Chuvalo

by George Chuvalo

  What I needed more than anything in preparing for Frazier was confidence and direction, but Brown’s presence pretty much ensured my training camp was in a perpetual state of chaos. Of course, some of that’s on me; after the first day I should have insisted that Ungerman get rid of the guy, but I figured things would work out and we’d find our way. It didn’t happen.

  Considering what I’d experienced over the previous month, it was pretty amazing that my heart rate was only 36 beats per minute at the pre-fight medical at Madison Square Garden on the morning of July 19. I chalked it up to being able to put all the disorder of my training camp behind me and finally focus on what I was going to do to Frazier in a few hours. I weighed 217, and despite my bad eye and being an 11–5 underdog, I felt a real sense of inner calm. (By the way, my heart rate was exactly the same at the Toronto hospital a few days later; I remember the nurse screamed because she thought I was dying!)

  The bout was televised live, and the Garden was packed with 13,985 screaming New Yorkers. As expected, Joe came out throwing his left like a battering ram. It was kind of a half jab, half hook, and accurate as hell. There wasn’t a whole lot to pick between us in the first two rounds (some of the ringside reporters had me winning both), but Frazier was fast and difficult to hit cleanly. He nicked me on the forehead about a minute in, and I responded by trying to go with my bread and butter, working him to the body.

  I went back to the jab to start the second, but Frazier wasn’t nearly as stationary as he’d been in other fights. He bobbed and weaved, slipped punches and countered very well while plowing forward the whole time. Joe isn’t usually remembered as being particularly good defensively, so a lot of you might be surprised when I say he had the best defense of any guy I ever fought. He moved his head extremely well coming at you side to side, left to right, fighting out of that crouch. It’s awfully hard to nail a guy who can move like that.

  Frazier landed a couple of nice hooks and an errant elbow late in the second round that opened a gash on my right cheekbone, but it was nothing serious. Early in the third, I pinned him against the ropes and shook him with a left-right-left-right flurry to the head and body, but he was able to spin out of trouble before I could really unload.

  By now there was a steady flow of blood from my eye and I was having a lot of difficulty picking up Joe’s lefts. My peripheral vision was gone; I could still see the start of his punches, but then they just kind of dropped off the radar. Still, I managed to land a couple of decent uppercuts that backed Joe up, but before I could reload, he charged back to the attack and landed another big left that really blew up my eye. In the last 30 seconds it was sticking out about three-quarters of an inch. I looked like a one-eyed cat peeping into a seafood store.

  Before Round 4, the doctor came into my corner to check on the damage and I told him I was good to go—even though I couldn’t see a thing out of my right lamp. When the bell rang, Frazier stormed across the ring and landed two sharp left hooks square on the eyeball. The pain was excruciating, so I turned my head sideways and took a couple of steps toward my corner. That’s when referee Johnny Colan jumped in and waved it off. My initial reaction was to tell Johnny he was nuts, but in retrospect it’s a good thing he stopped the fight. If Joe had nailed me again, I probably would’ve been permanently blinded.

  As it was, Frazier’s final punch shattered the orbital floor of the eye socket and pretty much drove my eyeball south of the border, where it got lodged in the crack. They practically had to pick it up off the canvas. I got a temporary patch job right after the fight, but I waited until we got back home for the surgery, which was performed at Toronto Western Hospital. There, they cut through the socket bone, lifted out my eyeball, and then inserted a piece of silicone underneath to hold it in place.

  The night after the fight, Lynne and I watched a replay in our hotel room across the street from the Garden. After the second round it looked like Frazier was hitting me with four hands, but it was also painful to see all the chances I missed. Joe kept punching and pressuring, but I could see—even with one eye—that I hurt him with my uppercut, especially in Round 3. I don’t know why I stopped throwing it.

  As mad as I was at myself, I was more upset with Ungerman, who really showed his true colors in the dressing room afterward. He kept telling the reporters that I didn’t take much punishment and wasn’t hurt too much—like he was the one getting hit by Frazier’s punches.

  When Dave Anderson of The New York Times asked if I was going to retire, Irving said something I’ll never forget, a statement that was immortalized in Mark Kram’s story for Sports Illustrated: “No, Georgie’s gonna be around for a long time. Every kid on the way up is gonna want a piece of Georgie boy. He’ll be a great opponent for ’em … a great and rich trial horse.”

  I was dumbfounded. There I was, lying on the dressing room table, wondering if I’d ever see properly again, listening to my manager expound on how I’d be a “trial horse” for years to come. I wanted to get up and tear his miserable head off. Why not just offer to sell off my organs, too? I was so upset that I couldn’t go back to the hotel after they patched me up. Instead, I just roamed the streets until dawn.

  A lot of memories of that night came flooding back on November 7, 2011, when a reporter called to tell me Frazier had died of liver cancer. Joe and I had grown pretty close over the years, and we saw each other as often as our busy schedules would allow. He was always a gentleman and a real sweet guy. On the 40th anniversary of our fight, he came up to Toronto for a $600-a-plate charity banquet and auction to raise money for my Fight Against Drugs foundation and the youth programs he sponsored in Philadelphia.

  The last time we were together was at a gala in New York in June of 2010, and he looked great. In fact, I remember saying, “Hey Joe, let’s get the gloves back on!” Like always, we talked about the old days and had a lot of laughs. But in all the years since we rumbled, we never once talked about fighting each other—even though I can’t help thinking about it almost every day, because I still have vision problems. In fact, thanks to Joe, I have to close my right eye every time I parallel park a car.

  By the way, that little piece of silicone that the doctors used to repair my eye socket is destined to survive me. As I once told an interviewer from The Globe and Mail, one day, if I’m not cremated and I’m lying in a grave, when all the tendons and ligaments have worn away, that little chunk of plastic will eventually pop loose and ricochet into the back of my skull. And it will make a little noise, just a little tinkle. Maybe the termites that are around, or the insects, will hear the clink.

  Perhaps that sounds macabre, but I think it’s kind of cool, too, knowing that a tiny piece of me will be around for centuries.

  The Frazier fight also marked the last time I crossed myself in the ring before the opening bell. As a good Catholic I’d done it almost unconsciously since I first started boxing, but then I realized how absurd it was to ask God to help me beat up the guy in the opposite corner. I’m sure the man upstairs has more important things to do.

  ROUND 9

  RECOVERING FROM THE EYE INJURY KEPT ME out of the ring for the next 11 months, and in the interim the WBA conducted its heavyweight elimination tournament with eight participants: Floyd Patterson, Jerry Quarry, Oscar Bonavena, Karl Mildenberger, Jimmy Ellis, Thad Spencer, Ernie Terrell and the guy who was brought in to replace Frazier, Leotis Martin.

  The main sponsor of the tournament was a promotional group called Sports Action Inc., which agreed to pay $50,000 per man for the four quarter-final bouts, $75,000 for the semifinals and a guarantee of at least $100,000 each for the final.

  Televised live on ABC, the tournament opened on August 5 with a doubleheader at the Houston Astrodome that saw Spencer beat Terrell in a boring 12-round decision, followed by Ellis stopping Martin in nine. Martin, who would make headlines two years later by knocking Sonny Liston colder than an Alberta winter, was 24–1 when he fought Ellis—the best record of the eight invitees.

/>   Six weeks later in Frankfurt, Germany, Bonavena manhandled Mildenberger in a 12-round decision, and on October 28 in Los Angeles, Quarry floored Patterson twice en route to winning the rematch of their June fight, which had ended in a draw.

  The quarter-final bouts temporarily shifted boxing’s spotlight away from Ali’s political problems and focused it on what the WBA was dubbing “the showdown for succession,” but during the break between the two semifinal matches (Ellis dropped Bonavena twice in winning a decision in Louisville on December 2; Quarry stopped Spencer in Oakland on February 3, 1968), the tournament’s media profile was bushwhacked by Ed Dooley, the cagey chairman of the New York State Athletic Commission.

  Since the WBA had already announced that the much-hyped finale between Ellis and Quarry would take place April 27 in Oakland, Dooley called a press conference in early January to announce that Frazier and Mathis would square off March 4, with the winner earning New York’s recognition as world heavyweight champion. In short order, five other states—Pennsylvania, Texas, Illinois, Maine and Massachusetts—agreed to follow New York’s lead.

  Dooley’s smooth move pretty much harpooned any hope the WBA had of its tournament winner being recognized as the best heavyweight in the world. A lot of fight fans—probably a majority—already figured that with Ali out of the picture, Frazier was the “uncrowned” world champion, and his spectacular 11th-round knockout of Mathis, who went into their fight with a record of 26–0 and 17 KOs, only solidified that standing. A crowd of more than 18,000 turned out to watch—along with Nino Benvenuti regaining the middleweight championship from Emile Griffith in the co-head-liner—on the first card staged at the “new” Madison Square Garden at West 33rd Street and Seventh Avenue.

  Six weeks later, when Ellis defeated Quarry in 15 rounds in the anticlimactic WBA tournament finale, hardly anybody noticed—even though it gave Ellis “world champion” status in 44 states and most of Canada, too.

  A couple of weeks after my fight with Frazier, the American Medical Association published the results of yet another study that concluded professional boxing should be banned once and for all. The story cited my eye injury as “proof” of the potential for permanent impairment and included a recommendation that George Chuvalo never again be licensed to fight in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. Shortly after that, not knowing if I would ever fight again, Teddy McWhorter boarded a flight for England to become head trainer for former British Commonwealth champ Brian London.

  Recuperating from the eye surgery gave me a very welcome opportunity to spend more time with Lynne and the boys while I contemplated my next move. It was great to live a “normal” life for a change and not really worry too much about what I was eating or if I was getting enough sleep. My training regimen wasn’t nearly as active as when I had a bout lined up, but I maintained a routine of light workouts until I could start sparring again.

  On January 19, 1968, Lynne gave birth to our beautiful daughter, Vanessa, at Mount Sinai Hospital in Toronto. It was kind of a shock after four sons, but in a way it was easier because we were running out of names for boys. We both thought Vanessa was a pretty name (for a very pretty little girl), and the middle name Lynne was for her mother. Of course, Vanessa and Lynn were the names of the famous Redgrave sisters, two of the top movie stars of the 1960s. The new arrival was an instant hit with her four brothers, all of whom grew to be fiercely protective of their sister.

  Four days later, I was in Regina, Saskatchewan, to referee a Canadian light heavyweight title bout between Al Sparks and Leslie Borden. Sparks decked Borden in the opening round for a mandatory eight count and never looked back. What I remember most about that fight is that when Borden got knocked down again in the 11th, he looked up at me and yelled, “Foul!” I almost started laughing; I’d never seen a fighter do that before.

  With our family growing and no guarantees that my eye would heal well enough for me to ever fight again, Lynne and I started to think about alternative sources of income. Shortly after the Frazier fight I signed a deal with a Canadian company to market George Chuvalo Autograph Model boxing gloves and speed bags, and later that year Ungerman talked me into putting a chunk of dough into the Caravan Club, a restaurant/nightclub in downtown Toronto that he had a stake in and assured us was destined to become the most popular in the city. My official title was “host” and my duties consisted of a lot of glad-handing, smiling, posing for pictures and eating dinner with the well-heeled clientele.

  Irving flew Rocky Marciano up from Miami for the official opening, but, as usual, Rocky was more interested in getting laid and getting paid than in helping us publicize the new venture. He did a couple of newspaper interviews and put away a lot of free meals, but that was about it. His sage advice to me consisted of three words: “Quit boxing, George.”

  The nightclub venture was fun while it lasted—which turned out to be not very long at all. Within a few months it became a money pit, so instead of helping smooth the path to my life after boxing, the investment ended up costing us a bundle before we got out. As they always say, live and learn.

  By the spring of ‘68 I was getting a little restless, so when Labatt’s brewery invited me to join a goodwill mission to visit Canadian troops stationed in Soest and Lahr, Germany, I jumped at the opportunity. There were a half-dozen or so athletes making the 10-day trip, and my traveling companions included the legendary Maurice “Rocket” Richard, who had retired from the NHL’s Montreal Canadiens in 1960, and Toronto Argonauts offensive lineman Bill Frank.

  While all of us were honored by the opportunity to help brighten the lives of our guys in uniform, the trip was especially meaningful for Richard, who at the age of 18 had been turned down for military service at the beginning of World War II. Rocket told me he was heartbroken when X-rays taken during his medical exam showed that the pounding he took for being the best junior hockey player on the planet had damaged his ankles and wrists so much that he was deemed unfit for active duty.

  Big Bill Frank, on the other hand, was no stranger to trench warfare. At 6 foot 5, he was 260 pounds of mean muscle who’d been a junior college All-American in San Diego before starring for the University of Colorado. He broke into the CFL with the B.C. Lions in 1962, had a cup of coffee with the NFL’s Dallas Cowboys in ‘64, and then came back up north to star for the Argos from 1965–68 before moving on to the Winnipeg Blue Bombers. Bill was named a CFL all-star seven times, and in 2006 he was voted one of the league’s top 50 players of all time by Canadian sports network TSN.

  It was a fun trip. For the most part, we just spoke to the troops, did Q-and-A sessions, that sort of thing. The base gyms had heavy bags set up, so I trained a little bit, too. The soldiers seemed to get a kick out of our being there—especially Richard, who was mobbed like a rock star. The Rocket was a real gentleman, very polite and humble. Listening to him, you’d never guess he was one of hockey’s all-time greatest players.

  Frank and I hit it off right away, and we ended up bunking together. We teased each other mercilessly. Bill was a party animal, and as soon as he got up in the morning, he’d crack his first beer—then drink almost nonstop until the wee hours … with no visible effect. I don’t know how the hell he did it. But on the bus ride to Frankfurt to fly home to Trenton, Ontario, big Bill’s iron constitution finally went kaput.

  We boarded the bus at seven in the morning, and about 15 minutes into the ride Frank jumped up and yelled at the German driver, “Stoppen sie bus! Stoppen sie bus!” I asked him what was wrong. “Gotta take a dump!” he boomed. Meanwhile, the driver had no idea what the hell was going on … and Bill was in a serious state of, uh, discomfort. “Stop this fuckin’ bus!” he roared.

  Too late.

  Bill was wearing tan trousers, so you can imagine the scene as he lost control, surrounded by a bus full of horrified onlookers. The poor driver finally pulled over, and Bill jumped out. There was a road crew digging a trench nearby, so he ran over, plopped himself down in the trench and tri
ed to clean himself up—with those tan trousers down around his ankles. Figuring this would make a nice photo for his opponents to put up on their locker-room walls, I grabbed my camera and started clicking away. “Hey Billy, nice ass!”

  You get the picture.

  The funniest thing was that after he cinched up his drawers and made his way back on the bus, Frank asked me if I thought Labatt’s would pay to get his pants cleaned. He finally ended up reluctantly throwing them away. What a guy!

  Even though it was peacetime, that trip to Germany really made me appreciate the sacrifice made by members of the armed forces who are posted overseas. As tough as it is for their families back home, I imagine it’s worse for the men and women who have to endure months and months of separation from their loved ones. I had the same feeling 40 years later when I was asked to send a video greeting to Canadian troops fighting in Afghanistan.

  I made my comeback on June 5, 1968, with a defense of my Canadian title against Jean-Claude Roy in Regina, Saskatchewan. If that date sounds familiar, it’s because about 20 hours before we stepped into the ring, New York Senator Robert F. Kennedy had been critically wounded by an assassin in Los Angeles, right after winning the California primary in his bid to become the Democratic Party’s nominee for president of the United States.

  As you can imagine, the crowd at Regina’s Exhibition Stadium was pretty small and pretty subdued. The promoter, my buddy Nick Zubray, was beside himself. “If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all,” he sniffed. Kennedy was very popular in Canada, and people stayed home to watch TV updates on his condition as surgeons fought to save his life. The senator ended up dying three days later.