Chuvalo

by George Chuvalo

  I never for a moment thought that Ali would beat Foreman, even after Muhammad hinted that he knew how to do it. When he first started leaning on the ropes and inviting George to pound on him, even Angelo Dundee was surprised … and angry. On the film, you can hear Angie screaming at him to get off the ropes. But Muhammad definitely knew what he was doing; by the end of Round 3 Foreman was already gassed.

  So is it any wonder I’m still piqued at Mercante?

  By the way, as much as I doubted that Ali had a snowball’s chance in hell against Foreman, years later I was even more skeptical about George’s comeback, which he launched in the spring of 1987 with a fourth-round KO of Steve Zouski—10 years after his first retirement.

  As he kept chalking up the wins, however, I was really impressed by the way George transformed himself—both as a fighter and as a person. When he was a young guy, he wasn’t that likable; he was surly, almost arrogant. But when he came back, he was like a different person; always affable and smiling. People identified with him. He went from being a menacing, brooding Sonny Liston wannabe to a self-effacing, roly-poly jokester who seemed more interested in scoffing down cheeseburgers than knocking out opponents. But knock them out he did: 23 in a row, until he dropped a title challenge against Evander Holyfield in 1991. But three years later, after Holyfield had been dethroned by Michael Moorer, Big George became the oldest lineal heavyweight champion when he KO’d Moorer just two months shy of his 46th birthday. That capped what for my money is the greatest comeback in all of sports history.

  I was one of several of Foreman’s opponents from the 1960s and ‘70s who were interviewed for a story in Sports Illustrated a week before his fight with Holyfield. We were asked to rate George’s punching prowess, and while most of the guys said he was the hardest hitter they ever faced, one notable exception was Levi Forte, whom I KO’d twice, in 1966 and ‘68. He’d dropped a 10-round decision to Foreman six months before my fight with George in 1970.

  “It was close,” Forte said. “He had me down in the first round and he broke three of my ribs, but I still went the distance. Foreman’s a heavy hitter, but not the heaviest. George Chuvalo hit the hardest.”

  ELEVEN days after my date with Foreman, I was back in the ring—halfway around the world.

  The previous year, on my first visit to my parents’ homeland of Bosnia-Herzegovina I’d basically just toured around and soaked up the warmth and hospitality of relatives and family friends who’d been following my career from long distance for more than a decade. It was overwhelming … and humbling, to say the least. In Zagreb and Sarajevo, I’d been embraced like a prodigal son. In Ljubuski, the closest town to my father’s village of Proboj, they closed the schools and public buildings and declared a civic holiday so that everyone could attend the mayor’s reception for me.

  It was during that initial visit that a promoter named Ivan Lakoseljac hatched the idea of having me headline a card at the soccer stadium in Sarajevo. We’d actually tossed it around for a couple of months and worked out a deal before I signed to fight Foreman, so Ivan was none too happy about me taking the fight in New York so close to his August 15 date. Losing to George put a bit of a damper on the idea for a splashy homecoming bout, but there was no way I was going to cancel the trip.

  My opponent was Mike Bruce, a former U.S. national Golden Gloves finalist from Springfield, Massachusetts, who’d turned pro with great fanfare in 1964 but never came close to fulfilling his potential. In just his fourth fight, Bruce was showcased on the undercard of the Ali–Liston rematch (he won a six-round decision over Abe Brown), and two outings later he made a name for himself by dropping Joe Frazier for an eight count in the opening round of what was Smokin’ Joe’s second pro fight. Frazier came back to KO him in the third.

  As it turned out, the weigh-in was more memorable than our fight.

  The day before, in front of the press and hundreds of curious onlookers, the head of the Sarajevo boxing commission, an older gent named Hajrudin Mehmedbasic, seemed genuinely concerned about my safety. Sizing up Bruce’s chiseled 6-foot-3 physique as Mike stepped on the scale and the photographers clicked away, Mehmedbasic leaned over and whispered slowly and emphatically in Croatian, “George [long pause] … he’s taller than you!” A minute later, after another official called out Bruce’s weight—245 pounds to my 215—he leaned over again and whispered, with the same dramatic concern, “George … he’s heavier than you!” After Mike and I posed for a photo together, he sidled up to me one last time. Shaking his head, he quietly muttered, “George … he’s younger than you.” In his mind, he couldn’t see how I could possibly beat this guy, who was indeed nine years younger, taller and heavier. Just the same, I thought his fatherly concern was kind of cute.

  The commissioner needn’t have worried. Five minutes after the national anthems finished reverberating through the packed Kosevo Stadium—which was adorned with a massive portrait of Marshal Josip Broz Tito at one end—I knocked Bruce out with a left hook to the head. The referee didn’t even bother to count.

  As soon as Bruce hit the deck, the place exploded. I’d never fought in front of such a partisan crowd in my life—and I never would again. They were yelling and chanting my name like I’d just won the championship of the world. It went on and on, until a bunch of my relatives who had come up from Herzegovina came pouring into the ring and carried Teddy and me back to the dressing room on their shoulders. That’s something I’ll never forget.

  The next day, I took Teddy back to Proboj, the village my parents were from. Everybody turned out for the party, and as I was introducing McWhorter around, one of the older residents asked me what “bloodline” Teddy was. Since there were a lot of North Africans in Yugoslavia in those days, I simply replied, “He’s a black person.” The man gave Teddy the once-over and said, “What kind of black person? He’s a gypsy!”

  The sight of McWhorter donning a fez and riding around on a donkey only endeared him to the villagers. Teddy loved it there … and they loved him. One of my cousins even lined up a woman for him in a neighboring village so that Teddy could get lucky, but when he showed up at her place there were a bunch of dogs running around the yard, yapping like crazy. He got scared and high-tailed it back to Proboj.

  I think every resident of the village turned out for the celebratory feast to mark our visit. My aunt Janja’s contribution to the menu was a young lamb, but when she killed the poor thing by slashing its throat, Teddy was mortified. “Man, I can’t eat that,” he said. After it was dead, Janja cut out its knee joints and hung the carcass on a tree branch. By blowing into the hollowed-out joint in each leg she was able to peel the skin right off, exposing the bare flesh. In minutes, there was a mouthwatering aroma wafting from the barbecue—and Teddy had an instant change of heart. He said it was the best lamb he’d ever eaten.

  I thought about Teddy and how much fun we had on that trip when I was invited back to Ljubuski in 2011 for the unveiling of a granite-and-bronze statue of me in front of the town’s sports center. Just like in 1970, it was a very humbling experience to be so warmly greeted by relatives and friends, most of whom I hadn’t seen in decades.

  The statue—a life-size rendering of me throwing a left hook—is mounted on a block of granite adorned with a carved maple leaf. In his dedication speech, Ante Simovic, president of the Boxing Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, said my career had stirred national pride in my parents’ homeland all those years ago: “Back then, everyone in my generation imagined George somewhere on the other side of the planet, with unbelievable strength in body and soul, contending against the biggest and strongest in the world,” said Simovic.

  Former European heavyweight champ Zeljko Mavrovic unveiled the statue, which was sculpted by renowned artist Fabijan Tomic. It was very moving. When it came my time to speak, addressing the big crowd in Croatian, I said, “I was born in Canada, I live in Canada, but a piece of my heart and soul will forever remain here in this monument. You have made me very proud.”
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br />   I know my mother and father would’ve been proud, too. That statue is as much a tribute to them as it is to me.

  Teddy and I enjoyed a short detour through Italy on our way back to Toronto, then took a few weeks off before getting back to work. In the interim, I was asked by The Canadian Magazine to pick the 10 best fighters in the National Hockey League for a cover story. My choice as the NHL’s “heavyweight champion” was Montreal Canadiens left winger John Ferguson, of whom I wrote:

  “What makes Ferguson the champion is his tremendously aggressive instincts. For instance, he destroyed Chicago’s Eric Nesterenko twice, once knocking him cold with one punch and then hitting him with a second punch before Nesterenko even reached the ice. Ferguson has terrifically fast hands. Judging by the effect they have, they must be very hard as well. Gordie Howe is probably the closest threat to Ferguson, but since Ferguson repeatedly defends his reputation, I’d have to say he’s the champion. His one weakness is that nose of his. Few boxers ever made it with a nose like that: hit it with one good punch and the blood runs out like a faucet. I’m surprised more hockey fighters haven’t found the mark.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been so effusive about Fergie’s fighting ability, because a few weeks after the story was published, a Toronto Telegram columnist named Paul Rimstead floated the idea of promoting a three-round exhibition between me and Fergie at the Canadian National Exhibition. It got a lot of media attention for a couple of days, until Canadiens general manager Sam Pollock issued a statement saying that under no circumstances would the hockey club agree to allow Ferguson to get in the ring with me.

  Not that it would’ve been even remotely competitive. Fighting on skates in hockey is completely different from boxing, and more than once I’ve watched so-called “tough guy” hockey players get taken apart by boxers half their size when they’ve squared off between the ropes. The best example was in 1978, when my pal Benny “Red” Randall, a 43-year-old lightweight who’d retired 10 years earlier with a record of 4–14–1 (one of those losses was a 10-round decision to the great Willie Pep), laid a one-round boxing lesson on 25-year-old Toronto Maple Leafs enforcer Dave “Tiger” Williams during a private sparring session at Sully’s Toronto Athletic Club.

  A week before Halloween, I was back in action, defending my Canadian title with a first-round KO of Tommy Burns (no, not that Tommy Burns—not even a reasonable facsimile!) in Hamilton, Ontario. The most memorable thing about it was that I didn’t throw a single punch in the first minute after the bell rang, which was probably a record for my career. Burns ran like a thief until I dropped him face-first with a body shot. As the correspondent for The Ring put it, “It took Chuvalo longer to lace his boots than it did for him to end the fight.” Three weeks later, I stopped tough Tony Ventura in four rounds in Montreal. Ventura had wins over Dick Wipperman and Levi Forte and was coming off a decision loss to Joe Bugner.

  My last fight of 1970 was supposed to be on December 11 against Mike Boswell, from Youngstown, Ohio, who turned pro earlier that year after a stellar amateur career that saw him lose just nine of 170 fights. I heard he’d decked Ken Norton and beaten Earnie Shavers in the amateurs, so it was no surprise he won his first 12 pro outings, scoring 11 knockouts—including two stoppages of J.D. McCauley, the uncle of future heavyweight champ Buster Douglas.

  Dean Chance, a veteran major league pitcher who was just winding down his career with the Detroit Tigers after stops in Los Angeles, Minnesota, Cleveland and New York, was Boswell’s manager. Chance was known for never looking at home plate once he received the sign from his catcher. Halfway through his windup, he’d turn his back fully toward the hitter before whirling around and unleashing a blazing fastball with pinpoint accuracy. Apparently, Chance didn’t have the same control over his fighter.

  Two days before Boswell was supposed to fight me, he was shot twice in the back during a bar brawl over a woman. According to a report in The Ring, Mike calmly took the gun from his attacker and then beat him with it until the cops showed up. With Boswell out of the picture, Chance, who was also promoting the show, scrambled to find a replacement. He came up with a guy named Charles Couture, who would never fight again after I got through with him at the Austintown Fitch High School gym in Youngstown. It took me all of four minutes to end Couture’s boxing aspirations with a second-round KO.

  Much more memorable than the fight was the warm reception I got in Youngstown, both from the fans and the commission, which was headed by a great guy named Blackie Gennaro. He presented me with a long leather overcoat, which was just the thing to take home to face another Toronto winter.

  Oh, by the way, Dean Chance remained in boxing long after Boswell’s career had run its course. He managed Earnie Shavers through much of the ‘70s, and later founded the International Boxing Association, which he still heads.

  ROUND 12

  BY THE SPRING OF 1971 I WAS TAKING CARE OF all my own expenses and was no longer contractually obligated to give Ungerman a piece of my purses. He was still working my corner because he loved to be seen, but from then on he was strictly a front man.

  It was around this time that Ungerman formed All Canada Sports Promotions to get his paws on the lucrative closed-circuit TV pie. For a while, he partnered with Alan Eagleson, the head of the National Hockey League Players’ Association, who also served as the agent for Boston Bruins superstar Bobby Orr. That’s why Canadian closed-circuit posters for many of Muhammad Ali’s bouts in the mid-’70s carry a dual promotional banner reading “All Canada Sports Promotions and Bobby Orr Enterprises present …”

  I wonder if Bobby ever realized he was briefly in the boxing business?

  In March, Ungerman offered me a May fight in Toronto against top-10 contender Jose Luis Garcia, a hulking 6-foot-4 southpaw from Caracas, Venezuela. Eight months earlier, Garcia had shocked the boxing world by knocking out previously undefeated Ken Norton, and he also had a KO win over Thad Spencer. A week or so after I told Irving to go ahead and make the match, he decided Garcia wasn’t a big enough name to draw a full house at Maple Leaf Gardens, so he came back with another offer: $40,000 to fight Jimmy Ellis. I immediately agreed, but Lynne had other ideas, figuring I should be paid more to take on the former WBA champ. But when she started to argue the point, Irving cut his offer by $5,000. “Take it or leave it,” he said. So I reluctantly took it.

  To be honest, I don’t remember much about fighting Ellis, who won the 10-round decision by scores of 48–46, 48–44 and 49–43. I’m not making excuses, but the post-fight medical revealed I had a lack of potassium in my system, which made me feel totally drained, like a bad case of the flu.

  What I do recall is that Ellis moved very well. He was slick and hard to trap, but I hurt him with a head shot in the fourth or fifth round. Angelo Dundee, who was Jimmy’s trainer/manager, told me afterward that Ellis was ready to go, but I didn’t realize it. Angie kept yelling at him to stay out of the corner, but I didn’t have the energy to keep him there anyway. I wasn’t surprised by the result; I didn’t win decisions.

  Excuse me; I should say I rarely won decisions.

  One of the few exceptions came six months after the Ellis fight, when I beat the Big Cat, Cleveland Williams, in a 10-rounder on the undercard of Ali’s win over Buster Mathis at the Houston Astrodome. Mike Boswell was also on the undercard, dropping a 10-rounder to Joe Bugner, the statuesque Hungarian-born No. 2 contender—behind me—for Jack Bodell’s British Commonwealth title. I say “statuesque” because Bugner was a big guy—6 foot 4—and very strong-looking, like a statue. But he threw a punch about every half-hour. He was just another in the long line of Commonwealth contenders who wouldn’t fight me.

  I was happy to take on Williams. It was a big promotion, with international TV, and I knew he’d come to fight. Williams was a good puncher with a huge wingspan. He was built like a black Li’l Abner: massive upper body, very muscular arms … and skinny legs. And, of course, he still had a bullet lodged in his abdomen from his altercation wi
th a Texas Highway Patrol officer seven years earlier. After a long recovery, he’d returned to the ring on February 8, 1966, knocking out Ben Black in the first round. Before that fight, Williams received a 10-minute standing ovation from his hometown fans that began when he walked down the aisle and didn’t end until he motioned for them to sit down. The Houston Post called it “the greatest single ovation ever paid one man in the history of Houston athletics.”

  But that was all ancient history by ‘71. All I knew was that I’d have to stand close to Cleve if I wanted to stay on top of him and not give him any punching room—which was much easier said than done. In the first round he cut me under the right eye with a booming hook, and in the second he nicked me on the nose. I almost had him out when I caught him with a big right hand later in the round, and that kind of took the steam out of him. For the rest of the night, I loaded up with combinations while he threw just one punch at a time.

  I was aiming for the bullet when I ripped a left hook to Williams’s liver in the eighth, dropping him to one knee, and even though the punch wasn’t even close to landing below the belt, the referee, a guy named Earl Keel, gave me a warning before awarding Williams a one-minute rest. “Earl, what the hell y’all doing?” I said, working on my newly found Texas accent. His reply sounded like an apology: “George, y’all kickin’ the shit out of this ol’ boy anyway, so I’m gonna give him a minute’s rest.” Keel scored it 98–93, as did one of the judges. The other had it 97–94.

  There was at least one spectator who didn’t agree with the verdict—and who went to great lengths to make me aware of her opinion. Now remember, this was in the Astrodome, where the walk from the ring back to the dressing room was about a quarter of a mile. As Teddy and I were making our way back, with Williams about 20 feet ahead of us, walking with his wife and kid, a hysterical older white woman came running up and got right in my face. “Cleveland won that fight!” she hollered, half out of breath. “Cleveland won that fight!” She must have been a close friend of theirs.