Chuvalo

by George Chuvalo

  Barrett, whom the British press nicknamed “Barnum” after circus promoter P.T. Barnum, also arranged for me to take a stroll down London’s Shaftesbury Avenue with a bear! He thought it was a great idea: a bear from the wild hinterland of … Toronto. I can still hear him explaining it in his clipped English accent: “Don’t worry, George; perfectly safe, old boy. The beast is tame as a kitten. Got ‘im from the circus, I did.”

  Tame? Maybe. Perfectly safe? Not if the bandaged fingers of one of the bear’s handlers was anything to go by.

  It was a female cub, borrowed from the Bertram Mills Circus. Barrett got a big kick out of telling the reporters the animal’s name was “Max Bear,” even though she was really called Susie. By the time the handlers got her harnessed up and handed me the leash to walk the few blocks to the gym, a pretty big crowd was gathered.

  I was escorted by Barrett’s cute little secretary, who was dressed up as a Mountie, and it quickly turned into quite a spectacle. Barrett had tipped off the press, naturally, but he didn’t bother to let the police in on the gimmick. The next day’s story in the Daily Mirror said that a paddy wagon sent to check on the “Shaftesbury disturbance” nearly caused a multicar crash when the cops spotted the bear sitting in the middle of the street—with me anxiously tugging on the leash, trying to coax it along.

  It took some fancy talking from Barrett to avoid being written up for disturbing the peace, but the stunt got us a lot of ink, including several photos that were picked up by the international wire services.

  Bygraves, who beat Tonga’s Kitione Lave in a 15-round decision for the Commonwealth title in 1956 and then lost it to Joe Erskine the following year, had a record of 42–26–2 going into our fight. He was a big, strong guy but not a dangerous puncher. In his first title defense in ‘56 he’d knocked out Henry Cooper, but he had only five stoppages since, including a first-round KO of German champ Albert Westphal the previous February. Joe had a reputation for starting quickly and then running out of gas, and that’s exactly how he fought me.

  In the opening round he showed a decent jab and surprisingly quick feet for a big guy, but I was still able to walk him down and rake him to the body. He took a good shot, and for four or five rounds he didn’t back up much. In the eighth, he went reeling across the ring after a big flurry and late in the 10th I finally dropped him with a left hook. He was still on the canvas when the bell rang to end it. I easily won the decision but would have preferred a clean KO.

  A few days before the fight, I made a point of introducing myself to Cooper’s manager, Jim Wicks, when he dropped by the gym to watch me spar. Wicks looked like a dapper version of Alfred Hitchcock, the famous British movie producer. “Hello,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m George Chuvalo. When are you going to let Henry meet me for the Commonwealth title?”

  Wicks gave me the once-over, smiled and replied in that clipped English accent, “He doesn’t even want to meet you socially.”

  He meant it, too. In the 12 years that Cooper held the Commonwealth crown (1959–71), he defended it 10 times, including three fights against Erskine and two against fellow Englishman Jack Bodell. But for 10 of those 12 years, Cooper was ranked below me in both the Commonwealth and world ratings. Despite repeated challenges, Sir ‘Enery chose never to fight me. When we offered him $40,000 to defend the title, he said he wanted $120,000. That was just another way of saying there was no way he would ever face me. After watching me demolish Bygraves, Cooper told the British newspaper The Sun, “Chuvalo is ugly … a dirty rough-houser, like [Sonny] Liston.” That was his usual excuse for avoiding anyone he thought was too tough. Years later, he wrote the same thing in his autobiography: “As Jim always said, George was ‘too ugly.’ We only liked good-looking fighters! Anyway, that was as good an excuse as any. Chuvalo was a rough handful.”

  Before heading back to Toronto, Teddy and I and our pal Mort Greenberg made a quick trip across the Channel to visit Paris. Mort wanted to check out the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Élysées, while Teddy was on a different mission. He’d long dreamed of getting lucky in the city’s famous Quartier Pigalle red-light district, so I went along—strictly for moral support.

  We were guided to a place where the girls charged $3, plus $2 for the room—a financial arrangement my trainer found acceptable. While I waited in a nearby café, Teddy went off to do his business. Fifteen minutes passed. Then half an hour. Then 45 minutes. I used to tease Teddy about being the original “minute man” when it came to his romantic interludes, so I was getting a little concerned. Finally, he came walking through the door of the café, bearing a scowl on his face that made him look like a 126-pound version of Sonny Liston.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Well, man, she told me she was gonna wash my privates … but then she did this to it,” he replied, grabbing my hand and demonstrating by digging his thumbnail into my finger. “It hurt like hell.”

  “So did you get lucky?” I asked.

  A resounding “No!” he replied.

  “Okay, but what took you so long?” said I.

  Teddy’s face winced as he moaned, “Man, I was tryin’ to get my money back!”

  I flew home to spend Christmas with Lynne and the kids, then returned to London to fight Eduardo Corletti on January 25, 1966, in what was supposed to be a tune-up for a possible showdown with Cooper.

  Corletti was a handsome kid who had represented Argentina at the 1959 Pan-American Games and the 1960 Rome Olympics, where he lost in the second round of the tournament to Obrad Sretenovic of Yugoslavia. He turned pro in 1961 and had five KOs in six fights in Argentina before relocating to Italy, where he was trained and managed by Aldo Spoldi, a former European lightweight champ.

  Using Rome as his base, Corletti fought all over the continent for the next few years, with mixed success. In 11 fights he was 5–2–4, but the two losses were back-to-back KOs to Ray Patterson (Floyd’s younger brother) and Italian journeyman Giorgio Masteghin. By the time we hooked up at the Olympia Circus Arena, Corletti was coming off a knockout win over Billy Walker, who was ranked No. 2 in Britain.

  That shows you how deceiving records can be. Maybe I took him lightly, but Corletti beat me fair and square in a 10-round decision. It wasn’t a great fight. I always had problems when I couldn’t work on the inside, and other than Ali, Corletti proved to be the fastest guy I ever fought in terms of foot speed—even faster than Patterson. I had a lot of trouble trying to trap him because he was so quick. Plus, every time I managed to muscle inside and get a hand free, referee Harry Gibbs pulled us apart. That’s how they do it in England; I guess they don’t think infighting is very “gentlemanly.”

  Anyway, at some point I fractured Corletti’s cheekbone, but it didn’t slow him down much. I’m embarrassed that both Jerry Quarry and Al “Blue” Lewis knocked him out in one round a few years later, but that’s how it goes. I’m not denigrating Corletti’s style—he was very, very quick—but for some reason he chose to stand and trade with Quarry and Lewis instead of running, like he did with me. As they say, styles make fights.

  Corletti went on to be ranked in the top 10 in 1967–68, peaking at No. 3 in the WBA ratings. After getting starched by Quarry in 1972, he was knocked out in three straight fights and retired with a career record of 32–14–5, with 17 KOs.

  I was extremely depressed on the long flight home from London, wondering if the loss to Corletti would knock me out of title contention. But then, thanks to the Nation of Islam, out of nowhere I got an offer to fight Ali for the world championship.

  Or so I thought.

  ROUND 7

  I WAS SITTING IN UNGERMAN’S OFFICE ON THE afternoon of March 12, 1966, when the telephone rang. Irving picked it up and told the caller I was there with him, so he put it on the speaker. “Hi, George … this is Mike Malitz in New York. I’ll get right to the point: How’d you like to fight Ali for the title on March 29?”

  Malitz was executive vice-president of Main Bout Inc., a group of investors tha
t also included Ali’s manager, Herbert Muhammad; lawyer Bob Arum (this fight marked his first foray into boxing); Nation of Islam national secretary John Ali; and Jim Brown, the great NFL running back who retired after the 1965 season. Their plan for a title showdown with Ernie Terrell had fallen apart, so they were looking for somebody to take Terrell’s place.

  It was only 17 days’ notice, but Malitz knew I’d take it if we were fighting in 17 minutes. Still, I decided to have a little fun. “Sounds pretty good, Mike … but I gotta talk to my wife first and see if we’re doing anything on the 29th. I’ll call you right back.”

  Then I called Lynne.

  “Lynne, what are we doing on the 29th of this month?” I asked.

  “Nothing, why?”

  “‘Cause you’re going to the fights.”

  “Who’s fighting?”

  “Me”

  “Who are you fighting?”

  “Muhammad Ali.”

  My wife started laughing.

  “No, doll. For real.”

  I went back on the other line. “Hey, Mike, it’s okay. I’m free.”

  Actually, I wasn’t. A couple of weeks earlier, we’d signed a contract with promoter Chris Dundee to fight Levi Forte on March 29 in Miami. Once the bout with Ali was announced, Dundee threatened to get a court injunction to stop it. It was all for show, because Chris wasn’t about to screw his brother Angie out of a payday with Ali, but Ungerman ended up piecing him off anyway. On top of that, there had been a press conference just a couple of days earlier, confirming that it would be Ali and Terrell at Maple Leaf Gardens on the 29th, so this really was an 11th-hour deal.

  Malitz’s offer wasn’t much—20 per cent of the gate, plus a piece of the theater TV sales—but to my way of thinking it was a now-or-never proposition and I didn’t want to blow the opportunity. It was a rush job, like having five minutes to get ready for a date with a beautiful woman (like Raquel Welch!). You’ve got to get shaved and showered, brush your teeth, comb your hair. There’s no time to prepare the way you really should.

  That’s what it felt like when I got the offer, but I knew I had to go for it. Plus, I fully expected to win. I figured once I had the title, the money would follow.

  Main Bout’s plan for an Ali-Terrell showdown had started to fall apart almost from the moment they announced it.

  The fight was originally scheduled to take place in Rutherford, New Jersey, but there was so much heat from war veterans over Ali’s anti-Vietnam stance that the plug was pulled almost immediately. The New York State Athletic Commission also refused to license it because of Terrell’s connections to Glickman and his cronies, so Main Bout then tried Philadelphia, which slammed the door. Even Muhammad’s hometown of Louisville said no after the Kentucky state senate passed a resolution that read, “His attitude brings discredit to all loyal Kentuckians and to the names of the thousands who gave their lives for this country during his lifetime.” The next attempt was Chicago, but the Illinois Athletic Commission didn’t want the fight, either.

  Main Bout then looked north and contacted promoter Loren Cassina, who tried to put together a deal for the fight to take place in Montreal. Cassina got Mayor Jean Drapeau on board, but then the American Legion contacted Drapeau and told him that if the fight took place, they would organize a boycott of Expo 67. Drapeau quickly backed down.

  The reception was the same in Verdun, Quebec. Offers came in from Vancouver, Edmonton and two Ontario cities—Kingston and tiny Cobourg—before Main Bout finally settled on Toronto.

  For a time everything seemed set for the fight to take place at Maple Leaf Gardens, but then Terrell’s manager of record, Bernie Glickman, made a near-fatal miscalculation.

  No doubt recalling how easy it was to scare the shit out of Ungerman prior to my fight with Ernie four months earlier, Glickman went to see Herbert Muhammad, who besides being Ali’s manager and promoter was the No. 2 man in the Nation of Islam. Glickman must have posed the same threat that he used on Ungerman … just a different lake: if Ali won the fight, Herbert would end up in a cement box at the bottom of Lake Michigan.

  But Glickman wasn’t dealing with the likes of Ungerman this time. All Herbert had to do was snap his fingers and a couple of his Black Muslim henchmen, better known as the Fruit of Islam, would pound Glickman to a pulp. He was interrogated by the police but he wouldn’t talk. He went directly from the hospital to a mental institution and never saw the light of day again. The next day, Terrell announced he was pulling out.

  That’s how I ended up getting my first fight with Ali.

  Terrell claimed he pulled out because Main Bout backed down on his guarantee—supposedly $50,000 from the live gate and $100,000 from theater TV, plus training expenses—but I think that’s total B.S. Glickman’s beating sent a very clear signal that nobody, not even the mob, was going to mess with the Nation of Islam.

  Even before we made the deal with Malitz, Conn Smythe, the war hero who built Maple Leaf Gardens in 1931, read about plans for the fight while he was vacationing in Florida. Although he’d recently relinquished control of the arena, Smythe retained 5,100 shares in Maple Leaf Gardens Ltd. and a seat on its board of directors.

  Ali was the antithesis of everything Smythe stood for, and when he got the news that Toronto was opening its arms to welcome a draft resister who was being so vocal in condemning the Vietnam War, it was more than Smythe could stomach. He called Harold Ballard to confirm the report, then followed up with a letter to the effect that he would resign his directorship and demand that his shares be bought out unless Ballard could guarantee that “Clay” would not be fighting in Maple Leaf Gardens.

  The cantankerous Ballard, who wanted the fight all along, had no qualms about accepting Smythe’s resignation. Harold promptly cut a deal with Main Bout for a share of the closed-circuit TV rights and told the press he wasn’t at all worried about negative publicity.

  The same day the TV deal was announced, former light heavyweight champ Billy Conn was interviewed by The New York Times and said, “I’ll never go to another one of Clay’s fights. He is a disgrace to the boxing profession, and I think any American who pays to watch him after what he has said about Vietnam should be ashamed. They should stay away from those closed-circuit television shows.”

  The Ontario Athletic Commission and some mealy-mouthed Canadian politicians felt the same way. The OAC was under the jurisdiction of the Ontario Department of Labour. The commission’s chairman, Merv McKenzie, spinelessly announced he had to consult with Labor Minister Les Rowntree before giving final approval to the fight. McKenzie said he wanted it to be either 14 or 16 rounds so that it couldn’t be considered a title bout. With typical Canadian reticence, he told the Toronto Star, “I want to clear up whatever political overtones the government might be sensitive to concerning Clay.”

  Those “overtones” came from the likes of George Ben, a Liberal member of the Ontario Legislature, who grabbed some ink by arguing the fight “would lower the international prestige of Toronto.” The Royal Canadian Legion then got in on the act. In a show of solidarity with its American counterpart, the Legion launched a campaign to pressure theater TV outlets against showing the fight. The political pressure and Legion protests on both sides of the border resulted in nearly 100 of 280 signed outlets canceling the telecast.

  In the end, McKenzie and his cohorts decreed that as far as Ontario was concerned, Ali vs. Chuvalo would not be a world championship fight. Instead, they called it a “heavyweight showdown” and ordered that the tickets and souvenir programs bill it as such. There was no concern about posters, because the fight was made on such short notice that none were printed.

  The OAC’s gutless move really cheapened it for me, making it sound like it was an exhibition. It was so bloody Canadian … and it hurt that it was my own province and city that were screwing me. I felt like Gary Cooper in High Noon, being left to face the bad guys all alone. It still angers me today when I see that program, with the caption under Ali’s picture that s
ays, “The People’s Champion.” Virtually everywhere else on the planet he was recognized as the one and only true world champion—but not in good old Ontario.

  What was really galling was that these guys were basically just writing me off, like there was no way in the world I could win the fight. And if I did win, my own hometown wouldn’t recognize me as the world champion. Thanks for the support!

  With few exceptions, the Canadian media lapped up everything that was spoon-fed to them by McKenzie, and none of the Toronto writers had the balls to write how absurd it was to deny that we were having a legitimate world title fight. A columnist in Winnipeg wrote, “If Clay is permitted to have a ‘world championship’ bout in Toronto, there isn’t enough disinfectant in the Dominion to clean the stench out of Maple Leaf Gardens.” The headline over Jim Kernaghan’s story in the Toronto Star was “Clay hated by millions!” In the Los Angeles Times, Jim Murray wrote that Ali was “a Black Benedict Arnold” and advised him to never go anywhere near the Lincoln Memorial in Washington “because those will be real tears running down Abe’s cheeks.”

  One of the few writers who showed any guts was The Ring’s Nat Fleischer. He really ripped into McKenzie for letting the WBA dictate Ontario’s affairs, telling the Canadian Press, “I’m probably setting myself up to be blasted by Mr. McKenzie and his commission, but I’ve been blasted by far better men.”

  Personally, I didn’t support the Vietnam War either, but I didn’t think Ali’s stance on it would stir up such a hornet’s nest. I didn’t talk about his situation, and nobody asked me about it. Maybe it would’ve been different if I was an American, but all the politics seemed beside the point.

  I’d gotten to know Muhammad a little bit ever since our first meeting before I fought Mike DeJohn in 1963, and I liked him—even though he backed out of the deal to fight me after I whipped DeJohn. We’d kibitzed each other with the “Washerwoman” stuff, had fun with it. The poetry, the boasting … he got all that from watching Gorgeous George, the wrestler. But Ali took it to another level, and it was refreshing. Boxing had never had a showman like him, and I thought it was great.