’t bring me a new car), and then I was back at the Big D, getting ready for a January 17 TV date with cagey veteran Zora Folley in Cleveland.

  Although he only turned pro a year before I did, it seemed like Folley had been around forever. He was born in Texas in 1932 and grew up in Chandler, Arizona, with his sights set on a career in pro baseball before he joined the U.S. Army. It was in the military that he started boxing, and within a couple of years he earned the All-Army and All-Service championships. Zora was awarded five battle stars while serving in the Korean War, and he turned pro shortly after being discharged in 1953.