British soldiers based in Germany invaded the ring and triumphantly carried Henry shoulder-high around it after he had been confirmed as the runaway points winner, and the consensus was this was his finest performance to date. ‘We have never boxed better,’ said Jim Wicks. ‘We were wunderbra.’
Our Enery was back in demand. In Germany.
The victory did not generate a lot of press coverage in Britain, so Jim put his thinking cap on and came up with a story that made huge headlines: ‘OUR ENERY UNDER HYPNOSIS’.
He revealed that Henry was being hypnotised by a German professor, who was teaching him how to relax, and that he was now ready to become a world-beater. Substance was given to the story when Henry was spotted making several private visits to Germany.
The fact was that he had met a pretty Fräulein called Hilda and had a brief relationship with her. It suited him to say he was going to Germany for hypnosis sessions.
The Bishop was no mere spin doctor, more a spin surgeon. He would go to any lengths to publicise a fight. Jim managed a South African flyweight called Jake Tuli, who he had photographed with a spear and billed as Zulu Jake Tuli, telling tales of his warrior deeds. Jake had never seen a spear in his life before celebrated South London sports photographer Derek Rowe handed him one for the promotion photo.
To get early-career publicity for the twins, Jim once leaked a story that he had turned down an offer of £50,000 for their contracts, at a time when that was a small fortune. He said the offer had come from a syndicate headed by film actor Stanley Baker, a great fan and friend of Henry’s who stood the story up although there was not even a germ of truth in it. Jim later confided that a bookmaker had offered to take Henry and George off his hands in settlement of a five grand betting debt. The Bishop preferred to pay up rather than lose the two boys he looked upon as sons.
Another of Jim’s nicknames was Seamus, because of his Irish family background and the fact that he was full of blarney. When he signed Tuli, he told the press he had a soft spot for South Africa because he had visited there as a boy drummer during the Boer War. It was published as fact, with nobody bothering to check that the war finished when Jim was just six. The Bishop, who kept the company of vagabonds and princes, told lots of porkies, but if you could give him a winner in the next race at Haydock Park, you were a friend for life.
Jim literally would gamble on two flies climbing up the windowpane and he had scores of tales about his days as a bookmaker when it was illegal to bet away from a racecourse. He told stories of shady associates switching horses to pull off betting coups, nobbling favourites and bribing jockeys to pull their mounts. Probably one in three stories was true, but he was always entertaining to listen to and he used to have the Cooper twins (and gullible young reporters like me) hanging on his every word. There will never be another like The Bishop. My father George Giller was a bookie’s street runner at the same time that Jim was working the racecourses. This, of course, was in the days before betting shops and Dad’s illegal job was to collect pencil-written bets from punters he met in pubs and doorways and then run them to the bookmaker in time for the bets to be laid. Among his paymasters was a Billingsgate fishmonger called Jack Solomons, later to become the self-styled Czar of British boxing promoters and who had been shown the bookmaking ropes by Jim Wicks.
The people making the bets, ranging from housewives, dockers and labourers to lawyers, policemen and schoolteachers, never put their real names on the slips, but used nicknames or noms de plume. I used to sign mine as Redwing, after one of my favourite old jazz tunes. Henry considered betting a mug’s game and used to shake his head in disbelief when watching his manager win hundreds of pounds during the course of a meal then lose it all again just as quickly. Jim would shrug and be back in action the next day. Many bookmakers, including Jack Solomons and The Bishop, were all but put out of business the day in 1946 when 50–1 outsider Airborne won the Epsom Derby. It was considered a donkey, but romped home carrying the wagers of thousands of recently demobbed servicemen attracted by the name, plus the punts of many housewives putting their sixpences on the grey. My dad’s bookie boss was ruined by the result and he hanged himself, unable to repay his debts.
Back to the Henry story and to Dortmund for fight number twenty-two on 11 January 1958. In the opposite corner, the recently dethroned European heavyweight champion Heinz Neuhaus, who was rebuilding his career on a run of victories over British-based boxers Peter Bates, Brian London and .Joe Bygraves. Neutral observers agreed that Henry won at least seven of the ten rounds against the lumbering Neuhaus. The result: a draw! Even the German fans booed the decision and chanted Henry’s name. The Bishop found the right word: ‘Diabolical.’
Henry’s love affair with Germany (and also with Hilda) ended in Frankfurt on 19 April 1958, when he was disqualified in the sixth round against the highly regarded Erich Schoeppner – after the referee had counted out the unconscious German light-heavyweight champion and raised Cooper’s hand in victory.
Schoeppner had half turned his back as Henry mounted an attack and a left hook thundered against his ear with such force that he was stretchered out of the ring and hospitalised for five weeks. Officials of the German Boxing Federation put their heads together and decided Our Enery had won with an illegal rabbit punch and named the unconscious Schoeppner the winner and fined Cooper half his £1,500 purse.
This time the apoplectic Bishop was almost lost for words. But not quite. He leaned on one of the oldest laments in boxing: ‘We woz robbed.’
They stitched us up like a kipper. There was no way it was a deliberate foul. Schoeppner was backing off and turned away from me just as I let the old left hook go. It was aimed at the side of his jaw, but as he turned it landed on his ear, not on the back of his neck, which would have been a rabbit punch.
Poor old Erich knew nothing about what was going on. He was out to the world. That should have gone down on our record as a knockout victory. To disqualify us was bad enough, but then to take half our money just rubbed it in. Jim really laid into the promoters in the dressing-room afterwards and nearly started World War Three. We were choked and Jim made it clear we would never fight in Germany again. I never saw Hilda after that.
Next up, Henry was delivered for sacrifice – so many people thought – against fast-rising Welshman Dick Richardson on his own manor of Porthcawl on 3 September 1958. Dick, 6ft 4in of fearsome second row forward, had been terrorising the heavyweight division with his roughhouse tactics and it was thought he would be too strong and aggressive for Our Enery.
Perhaps it was fitting that the fight was staged on the anniversary of the outbreak of the Second World War because Richardson started as if he was a tank going into battle. He charged at Henry, butting him back across the ring and opening a jagged cut on his eyebrow. Cuts man Danny Holland had to work overtime between rounds to stem the flow of blood and as he sent him out for round five, the blood-stained Bishop told him: ‘We can’t go on much more. The cut’s getting worse and we’ll have to pull out. It’s now or never, my son.’
Sensing that Cooper was in trouble, Richardson – a notorious street fighter – came out with both fists flailing and with his head coming through as a third weapon. He caught Henry with a swinging right that knocked him down on to his haunches. Henry mouthed to The Bishop in the corner that he was all right, but Richardson thought he was signalling that he was in trouble.
The Welsh warrior came charging at Henry as he got up at the count of eight with the one idea of ending the fight there and then. He achieved his objective to some degree. Henry met him with a left hook of such force that it lifted the sixteen-stone giant off his feet and sent him crashing down and out. It was one of the most awesome one-punch finishes seen in a British ring for years.
‘We’ve never hit anybody so hard,’ said The Bishop. ‘This will frighten the life out of all our rivals. We’re now an illegitimate contender for the titles.’
When film of the exciting fight and its finale was sho
wn on television Henry’s popularity lifted to the sky, and never really came down again.
Major things were happening on the British boxing front. Jack Solomons, for many years the number one promoter, was having his monopoly challenged by a new team – some called it a syndicate – headed by Harry Levene, with wealthy entrepreneur Jarvis Astaire and ex-fighter and matchmaker Mickey Duff, and future William Hill boss Sam Burns in support.
It was a fierce and bitter rivalry, and The Bishop took great delight in feeding off it. He knew he had the ace calling card in Henry Cooper, and played Solomons and Levene off against each other with all the skill of a Malcolm Sargent conducting the Last Night at the Proms.
Solomons thought he could count on Wicks because of a friendship going back to the 1930s, when Jim taught him all about the bookmaking game. Levene thought he could count on Wicks because he employed his son, Jackie Wicks, as a hugely efficient promotions organiser. But The Bishop’s loyalty belonged only to his boxers, and he made Solomons and Levene battle it out with chequebooks. Henry’s bank account was the winner.
I had better own up here to what could be seen as vested interest. For several years I worked as a publicist for Messrs Levene, Astaire and Duff (also for my best mate, the late Terry Lawless, and at the Albert Hall for Mike Barrett), but at this stage – as the first shots were being fired in the promotional war – I was a young Boxing News scribe more interested in reporting punches than politics.
On 14 October 1958 Levene was forced to pay Henry’s highest purse to date – £7,500 – for him to top the bill at Wembley Arena – then known as Wembley Pool – against world-ranked Alex Miteff. Two weeks before the fight the Argentine pulled out with an injury and Levene told Wicks: ‘You have a choice of substitute opponent… Zora Folley or Sonny Liston.’ Both of them were in training and ready to take Cooper on at short notice.
Jim the Joker came up with a quote that has been enshrined in fight folklore: ‘We don’t want anything to do with that mahogany wardrobe Liston. We don’t want to be in the same room as him, let alone the same ring. He is an animal.’
The fearsome, ex-jailbird Liston was still two years from ripping the world title away from Floyd Patterson, but had already built up a reputation for being a fighter to avoid at all costs.
So Wicks settled for Zora Folley, one of the most stylish and skilled of all the world title contenders and rated No. 3 for the crown held by ‘Freudian Floyd’ (who after his defeat by Johansson was so ashamed that he left the stadium disguised with a beard).
Henry got off to a dodgy start against the accomplished Folley, walking into his left hand for three rounds and taking a nine count after being caught by a snap right cross. But Folley then forgot his basic boxing ability and went all out for a knockout and his punches were suddenly being telegraphed. This brought the best out of Henry’s rhythmic boxing style and he continually slipped inside Folley’s swinging right hands and jabbed his opponent almost to a standstill with a procession of thumping lefts. Jim Wicks summed it up beautifully: ‘We made him eat our left hand for breakfast.’
It was an amazing transformation and Henry went on to a resounding ten rounds points victory that earned him a standing ovation from the sell-out Wembley crowd. The performance underlined Henry’s new standing as a world championship contender and he had now won respect on both sides of the Atlantic.
This is where I came in as something more than a fan and spectator, with my first interview with Henry. After our early-morning road run together, described in the first chapter, he told me about his preparations for his upcoming challenge for Brian London’s British and Empire championships.
London had taken the titles from Joe Erskine in the summer of 1958, when he knocked out the Welshman in the seventh round.
I put ten questions to Henry after our road run and all these years later his answers still make interesting reading and give an insight to Henry’s thinking. His responses are delivered in the Royal ‘we’ style:
1. How big a psychological advantage is it that you stopped London in the first round the last time you met?
We don’t believe in thinking about past fights. We’ll let London dwell on what we did to him last time, but as far as we’re concerned we’re getting ourselves in nick to go the full fifteen rounds. If we can catch him early again, great. If not, we’re prepared to go the distance, by which time we know he’ll be sick to death of the old left hand.
2. Does George ever spar with you when you’re training for a fight?
We do light stuff just for rhythm but never punch each other with full weight. I knocked out one of our sparring partners when I was training for the fight with Dick Richardson, and in emergency George put the gloves on to help me finish the sparring session. The silly sod caught me with a slashing right hand that cut my eye and we had to get a postponement. We would never ever fight each other for real.
3. How difficult is it to concentrate when you are handicapped by a cut eye?
It’s a curse we’ve learned to live with. We used to get uptight until our manager Jim Wicks said to relax and let him and Danny Holland worry about it. Danny is the best cuts man in the business and we know that each time we get back to the corner he’ll do a smashing job in patching me up. My brother George has a much worse time with cuts than I do. He would be challenging for championships if it weren’t for his minces always giving him trouble.
4. You will probably be giving away at least a stone and a half to London. Does that bother you?
We’ve always believed in the old saying, ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall’. We like fighting bigger, heavier opponents. It usually means they are less mobile and we can beat them for speed and there’s a bigger target to hit. If they’re coming towards us and the old hook lands flush on the jaw it is like a collision of cars and we make twice the impact. That’s what happened when we knocked out Dick Richardson. Thought he was going to take off for the Moon! He went at least a foot up into the air as we connected with one of the hardest punches we’ve ever thrown. To be able to do that to a guy of sixteen stone shows our power. Could almost feel Dick’s chin on my knuckles for days afterwards.
5. This is something of a golden age for heavyweights. Not counting yourself, there’s London, Richardson, Joe Erskine and Joe Bygraves. Who do you rate the best of them?
For skill, Joe Erskine by a mile. He is a very difficult opponent to pin with a punch, and can make you look a fool just by clever footwork and crafty body shifts. Just as well he can’t punch his weight! If title fights were over eight rounds, Bygraves would be hard to beat, but he lacks real stamina because he is so heavily muscled. Richardson is just a bull in a china shop, but I wouldn’t like to have to fight him on the cobbles. London is what we call in the game a good ‘on top’ fighter, but can be quickly put in his place if you show you’re not going to be intimidated by his bullying tactics.
6. What do you consider your best performance to date?
Apart from our one-round stoppage of London, it has to be either our points victory over Hans Kalbfell in Dortmund last year or our win over Zora Folley, who many people were saying is the best heavy-weight in the world at the moment. We’ve never boxed better than we did against Kalbfell. He hardly laid a glove on us for ten rounds. It was a vital victory for us after a run of four successive defeats that dented our confidence.
7. You seem to have a rapport with Jim Wicks that goes beyond the usual manager/boxer relationship.
Jim is like a second dad to us. It was the best thing we ever did, signing for him. He is always a cool and calculating head in the corner, matches us with care and makes sure we get the best possible financial deals. It’s a tough old game and there are some unscrupulous managers around who take liberties with their boys, but Jim cares about us as if we’re his own sons. If he were ever to retire we’d pack it in straight away. We wouldn’t want anybody else managing us.
8. Who was your favourite fighter when you first started boxing?
&n
bsp; It has to be the one and only Joe Louis. The Brown Bomber was very special in our household. My dad, who loves his boxing, swore he was the greatest heavyweight who ever lived. We all got our love of boxing passed down from our Granddad George, who was a well-known bare-knuckle fighter round the Elephant and Castle area. I suppose boxing’s in our blood, really. Pound for pound, I would say Sugar Ray Robinson is the greatest fighter there’s ever been, certainly of my lifetime.
9. You famously started out as a plasterer, do you still do any of that hard graft?
No, I gave it up after about eighteen months as a pro because I was getting too tired, what with all the training and fighting. But George has kept it up. He is a master plasterer, ask anybody who’s seen his work. He did some plastering round our manager’s place the other month. He’s still not been paid. Put that in Boxing News. That’ll give us a laugh! Jim’s bound to read it. He only reads two papers, Boxing News and The Sporting Life.
10. What’s your prediction for the London fight, and what would being champion mean to you?
We don’t go shooting our mouth off like London. We see he’s talking about stopping me to avenge what we did to him last time we met, but words are cheap. Let’s just say we’re confident the belts will be hung round our waist at the end and to win the titles will mean everything to us. It will make up for that horrible year we had in 1957 and it will prove wrong all those people who wrote us off as finished.
Henry Cooper Page 4
