In the office, however, his behaviour was different. Harry Gibbs described Liston as being ‘fearsome to look at, but a gentleman in the ring’. Jim Wicks had actually never heard of him; this was not of itself unsurprising, as Liston had, since 1955, been dividing his time between prizefighting and breaking legs for low-level gangsters in St Louis. He had not fought at all in 1957 (he had pressing business elsewhere, mainly in the Federal Penitentiary) and thus only appeared on the radar screen of Ring magazine, in early 1958 after having comprehensively demolished a hapless boxer called Billy Hunter in January. In August of that year he knocked out a hopeful Wayne Bethea in round one. After that brief encounter, Bethea’s distressed seconds removed no fewer than seven of their boy’s own teeth from his gum-shield. Liston was, in the parlance of the day, bad news, the sort of fighter every sane man dreads. And Jim Wicks was a very sane man indeed.
It was Wicks’s friend Jim Norris who tipped him off; the two men, both extreme gamblers, were engaged in a little gentle betting in Jack Solomons’ office in Great Windmill Street: ‘If you’re offered a fighter called Liston, don’t take him,’ came the clear message.
And Jim Norris had every reason to know. Despite a vast inherited fortune, which came from family interests in the grain business, based in Chicago (much of which was redistributed among the bookmaking fraternity around the world) Norris took an all-consuming interest in the fight game. As head of the International Boxing Commission (IBC), which had, since its formation in 1949, acquired controlling interests in the fortunes of a large number of fighters as well as a man aging interest in Madison Square Gardens, Norris was a close (some say the closest) associate of Frank Carbo, the gangster and alleged assassin of Bugsy Siegel, who had recently acquired a controlling interest in Sonny Liston’s career and who would shortly be invited to spend 25 years in prison. Carbo owned Liston just as surely as if the emancipation of slaves had never happened. ‘Jim Norris got a bigger kick out of making $5,000 crookedly by stealing from a boxer than he did from making $10 million legally; he just made a lifestyle choice,’ Henry recalls, with no particular fondness.
Harry Levene, who was extremely keen to promote a Henry Cooper fight rather than see Jack Solomons put on yet another one, had other ideas about Sonny Liston; he had already opened negotia tions with Miami-based Chris Dundee (brother of Angelo), who was at that time a promoter of Liston. As a result of the upcoming fixture between Henry and Alex Miteff being called off due to Miteff’s injuries from a fight with Willie Besmanoff, Levene needed a replacement, and urgently. A black American fighter would be a good idea, he thought, for Henry’s first bout under his promotion. In the event he got one, but it would not be Liston. It would never be Liston, in fact, certainly not a matter of particular regret to Henry, and one of profound relief to Wicks, whose view was eloquently summed up: ‘I’m not going to let my boy fight that mahogany wardrobe; we don’t want to meet this geezer walking down the street, let alone in the ring. He’s too ugly, we only take on good-looking boys.’
As Jim Wicks and Harry Levene settled into negotiations con cerning the upcoming fight, Wicks casually but firmly ruled out both Liston and Nino Valdes, the hewn-from-solid Cuban who had recently been defeated by Zora Folley. Valdes had also been ruled out by Norris, not on the basis that he was necessarily dangerous for Wicks’s boxer, but simply because Norris made a hobby out of denying fights to Valdes’s manager, Bobby Gleason, whom he hated.*
Levene was naturally piqued because he had virtually made the Liston match with Dundee but had done so without consulting Wicks or, it must be said, particularly researching Liston. But then Levene was a businessman, first and foremost. The prospect of ancient Archie Moore was an enticing one, but ‘The Old Mongoose’ was almost dormant by then, at least as a heavyweight, deservedly picky and extremely expensive.
However, the man who had beaten Valdes, Zora Folley, was, rather to Wicks’s surprise, prepared to travel to London to take on Henry, even for the modest amount of money the famously tight-fisted Levene was prepared to guarantee. Presumably, Folley was at something of a loose end due to d’Amato’s reluctance to match Patterson with anyone if he could avoid it. On the face of it, Folley/Cooper was a fair match in terms of weight and reach, and Folley had no reputation as a savage. On the contrary: a blameless private life, a sunny disposition (in fact rather like Henry himself) and everything that Liston was considered not to be. The match was set for 14 October 1958.
The difference in approaches between Wicks and certain other managers is chillingly well illustrated by a conversation between the columnist Joe Liebling and the aforementioned Bobby Gleason, who comes down to us as an interesting study, if you happen to be a herpetologist. Having railed at the IBC concerning the difficulties he was having with Norris, Gleason remarked casually, ‘So, what of it? I can make as much with ten fights a year for ten thousand as I can for one big shot for a hundred grand.’
Liebling was coolly scathing: ‘Ten fights at ten thousand dollars apiece entails ten times as much fighting as one at one hundred thousand, but Gleason wasn’t going to do the physical fighting, which is after all a mechanical detail. It is why I think of him as an economist.’ There were many other critics of the sport at this time. By far the most vociferous was Edith Summerskill. Her ranting tract The Ignoble Art was first published in 1956, at the end of Henry’s professional apprenticeship and, to coin a phrase, the book pulled no punches. As an MP, a Privy Councillor and not least a qualified doctor, Edith Summerskill’s opposition to boxing was quite merciless and, as Henry was to find out later, she offered little room for compromise. In her opinion the sport should be banned at all levels, amateur and professional. There was no talk of improving safety, head guards, body armour or whatever – she was against it. She viewed it, essentially, as a nothing short of a criminal activity.
As a classic Whig, Summerskill felt almost as incensed that people enjoyed watching boxing as she was that the boxers might actually enjoy fighting. The fact that it was bad for the fighters was one thing; a critical element of her crusade, though, was that it was bad for the spectators. In 1953 she had engaged in a debate with Jack Solomons, which, in almost exclusively male company, she had narrowly won. Freddie Mills was there, too; when asked to defend himself, Mills reportedly responded by standing up and proudly displaying his gent’s natty: ‘Do you know how much this suit cost, Missus?’ Or words to that effect. Summerskill was unimpressed.
Jolly Jack professed his intention of wreaking his revenge for his defeat upon her by standing for her Fulham parliamentary seat as an independent but only, he announced, after paying for some public speaking lessons. He did neither, in the event.
Zora Folley, who hailed from Chandler, Arizona, did not pass through the annals of boxing history with the credit that was due to him, possibly as a result of his tragically early death at only 41 in a stupid swimming pool accident in the summer of 1972. He was a prodigious athlete and potentially an extremely difficult opponent; he was, rather like Henry, a skilled boxer with the added edge of a powerful punch. He was also, by all accounts, a most considerate and charming man. In the early autumn of 1958 he was 28, near to the top of his form and (by a clear margin) the man most likely to succeed Patterson if only he could manage to manoeuvre himself into a ring with him.
It was this fight, more than any other, that lifted Henry out of his two years of relative obscurity and put him firmly back in the public eye. The pre-fight comments from the sporting press were, to say the least, cautious. While all agreed that his demolition of Brian London in 1956 had been impressive, he had fought nine times since then and lost five times, drawing once. His victory over Dick Richardson only six weeks previously might, it was contended, have taken a lot out of him. Further, Folley himself had already fought 45 bouts and lost only two. Despite the physical statistics of the two men being close, Fleet Street did not view it as an even match. The assessment of The Times was depressingly straightforward: ‘I believe that he will find the
American too strong and too experienced to be hurt seriously and then he will have to avoid being discouraged (a failing he has shown before) and concentrate on boxing his way. Folley must be the favourite but Cooper has a chance to make his name, even by surviving the 10 rounds.’
Oh dear. It was further ominously pointed out that ‘Folley…has defeated Nino Valdes, the conqueror of both Erskine (Henry’s nemesis) and Richardson. He has won eight of his last fifteen bouts inside the distance and is reputed to be a clever boxer with an accurate left jab.’
Well, he was certainly a clever boxer, Folley, but he had a mighty right hand as well. Clearly, despite his world ranking status, he had not been well researched.
Donald Saunders, for the Daily Telegraph, was only marginally more optimistic, and pointed out a further source of personal pressure for Henry:
During the past few weeks those isolationist Americans who take it upon themselves to name each month the 10 best heavyweight boxers in the world have been forced for the first time since the war to glance over their shoulders towards Europe.
On September 14 they were obliged to note with some dismay that their compatriot Eddie Machen, whom they called the No. 1 contender for the world title, had lasted only 2 min. 16 sec. against the powerful right hand of Ingemar Johansson, the European champion.
Sixteen days later the unexpected news reached Broadway that Willie Pastrano, of New Orleans, rated the fourth best heavyweight in the world had been beaten by Britain’s unconsidered champion, Brian London.
They are hoping that Folley will restore American prestige. But they are worrying, lest Cooper completes a unique hat-trick for Europe.
The splendidly jingoistic piece went on to reflect exactly the uncertainty that was descending over the heavyweight division:
…The record book helps us little. It merely causes confusion by showing that Cooper stopped London, who in turn stopped Pastrano, but that Cooper was knocked out in five rounds by Johansson, who knocked out Machen, who drew with Folley.
But I think that Folley will prove to be more skilful than Cooper, even if the young Londoner is at his best. And should Cooper slip back into his old irritating ways, Folley may well win inside the ten rounds.
In fact, if Cooper is to earn the world title contest promised tonight’s winner, he must quickly relax, must avoid the eye injuries that in the past have often upset him and must use that left hook with the speed, power and determination shown against Richardson.
Saunders finished the piece with a touch of classic hedging: ‘All this, I think, is too much to expect. But Johansson and London have recently hinted that now is the time for optimism.’
Plenty of local pressure here, then. The upsets in the heavyweight division caused by Johansson and London that had propelled Folley to the status of number one contender were the cause of considerable confusion. Henry had beaten Brian London (and quickly) but had also been well and truly pole-axed by Johansson’s ‘Hammer of Thor’ and so, it was supposed, he sat somewhere in the middle. London, despite the fact that he had very effectively taken out Willie Pastrano, was never rated as highly as he probably deserved to be. Johansson, ‘Thor’s Hammer’ aside, was considered to be a very nice man but perhaps somewhat idle; he even took his girlfriend, who later became his wife, to his training camp. Because Folley was known only vaguely in Britain, there would, all recognized, be a very partisan crowd, which could only help Henry. Even so, Folley entered the ring as favourite at 2-1, odds probably encouraged by the generally pessimistic forecasts by the pundits as well as the clear realization that, quite simply, black men might make better boxers.
Initially, the pundits seemed to have been absolutely right, or perhaps Folley too was aware that he was under the invisible burden created by the recent defeats inflicted upon his fellow compatriots. The first three rounds were a blur of savage and accurate combinations that firstly opened cuts above and below Henry’s left eye and secondly, after a huge right, dropped him to the canvas. Henry took a count of seven, which was wise if not necessary. As he put it years later: ‘When he put me down in the third, I didn’t have a price…’
All who were present assumed that the fight was basically over. But then Folley changed his tactics; he stopped boxing and started punching, to finish a fight that he now assumed he had won. But as he slung long, looping rights, he metaphorically opened the door and Henry did not need prompting. For the next three rounds he managed to insert himself inside the American’s punches and responded with a series of wicked lefts, which rapidly started to even up the scorecard. A telling left hook to the face drew blood. By round nine Harry Carpenter, who was at the ringside, reckoned the fighters to be almost level, with Folley, having little left, perhaps a quarter point in front, but, of course, it was the referee, Tommy Little, whose opinion counted.
The last round was a simple, intimate toe-to-toe slugfest: Henry’s left versus Folley’s right. Both fighters were a mess. Henry’s left eye was now cut in three places; the manic corner work of Danny Holland, with his faithful adrenalin and Vaseline swabs, had plugged the leaks, but by the time the final three minutes started, the blood was flowing freely from both men.
An astonished Jack Wilson of Boxing News reported:
Folley started proceedings in the last with an over arm right to the chin which shook Cooper into quick retaliation. There was a vicious exchange of body punching and Cooper held his own. Out shot those superb lefts, Folley ducked and countered, tossing rights in desperation but Henry stayed with him and matched him punch for punch.
Now it seemed that the whole place was in uproar. The crowd was mad with excitement and the central characters played out their last desperate parts to a tumultuous roar of approval.
Such was the noise that neither fighter heard the bell. Only when Danny Holland and George Page climbed through the ropes did Folley drop his guard, followed by a cautious and clearly exhausted Henry. Tommy Little did not hesitate; he raised Henry’s arm in victory as the ring was invaded, the crowd led by a delighted Stanley Baker. Folley’s corner men, who come down through history as being quite as unpleasant as their fighter was charming, half-heartedly disputed the decision, but to no avail. The British referee’s view is holy writ, as Henry himself would come to regret many years later. With that decision, Folley’s ambitions to seize the title from Patterson lay in ruins; having lost to Henry, who had not, it must be said, registered much on anyone’s radar screens until that morning of Wednesday 15 October, d’Amato had no valid reason to dodge the match. But dodge it he would.
The New York Times, despite its fastidiously lofty and seigneurally dismissive editorial attitude to the noble art, (rather a litmus test of the liberal left) was predictably indignant:
Henry Cooper, an unheralded Cockney plasterer, tonight won an upset ten round decision from Zora Folley, Americas top-ranking heavyweight contender. It was another crushing blow to American boxing prestige. Folley became the third leading American Heavyweight to go down to defeat on this side of the Atlantic in a month.
More cheerfully, humble pie was wolfed down along the length of Fleet Street. The Times, so dubious about Henry’s prospects before the fight, reported graciously of the final moments: ‘Then came one more great gust of sound as Cooper’s hand was raised in triumph, and we were all left to marvel at what we had seen.’
Despite the fact that Folley had not lived up to his reputation as a ‘classic’ fighter, this was a huge victory for Henry and, only six weeks after stopping Dick Richardson, gave notice that he was well and truly back. But in three separate fights, the fourth, third and now second contenders for Floyd Patterson’s heavyweight crown had been beaten by outsiders – what on earth was going on?
Henry’s target was clearly now the world title – he was aware that making such an authoritative comeback would involve a vast amount of work, but first things first; the third leg of this remarkable recovery would now be to challenge for the British and Empire heavyweight titles. The fight was schedu
led for 12 January 1959, the night when Henry Cooper went after Brian London.
The lantern-jawed London was not the swiftest of movers, and could even manage to make himself look flat-footed at times, but he made up much of any deficit of elegance by virtue of his immense strength and courage. This fight was to prove one of the bloodiest spectacles anyone had ever witnessed (or indeed would ever witness) in the UK heavyweight division. So savage was it that even some seasoned veterans turned away. The fight (perhaps unfairly, with hindsight) was to last the full distance and Henry was later to describe it as the hardest one he ever endured, and with good reason. Even at the distance of over 40 years it is a sobering, even distressing, encounter to watch.
There was still some serious needle here; despite the fact that that Henry had dispatched the Blackpool fighter almost without breaking sweat in 1956, London had given George a severe mauling, which Henry, ever the loyal twin, was determined to avenge, and with interest. The rivalry between the two was an open secret and it made wonderful copy for the scribblers.
Mindful of his first-round humiliation by Henry of two years before, London made a tentative start and, despite accurate and effective jabbing and some well-aimed hooks from Henry, London was able to respond in the second round with a colossal right that connected between Henry’s eyes at that vulnerable junction of capillaries at the very top of the nasal septum. For the rest of the fight the challenger had to put up with a steady stream of blood pouring straight down his throat. This was not just some nosebleed, this was the kind of haemorrhage which had killed grandfather George all those years before.
Henry Cooper Page 12
