Chuvalo

by George Chuvalo

  When the police checked Vanessa’s apartment, they found the pack of cigarettes she’d given Stevie. There were 10 left. He’d started out with 17. That means he smoked six, with the seventh stuck between his fingers when he died. Vanessa gave them to him at 1:30, and I don’t think it would have taken him more than a couple of hours to smoke six, so that means by 3:30—four at the latest—my son was already dead.

  When I relate that story to my audiences, invariably there’s an audible gasp. The kids don’t expect that. They expect me to talk about Jesse and Georgie Lee and Lynne, but they don’t expect another son—the one who’s so alive and so hopeful on the video—to be gone.

  When they see that, I hope the message sinks in. They’re at the age when they’re making some of the most important and monumental decisions of their lives, decisions that will shape their whole future. I talk about how they have to have their radar working, how they have to have their antennas working so they can tune in to what’s going on and sort out the truth from all the bullcrap.

  TODAY, I’m still damaged goods. My remaining kids, Mitchell and Vanessa, are damaged goods. You can’t lose a mother and three brothers and not be damaged.

  When I wake up in the morning, I think about the kids I don’t have anymore. Losing three sons and a wife is like having a wound that never heals. You take medication, try to keep it clean, free of infection … but it never gets better. It’s always there. Little everyday things, like watching television or reading a book or speaking to an old acquaintance, can remind me of what I’ve lost, so there’s a weird kind of dichotomy in my life.

  I only know who I am and what I feel. I go through hell every day—but that doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy my life. It doesn’t mean I don’t turn to mush when I see my grandchildren and they tell me they love me. They mean the world to me, and when I see them, I go nuts.

  If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that nobody can survive without love. I’m blessed to be surrounded by people who care about me, and that’s what keeps me going. That’s what keeps me motivated to do anything.

  In my speeches, I always talk about what helps keep people alive, and how we need to have that connection tattooed on our psyche by hearing the words “I love you” from parents, siblings, spouses, our children and our grandchildren. I know it sounds corny, but I always tell kids they should kiss their parents every night before they go to sleep. It’s a simple gesture, but it just kind of re-establishes and reconfirms the way we feel about each other. Young people ought to know that a parent or a grandparent really cares about them, and vice-versa.

  When I talk about having that in our lives, some of the kids undoubtedly think, “Oh yeah, love—you’re not going to bore me with that stuff, are you?” But what else is there? When you have to face adversity—and we all do, from time to time—you need to draw strength from the people that care most about you. And you have to feed off what you feel from others, too. Loving other people gives me strength, and other people loving me gives me strength. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.

  And I know it works.

  A couple of years ago, after I spoke at a junior high school in Barrie, Ontario, a young man wrote to tell me how he called the cops to report his own brother, who was planning to rob a drugstore to support his habit. The kid said that after hearing me speak he felt compelled to call the police—which is a pretty tough thing to do to your own flesh and blood. But he said he loved his brother and wanted him to live.

  It had a happy ending: the kid got help and got off drugs.

  It’s that kind of feedback that keeps me fighting at 75—and I’m going to keep doing it until I run out of steam.

  If I didn’t keep fighting, it would be like my sons and my wife died in vain. And I don’t ever want to feel that way.

  CONTACT: www.fightagainstdrugs.ca

  PART

  FIVE

  JABS & HOOKS

  APPEARING IN MOVIES IS A TIME-HONORED tradition for fighters, dating back to the silent-film era when James J. Corbett starred in The Midnight Man and Jess Willard rode shotgun in The Challenge of Chance, both of which were released in 1919. From all-time greats like Sugar Ray Robinson, Muhammad Ali and Mike Tyson to journeymen like Jack O’Halloran and Randall “Tex” Cobb, hundreds of pugs have taken the plunge—some more successfully than others.

  For me, making movies seemed like a natural extension of being in the ring. When the lights go down and you know that thousands of fans are watching your every move, it’s a rush; but at the same time, you have to take care of business to earn their respect and applause. I assume it’s the same thing for movie stars.

  My modest work on the big screen presented an opportunity to broaden the on-camera experience I’d picked up doing occasional TV appearances after becoming a member of ACTRA (the Alliance of Canadian Cinema, Television and Radio Artists) at age 18, when I played a referee in a skit on The Wayne and Shuster Show.

  One of my earliest TV roles was in an episode of The New Avengers, alongside dapper Patrick Macnee and the lovely Joanna Lumley. My character (“Huge Man” in the credits—how inspiring!) is killed in a hail of bullets in a Toronto vegetable market. In “The Fighter,” an episode of the Canadian cop drama Night Heat, I played—surprise—a fighter. On The Rez I portrayed an aboriginal cop, while on Counterstrike (opposite Simon MacCorkindale and Christopher Plummer), I was again cast as a menacing bad guy. Those were just a few of my more memorable parts.

  The TV acting was fun and interesting, but what I enjoyed more was making commercials. Over the years I knocked off several for the local Toronto market—everything from car lots to clothiers—but the real gravy was in national spots. Unlike series TV or movies, where it sometimes takes a day or two to set up a single scene, commercials often require only a few hours to shoot … and the checks keep coming as long as the spot is on the air.

  I made my first national commercial in 1956, for Prestone antifreeze. I was 19 and didn’t even own a car at the time, so it must’ve been a pretty good acting job! It was a little easier flogging Vicks cough drops (I’d actually used them), and the same held true when Kleenex came calling to feature my nose in testament to the tissue’s “fluffy softness.” A boxing ring in Winnipeg was the backdrop for my pitch for Sansui stereos, and I ventured into the U.S. market with a Miller Lite beer commercial that ended up paying me around $25,000—more than most of my fights!

  My first movie role was pretty gruesome: as George Weiller, I bashed in Elke Sommer’s head in the opening scene of I Miss You, Hugs and Kisses (1978).

  The Weiller character was based on Joe Dinardo, a real-life acquaintance of mine. A former fighter, Dinardo made headlines across Canada during the sensational 1974 murder trial of a Toronto land developer whose wife was bludgeoned to death in the garage of their suburban home. Dinardo shocked the trial when he testified that the woman had offered him $10,000 to break her husband’s arms and legs just a week before she was murdered. The husband was ultimately convicted of hiring a hit man to kill his wife and went to prison.

  In the movie, the murder scene was shot in a genuine suburban garage, and Elke Sommer (a very nice lady) was the consummate professional, despite all the blood and gore. The “lead pipe” that I so gleefully used to whack her over the head was actually a cardboard tube filled with a mixture of thick red dye (blood) and tapioca (brain matter). It made a hell of a mess, so it’s a good thing we managed to nail it on the first take. Other than a few flashback scenes, that was it for me. The rest of I Miss You, Hugs and Kisses (a.k.a. Drop Dead Dearest on video) is played out in courtroom action and recalls.

  In 1979 I was cast in Stone Cold Dead, with Richard Crenna, Paul Williams and Winnipeg’s Belinda J. Montgomery (fresh off her role as the scientist who saved and mentored merman Patrick Duffy on the TV series Man from Atlantis). Crenna portrays a lonely cop on the hunt for a mad sniper. After appearing in a gym scene together, we had a nice chat about boxing and life in general. He was a thoughtful, pleasant guy.
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  By far my most prominent movie role was as Marky, the barroom brute who arm-wrestles Dr. Seth Brundle (Jeff Goldblum) for the attentions of a hooker (Joy Boushel) in The Fly (1986). Director David Cronenberg called me out of the blue to offer the part in what turned out to be a very cool—and very successful—remake of the 1958 sci-fi classic.

  Goldblum plays a brilliant but eccentric scientist who woos investigative journalist Veronica Quaife (played by Geena Davis, who would later become his real-life wife) by offering her the scoop on his research in the field of matter teleportation. When Brundle attempts to teleport himself, however, a fly gets trapped in the transmission booth with him and the good doctor eventually morphs into a horrific human/fly hybrid.

  My scene with Goldblum was shot at Soupy Campbell’s bar in Toronto’s east end, and on the day we began filming, my daughter Vanessa and some of her Grade 8 classmates visited the set and met the cast and crew—all of whom were very accommodating.

  If I were to critique my performance in The Fly, I’d have to say I’m not particularly pleased with it. For one thing, I don’t think I sound tough enough or threatening enough in responding to Brundle’s challenge. And physically, I probably could have been a little more intimidating—even though Goldblum, at about 6 foot 4, is pretty imposing in his own right.

  Jeff was a quiet, studious guy who kept pretty much to himself and nibbled rice cakes between takes. Of course, with all that “fly power” pumping through his veins, his character was much more animated—as becomes obvious when we sit down to arm-wrestle.

  It took a week or so for the prop people to manufacture my prosthetic right “arm,” which had phony skin stretched over my real skin from knuckles to wrist. There were translucent tubes with tiny holes attached to my arm under the phony skin, which was perforated to allow fake sweat and blood to seep through as Goldblum’s character tightens his grip on my hand.

  The scene ends with him twisting my arm so violently that it snaps almost in half. With the bone grotesquely protruding and blood gushing out like a fire hydrant (there was a guy off-camera, frantically working a pump that kept the red stuff flowing), I cut loose with what I shamelessly submit is one of the better bad-guy screams in movie history. Two thumbs up!

  For my next few roles—in Circle Man (1987), Prom Night III: The Last Kiss (1990) and The Return of Eliot Ness (1991)—I tried to improve on my performance in The Fly.

  In Circle Man (a.k.a. Last Man Standing), I play Maxx, an enforcer/bodyguard for a guy named Napoleon (Michael Copeman) who organizes bare-knuckle cage fights. Besides a few choice bits of dialog, I get to throw my weight around a little. With a great cast featuring Vernon Wells (The Road Warrior), William Sanderson (Newhart) and former Mr. Universe bodybuilding champ Franco Columbu, it’s an engaging movie that’s become something of a cult classic. And if you look closely at the crowd milling around the cage for the big finale, you’ll spot my buddies Marvin “The Weasel” Elkind and Baldy Chard, a couple of Toronto “collectors” (extortionists is too harsh a term) who were hired as extras.

  In Prom Night III: The Last Kiss, I’m Mr. Walker, a high school teacher. It was a cute role. In the opening scene, I’m scoffing down a huge sandwich while my students are supposed to be writing an exam. The character is a real jerk, so I yell a lot (“Shut up, asshole!”) and whack my desk with a pointer. Later on, I get killed … but then come back as a ghoul after punching my way out of a grave. That scene was filmed at one o’clock on a cold, rainy morning in Toronto, and I caught a pretty nasty cold waiting in a sod-covered hole for the director to yell “Action!”

  The Return of Eliot Ness was a made-for-TV production starring Robert Stack in a reprise of his long-running role on the classic series The Untouchables. The story is set in 1947—15 years after the original—and the plot involves Ness returning to Chicago for the funeral of a former colleague who was murdered after apparently being exposed as corrupt. In real life, Stack was just like the character he made so famous: unflappable, very straight, a little bit stiff … but very likable. He told me his father had been a boxing commissioner in California in the 1930s.

  With so much else happening in my life, it was another seven years before I had another movie role: a cameo as a ring announcer in Dirty Work (1998), a farcical romp about two goofballs (played by Norm Macdonald and Artie Lange) who open a “revenge for hire” business. Directed by Bob Saget (America’s Funniest Home Videos), it features a star-studded cast that includes Jack Warden, Don Rickles and Chevy Chase. The list of other names making cameo appearances is equally impressive: Chris Farley, John Goodman, Adam Sandler (as Satan), Gary Coleman, Ken Norton … and my buddy Mike Anscombe, portraying himself as a news anchor.

  That’s pretty much it for movie work that I can brag a little about. If anyone remembers the last two films I was in—In the Dead of Space (1999) and Lee’s Offering (2005)—it’s only because they’re so awful.

  In the Dead of Space (the video version is called Space Fury) is so bad that my role as Marshall Popov is one of the film’s best—and I’m only on screen for about five minutes! In what’s probably the best action scene of the whole movie, I ride around on a tank while dodging bullets during a violent skirmish. All the while, I’m puffing on a big cigar and barking out cheesy dialog (“Shoot! Shoot! … My men will charge in and destroy you!”) in a not-so-convincing Russian accent. Talk about command presence!

  As bad as that one was, I thought Lee’s Offering was worse—although some people have told me it’s brilliant film noir, whatever that means. All I can say is that I and my buddy, Chuck “Spider” Jones, are the two best actors in the thing, so what does that tell you? At the Toronto premiere, I was so embarrassed that I slunk out before it ended, and the few reviews I read only confirmed that it was a real stinker.

  Other than The Fly, my movie roles were pretty obscure, so it always amazes me when fans want an autograph on a poster or picture from any of those other films. In fact, I usually ask them for a copy!

  On a related note, interviewers sometimes ask me what it’s like to be part of pop culture more than four decades after my last fight, and the answer is always the same: great! I’m flattered that a stylized image of my fist crashing into Floyd Patterson’s face was used on the covers of a couple of record albums released almost 30 years apart—Exile on Main Street by the Rolling Stones (1972) and Greatest Hits by Alice in Chains (2001)—and an artistic rendition of that photo was also featured in Mad magazine. Speaking of records, my mug graces the CD cover of Curve, released by Our Lady Peace in 2012 (I also do a voiceover on the final track), and songs about me are on albums by Colin Linden (Raised by Wolves, 1997) and The Lollipop People (We Need a New F-Word, 2006).

  Another nice tribute came in 2008, when goalie Ray Emery of the National Hockey League’s Ottawa Senators had my portrait painted on his mask. Emery’s attitude impressed me, too; he didn’t take any crap. When guys tried to crash his crease, he’d haul off and belt them. I liked that. I must have autographed a couple dozen replicas of his mask for fans over the next few months.

  Whether it is on a goalie mask, a boxing glove or any of the thousand and one other things that people ask to get signed, I inevitably get comments about my signature, which I’ve been told is one of the more—ahem—stylish among fighters. Truth is, I always try to write it with a little flourish: a big G and a big C, with smaller middle letters and a long, curling L that trails down to form the O. Lots of people tell me it reminds them of a speed bag, but that’s not something I was consciously aiming for when I came up with it. The “Keep punchin’” inscription that I often include comes from Rocky Marciano. I always thought the way he wrote it looked pretty cool, so I started using it, too.

  To be honest, if you’d told me in 1978 that I would still be signing autographs on a daily basis 35 years later, I’d have said you were nuts—but I’m happy to report that it never gets old. It’s humbling to be remembered by folks who want that little keepsake, and I would never think of no
t signing, no matter what.

  The only time the autograph thing gets a little taxing is during induction weekend at the International Boxing Hall of Fame in Canastota, New York. Between the new inductees and the regular roster of old-timers who show up each year, the event is a magnet for fight fans and memorabilia collectors from all over the world. I’m invited down every June and I usually bring along my buddies Stevie Graley, Edwin Morales and Murray Greig to help keep track of all the photos and memorabilia thrust my way to be signed, but after three solid days of writing my name over and over again, I can barely grip a pen.

  Those marathon autograph sessions also give fans an up-close-and-personal opportunity to snap photos and ask questions. Here are my answers to some of the more common queries, along with some thoughts on other topics that often come up when I’m interviewed:

  THE BEST I FACED

  FIGHTER: MUHAMMAD ALI

  Most people think he was the greatest heavyweight champion of all time, and I wouldn’t disagree. Muhammad was the whole package, and he could fight you any and every way. I think if you took every champ from John L. Sullivan right up to the Klitschko brothers and threw them all into a round-robin tournament, Ali would come out the winner. When Muhammad was at his best, none of those other guys could touch him.

  BOXER: ALI

  He had the quickest hands and quickest feet, which made him very adept at avoiding punches. But as far as power goes, Muhammad’s was only so-so. Against guys like Zora Folley and Cleveland Williams he proved he could punch pretty hard if he was properly set, but he never really got set with me.