After this rather unpromising start, Henry tried again and this time managed to be taken seriously. Gradually an understanding simply emerged that they would marry and they drifted towards an engagement. There was the matter or Henry’s religion to be considered, as he was technically Church of England, but he had no issues with Catholic doctrine, in which he was instructed prior to the wedding, and nor did his parents.
The pair married in January 1960, honeymooning on the Italian Riviera. On their return they stayed with Albinas family and went looking for a house, which they found through the classifieds of the Evening Standard. It was in Ledway Drive, Wembley, far removed from the tribal lands south of the river.
Despite marriage, Henry and his twin brother were still quite inseparable, and so George came too. Henry and George both worked hard on the house, and Albina, schooled as she was in the traditions of the rural Italian family, saw nothing out of the ordinary in sharing her new house with a brother-in-law. The idea of George staying in Farmstead Road on his own seemed absurd.
With the departure of the twins, Farmstead Road was depressingly empty for Lily and her husband. As soon as his earnings from boxing had permitted it, Henry had insisted that his father retire. ‘Well, he was only making £11 a week,’ says Henry, ‘so I told him to give it up, that I would pay him £10 a week to stop working.’
He also bought his parents a small tobacconist and dry goods busi ness; it was in Hounslow, unfortunately near the Heathrow airport flight path and very noisy. Already under pressure from the burgeoning supermarkets nearby, it did not particularly prosper. In fact, Henry’s parents were to find it quite difficult to settle; although there was never any ill feeling about the role that Jim Wicks was playing in their son’s life, it is hard to avoid the impression that they felt rather rudderless.
Albina was to discover in August 1960 that despite the deceptively routine nature of Henry’s daily commute down to the Thomas à Becket, the five-week isolation required to prepare for a fight meant that her only communication with him would be on the telephone. In one sense it was no different from a husband being on a business trip (although she was all too aware what the business was to be) but it was made harder by the fact that more often than not he was in some London suburb other than Wembley, merely a few miles away, but on a different planet. With the arrival of children, this would become even more difficult.
Meanwhile, Henry was engaged to fight Roy Harris in September 1960. Harris, from the quaintly named town of Cut & Shoot, Texas, was the state champion and appeared to be a good yardstick; he had actually knocked down Floyd Patterson in an August 1958 title fight, although the bout had been stopped in the twelfth in Patterson’s favour. The encounter should prove interesting.
It wasn’t, particularly. The message, that Henry’s left hook was a thing best avoided (‘just let them feel the wind of its passing, son’) had clearly come through and Harris was wisely reluctant to put himself in harm’s way. After a clash of heads, an event in which Henry invariably came second with a cut eyebrow, he took the fight to Harris, but only put him down for the first time in round eight, for a count of six, after which it became something of a slugging match. Harris proved to be durable, in fact, but referee Jack Hart gave Henry the clear decision after the ten rounds were over.
The fight that had been called off in October 1958, between Henry and Argentinean Alex Miteff, the cancellation of which event had produced the Folley encounter, was now back on for 6 December 1960 at Wembley. Originally, Henry had been scheduled to fight Joe Erskine but that fight was now delayed until March of 1961.
Henry knew full well, having researched him in preparation for the postponed fight, that Miteff, having been schooled in the American ring, was likely to be something of a handful, and so he was wary. He spent nine rounds simply picking up points with his left jab and seemed comfortably ahead when in the tenth and final he made the mistake of trying to mix it with his aggressive opponent, as he recalls:
…he slung a big right-hand punch, which put me down. It shook me and I was in a bit of trouble, but my head cleared. I got up, and signalled to Jim that everything was OK. Then I got back on my bike again, started pumping left hands and took the decision. But it gave Jim and the Wembley crowd a bit of a shock.
The prospect now loomed of keeping forever the Lonsdale belt that he had won by beating Brian London in 1959. The belt was a rather special one; it had originally been made for Tommy Farr and, while most Lonsdale belts were silver, this one was of gold. To keep it he had to beat the game Joe Erskine, who was challenging for the British and Empire titles at Wembley on 21 March. It would be the fourth time the two men had met in the professional ring and, although Henry’s previous dramatic defeat of him had rather served to break the psychological hold that Erskine had exercised, he was always to be a tricky opponent. Jim Wicks had been so bold as to predict: ‘Erskine would be lucky to last five rounds with Henry.’
In the event, Henry started as he meant to go on, by stamping his total authority on the fight. It was obvious that Erskine’s eyes were now a weakness and Henry concentrated on them, alternating with hooks to the body. It was clear that Wicks was right; the fight was really very one-sided indeed and after Erskine came out for round five with one eye almost closed and a large cut on his forehead, never mind what looked like a broken nose, Henry barely had the heart to carry on. He switched his attention to body blows, and it was inevitable that this was really a fight that should be stopped. At the end of the fifth, it was, as Erskine’s manager retired him.
While that first Lonsdale belt was a pleasing thing to own and a significant rite of passage for Henry, there was frustration at the Games being played in America. Two weeks before that Erskine fight, Floyd Patterson had knocked out Johansson for the second time in a year and showed no sign of accepting a fight with anyone who stood the vaguest chance of beating him. The serious risk now was that Henry might miss out if Patterson’s pride compelled him to accept Liston, for Henry knew that Wicks would not sanction a fight, whatever the prize, with the ‘mahogany wardrobe’, as there was little doubt that Liston would win.
Wicks, as frustrated as Henry at the sheer inaccessibility of Patterson, suggested a rematch with the ever-ready Zora Folley, which, with the advantage of hindsight, was not to be one of his better ideas, and one that many observers found frankly perverse.
Since Henry had comprehensively wrecked Zora Folley’s chances at the world title in October 1958, the Arizonan had fought 16 times against Henry’s six. One of Folley’s bouts had been against the strong heavyweight contender Eddie Machen; Folley had beaten him. Another had been against Liston and he had been KO’d in three. The rate of work put in by Folley since October 1958 had been prodigious and had led some observers, Jim Wicks included, to conclude that he was ‘boxed out’.
Henry’s preparation for his second fight with Zora Folley was, as he readily admits now, less than perfect. Folley had slumped in the rankings to seventh, as a result of his defeat by Henry three years before but he had held onto his recognition by dint of simple hard work. He was now ranked number six but there was still turmoil in the upper reaches of the heavyweight division, caused by Floyd Patterson’s clear reluctance to fight Liston; in fact, on the same day as the Cooper/Folley rematch, he was busying himself with a little light exercise ‘burying a body’, Tom McNeeley. A straw in the wind for Patterson was that McNeeley, a relative novice, dropped Patterson twice. Henry was himself ranked three, his best ever rating. If he beat Folley there was a good chance of leapfrogging over Liston for a serious crack at Patterson.
The situation was neatly and elegantly summed up by Robert Daley of the New York Times, ever perceptive in matters fistic:
Cooper will have the crowd going for him, plus a splendid left fist, plus the knowledge that he beat Folley here three years ago on points. He won narrowly after having been down for a count of eight in the third round with both eyes already slashed open by Folley’s punches. Cooper also has a greater need t
o win than Folley. Cooper thinks he will get a shot at the heavyweight title once Folley has been knocked over. Folley, who was the number one challenger in 1958 before losing to Cooper, no longer appears to have any designs on the world championship. But he does have six children, so his incentive to fight is there. This may or may not be the right incentive for a winning prizefighter.
Experienced British Cooper observers were fussed about the match, several wondering why Henry was fighting Folley again at all. The Times declared:
Logical matches are rare in boxing and rarest of all in the heavyweight division. Coming only a few hours after the bout between Floyd Patterson and Tom McNeeley as it does, the ten-round contest between the British and Empire champion Henry Cooper and the American Zora Folley at the Empire Pool, Wembley this evening seems almost reasonable.
Yet it is to be regretted that Cooper’s manager saw fit to put his charge against a man Cooper outpointed as far back as 1958 rather than meet a more highly ranked contender like Eddie Machen. It will be ironic if Folley, as is quite possible, upsets the applecart by defeating Cooper and removing him from contention for the world title.
So it was clearly perceived as a very high-risk strategy indeed. Henry had little to gain and much to lose and, despite the fact that he was 5:2 at the bookies, Donald Saunders, although generally optimistic, shared the overall concern:
In my opinion, the man who should be in the other corner tonight is Eddie Machen, of California. Apart from Sonny Liston, who has just resumed his career following a brush with authority, and the currently inactive Ingemar Johansson, Machen is the only heavyweight available to prove whether Cooper is good enough to fight for the world title.
Cooper’s manager Jim Wicks points out of course that Folley beat Machen last year. My answer is that the verdict was disputed and that Machen has regained his form and Folley has lost his.
That last remark proved to be very premature indeed, as matters unfolded.
There was a further issue, unremarked on at the time, which would count heavily against Henry, that of training. As Johansson had remarked that very year when his memoirs were published, ‘Henry Cooper is too nice to be a boxer.’ The surest way of overcoming this aggression deficit is the monkish routine of the training camp, and this was not a ritual to which Henry looked forward at all, particularly as a newly married man and proud father of a one-year old. The farmers’ hours required – rise at 4 a.m., bed at 9 p.m. – had never particularly suited him at the best of times, and certainly not in November, so he made the error of training ‘at home’. For a man with a nature like Henry’s, this was to prove a virtually impossible task.
So on 5 December 1961 Henry was cheered into the ring at Wembley Pool by his apparently loyal fans. Due to the nervousness in the informed press (the tabloids were predictably jingoistic), his odds had narrowed slightly to 7:4. Five minutes and eights seconds later, all the misgivings expressed by the more informed commentators proved to be sadly correct.
Initially, after a fairly uninspiring first round, there had been a murmur of unease at the sight of Henry’s cut forehead and grazed eyebrow after a clash of heads, but the damage was contained swiftly by Danny Holland during the break. Henry seemed tense to some observers, whereas Folley moved with a smooth assurance; he was obviously immensely fit, as a man who had fought 16 times since the pair had previously met should be, but there was no hint of what was to come as the two fighters squared up for the second round. A minute into it, after exchanging a series of inconclusive left jabs with Henry, Folley let rip with an unorthodox, sweeping right that was almost a hook. It connected between Henry’s jaw and ear and simply dropped him like an empty suit. One report read:
Cooper was sitting upright before the count even started. He was staring into Folley’s corner, a half-smile on his face. At first glance, he was trying to get up.
But the count went on and on and Cooper didn’t move and his smile didn’t change. Only then did ringsiders note that his eyes were unfocused.
As the count reached ten, referee Bill Jones moved to help Cooper up. Standing, Cooper lurched toward Folley’s corner, holding his guard high and looking for someone to hit. There was no one there.
The crowd who had cheered him in five minutes before now booed him out, as an anxious George escorted his brother from the ring. ‘I didn’t see the punch at all,’ said Henry later. All I remember was Folley coming close to me and I found myself on the floor. I suppose I shall have to start all over again.’
As for Folley himself, perhaps to balance the truly appalling behaviour of his seconds, who had openly sneered at the dazed loser, he said gracefully, almost in implicit apology:
I didn’t think it would end so quickly, but I came into this fight much fitter than last time. When I fought Cooper last time, I made the mistake of not using my right. During training I concentrated with that hand…I’ve waited six years [to fight Patterson]. Henry Cooper is a gentleman and if I win the title then I will come back and give Cooper a shot at it.
Well, history shows that he never got the chance to fight Patterson, as the champion finally had no option but to give Liston a shot at the title, with famously embarrassing results. In fact, Folley would have to wait six years for a title fight, and it would be against Muhammad Ali, not Liston, by which time he too, partly as a result of over-fighting to feed his large family, was past his best. Ironically, after all Zora Folley’s hard work, Henry would get his own crack at the title ahead of him.
Generous though Folley’s offer of a rematch was (and the cause of much appreciative comment), Henry’s fans, the more informed of whom had been nervous about this fight in the first place, were appalled for him at the disaster. Boxing News wrote:
According to our ratings, Cooper was Number two challenger to World Champion Floyd Patterson. That was before Tuesday night. Now, we are afraid, it is a rather different story. Poor Henry has tumbled down to number six. When the excitement dies down, when the gun smoke clears we must look around and see where we [meaning Cooper and British boxing] stand. We understand that Cooper…was earning something like £10,000 from the fight alone. Victory must have meant at least another £100,000.
Others, including Donald Saunders, estimated that a fight with Patterson for the title would have netted him even more but, of course, neither man would get the opportunity. Boxing News, however, offered some sensible advice as well as a good and relevant parallel:
It has happened before: it will happen again. On June 26, 1959, in New York, a so-called Swede-basher [Ingemar Johansson] smashed American Floyd Patterson to defeat in three rounds. They said it was the end of America’s grip on World Heavyweight boxing. They said it was the end of Patterson; but Floyd hid himself in the backwoods for exactly a year, and trained and trained and trained. Now he’s back at the top.
But whatever the level of the opportunity cost involved, this unnecessary defeat was a huge setback for Henry, both personally and professionally. He had made the classic and clear mistake of under-training for the fight, thus effectively committing the cardinal error of underestimating his opponent. Quickly, another bout was arranged, for 23 January 1962. The opponent was to be Tony Hughes, who was something of an unknown quantity, save that he was the protégé of Rocky Marciano, who had retired as undefeated heavyweight champion in 1955. Marciano, with some justification, had been just as feared as Liston, so there was a buzz of anticipation, firstly at the prospect of actually seeing this great but terrifying man in the flesh, as well as evaluating his presumably promising prospect. A man like Marciano, it was reasoned, would surely only sponsor someone cast completely in his own image, if that was possible.
After the disaster of that second Folley fight, Henry and Wicks had sat down to have a serious talk about the issue of training; Henry had ruefully agreed that to attempt to work at home was a mistake that had cost him dear, so this time round he threw himself into it with great intensity.
Henry was fascinated to meet Marciano, whom he h
ad long admired, but never particularly wished to fight. In 1952 Marciano had knocked out champion Jersey Joe Walcott with a terrifying punch that had famously been caught on camera and it had appeared that poor Walcott’s jaw had almost become detached by it. Marciano had christened this punch the ‘Suzy Q’ and Henry was quite interested to meet its owner. ‘He was the quietest, most softly spoken guy you could ever wish to meet,’ he remembers.
The fight with Hughes itself was a straightforward and inelegant brawl, which took place at the Olympia Circus Arena, complete with caged animals nearby. ‘God, they stank the place out,’ recalls Henry but, in the parlance of the game, so, alas for him, did Hughes. Happily, he possessed neither a ‘Suzy Q’ nor great abundance of either discipline or ability. Straight from the bell he windmilled away at Henry for four rounds before being caught by a left that put him down at the end of the fourth. In the fifth, spectators witnessed a rare sight: Henry attacking with both fists in equal measure. It certainly worked, and a dazed and bleeding Hughes was forced to retire.
The use of the right hand was, however, significant. Henry had started to suffer from that dreaded puncher’s ailment, bursitis, an inflammation of the knuckles caused by calcium deposits and exacerbated by judicious ‘management of the glove’. Given that he used the left approximately 30 times more often than the right, and didn’t even brush his teeth with his right outside the ring, it was the left hand that was starting to deteriorate into a truly dreadful condition. His left elbow was not much better, and it was now starting to hurt in the days that followed these fights. The knuckle damage went back to his Army days, when Henry had banged the top of Joe Erskine’s very hard head.
The knuckle had been split and swollen but little had been done about it. Now, ten years later, the (already big to begin with) joint was severely calcified and enlarged to the size of a golf ball and, despite treatment in 1955-56, it was still giving trouble, and always would. Hot wax and massage treatment helped to disperse some of the deposits but it remains to this day an interesting sight.
Henry Cooper Page 14
