Chuvalo

by George Chuvalo

  From Lethbridge, Lynne and I flew to Vancouver and then down to San Francisco to enjoy a mini-vacation. After a couple of days on the beach, we rented a car to drive to Los Angeles. About two in the morning, dead tired from the journey, we decided to get a motel room in the little town of Pismo Beach where, unbeknownst to us, a gas station had been robbed shortly before our arrival.

  A few minutes after we checked in, there was a loud pounding at the door. I opened it to find a couple of no-nonsense-type cops demanding to know who we were, where we were coming from and where we were going.

  This was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Without skipping a beat, I turned to Lynne, who had just stepped out of the shower. She was wearing a robe, had her hair up in curlers and definitely wasn’t in the mood for my warped sense of humor. “Hey doll,” I growled. “What did you say your name was?”

  ROUND 6

  TEN WEEKS AFTER THE PATTERSON FIGHT, I got back to business by knocking out Bill Nielsen in eight rounds at Maple Leaf Gardens. It was my first fight at home since being disqualified against Joe Erskine four years earlier, and it felt good.

  Nielsen, who hailed from Omaha, was nicknamed “Golden Boy” for his outstanding showings in the U.S. Golden Gloves nationals from 1956–60, and as an amateur he once dropped a split decision to Cassius Clay. By the time we hooked up his record was 22–5–1 and included a KO of former British Empire champion Joe Bygraves in 1963, but he’d since been stopped by Tom McNeeley, Brian London and Billy Walker.

  As a pro, Nielsen’s biggest claim to fame was being awarded a DQ victory over a guy named Ernie Cab at Madison Square Garden in 1962, after Cab took a bite out of his arm.

  Nielsen was rugged, I’ll give him that. But he couldn’t hit, and his jab was more of a nuisance than a punch. I was rusty and far from being at my best, but referee Jackie Silvers stopped the fight in the eighth after I caught Bill with a good flurry that closed his right eye and opened a nasty cut under the left one.

  For me, the most memorable thing about that fight was meeting Bob Hope. Long before he became one of the most versatile entertainers ever, Hope fought a few amateur bouts under the name of Packy East. He was in Toronto for an Easter Seals fundraiser and we ended up having a nice little visit.

  Over the next four months, while I stayed busy in Canada with KO wins over Sonny Andrews, Dave Bailey (refereed by the great Barney Ross) and Orvin Veazey, the heavyweight division was undergoing yet another upheaval in the wake of Ali’s May 25 rematch with Liston in front of 2,500 fans at a hockey rink in Lewiston, Maine.

  Everybody knows the story.

  Officially, Ali scored a first-round KO after landing his so-called “anchor punch.” It was so sudden and so unexpected that referee Jersey Joe Walcott forgot to order Muhammad to a neutral corner, then lost the count and actually motioned for the fight to continue before Nat Fleischer, publisher of The Ring, screamed from his front-row seat that Liston had been on the deck for about 20 seconds.

  Five years later, in a story published in Sports Illustrated, Liston explained it to writer Jack Olsen: “Clay caught me cold and the count was messed up, and that’s all there was to it. Clay knocked me down with a good punch. Anybody can get caught cold in the first round, before you even work up a sweat. And when I was down, Clay stood right over me. No, I never blacked out, not for a second. But I wasn’t gonna get up, either, not with him standin’ over me. See, you can’t get up without puttin’ one hand on the floor, and so I couldn’t protect myself, and he can hit me on the way up.”

  That was Sonny’s version.

  From where I was sitting, about 40 feet away, it was pretty obvious he took a dive. I don’t think Ali or his people had anything to do with it, and I’m not saying the fix was in, but I think that whole “anchor punch” story is a crock of crap.

  When Ali threw his punch—and there definitely was one—I had a clear view. Liston had his back to me, but the “punch” was more like a swat, just a little tap. It wasn’t a murderous right hand or anything even close, but Sonny went down like he’d been shot.

  Now, remember, this is a guy who barely blinked when he took the best shots from guys like Mike DeJohn and Cleveland Williams, both of whom were big bombers. To see him collapse from a little tap like that, a pussy punch, was ridiculous. But it all started to make sense when more details about Ali’s deep connection to the Nation of Islam surfaced. In a way I couldn’t blame Sonny, who was probably thinking, “If I get up, I might get shot.”

  For me, the real tip-off was seeing Ali’s reaction. He looked surprised—and disgusted. Immortalized in a famous photo by Sports Illustrated’s Neil Leifer, he stood glaring over Liston, bellowing, “Get up and fight, you bum!”

  I think Muhammad did that because he knew it was a pussy punch. Nothing else makes sense. If you hit a guy with a clean shot, you don’t scream at him to get up. Ali knew it. So did Angelo Dundee. Anchor punch? No way!

  My theory is that, without Muhammad and Angelo knowing anything about it, the Muslims got to Sonny and told him he’d better not win. Liston knew better than to mess with those guys. The word was he probably bet some big money on Ali, even though Muhammad wasn’t an overwhelming favorite. If Sonny couldn’t win, that was at least a chance for him to make some serious dough, so I think he went for it.

  I’d forgotten about jumping into the ring afterward, until I saw the clip in The Last Round, the 2003 documentary the National Film Board of Canada made about my first fight with Ali. You can see me climb through the ropes and go directly to Muhammad’s corner. I wasn’t mad at him, I was just really pissed off that the title shot I’d been promised if Liston won was now in the toilet, thanks to the worst acting job I’ve ever seen.

  In the heat of the moment, with the crowd going nuts and chanting, “Fix! Fix!” my shouting and posturing was a knee-jerk reaction to letting my emotions get the better of me. I could maybe understand if Sonny had taken a big shot, or even a few little ones. But it was a terrible dive off a pussy punch, plain and simple. Ali didn’t twist his body into it at all, and his face told the whole story. Muhammad’s eyes got wide, like he was saying to himself, “You dropped from that?”

  Later, both Sports Illustrated and The Ring supposedly “proved” the accuracy and force of the punch by breaking down the film, but I know what I saw. No matter what Ali or Angelo said later about the anchor punch, I’ll go to my grave knowing that shot wouldn’t have knocked out Liston’s grandmother.

  It wasn’t just me; everybody was in shock. Angelo did a great job of selling it, but what else was he going to say? It wasn’t his fault, or Muhammad’s. I just wish I had the Nation of Islam in my corner. They made the rules, and the thought of crossing those guys scared the shit out of Liston. That’s my take on it.

  It’s sad that that’s the fight people remember Sonny for, but when you think you might get killed, what else do you do? Liston was a hell of a fighter. In my opinion, at his best, he was absolutely one of the top five or six heavyweight champions ever.

  For some people, that fight still kind of sullies Ali’s reputation, too … but that’s not right. I don’t for a second believe Muhammad or Angelo had anything to do with Liston lying down—especially after the fantastic performance by Ali in their first meeting, which is what I always recall when I think of Muhammad at his absolute best.

  Of course, I never did get to face Liston—and that’s the one fight I’ve always regretted not having. Sadly, it was never meant to be—just like my imaginary dream date with Raquel Welch. But we came very close, six years later.

  Fast forward to January 5, 1971, the day Liston was found dead by his wife, Geraldine, in the bedroom of their Las Vegas home. Mrs. Liston, who was returning from an out-of-town trip, told police she noticed a foul odor when she entered the house. On Sonny’s death certificate, the coroner wrote “December 30,” after estimating the date from the number of milk bottles and newspapers piled up at the front door.

  Following their investigation,
the police concluded there was no sign of forced entry or foul play. To this day, the official cause of Liston’s death remains a mystery, although the cops eventually declared it was the result of a heroin overdose.

  A couple of weeks earlier, just before Christmas, I’d gotten a call from Regis Levesque, a promoter in Montreal, offering me $25,000 to fight Sonny at the Montreal Forum on February 19, 1971. That was the same money I’d been offered to fight him years earlier, so I thought I could do a little better. After a solid week of negotiating, Levesque finally said, “Chuvalo, you drive a hard bargain.” I had jacked up the measly offer to 30 grand. I had to! If I had fought for a lousy $25,000 I would have been ruined psychologically. Even 30 grand in 1971 wasn’t great. But at least I felt I could handle it mentally. “Send me a telegram to seal the deal,” said Levesque. So I did.

  Sure enough, on January 5, Regis called a big press conference in Montreal, where he pulled out my telegram and told the reporters, “I’ve got confirmation that George Chuvalo has agreed to fight Sonny Liston.” Then one of the reporters asked about Liston’s contract, and Levesque said, “I just got off the phone with Sonny this morning, and he’s agreed to all terms. The fight is on!”

  You can guess the rest.

  A few hours later, the lead story on the six o’clock news was: “Body of Sonny Liston, former heavyweight champion of the world, found in his Las Vegas home—believed to be dead seven to 10 days.”

  Levesque was inundated with phone calls from reporters, asking him if he’d been talking to a ghost.

  And promoters wonder why nobody believes them?

  TWO weeks after Ali beat Liston, Ernie Terrell won the vacant World Boxing Association title in a boring 15-round decision over Eddie Machen in Chicago.

  Ali had been stripped of the WBA crown on June 19, 1964, because he had opted for an immediate rematch with Liston instead of making his first title defense against Machen, who at the time was the WBA’s No 1 contender. Most people thought it was really because Muhammad had embraced the Nation of Islam.

  Unlike today, when it seems like there’s a new “title” fight every other month, this marked the first time the world heavyweight championship was split, and on paper the fight looked to be a good matchup. Machen was 47–5–2 and Terrell was 36–4, but as usual, Ernie’s style turned it into a suffocating clutchfest.

  At 6 foot 6 and 215 pounds, Terrell looked like a guy who could punch, but looks can be deceiving. He only had 18 KOs going in against Machen, and the biggest name on his record was future light heavyweight champ Bob Foster, who was 14–2 when Terrell stopped him in seven rounds in 1964.

  Instead of power, Ernie preferred to use his 82-inch reach and defensive posturing to smother opponents and win on points.

  Terrell’s ace in the hole was that Bernie Glickman was his manager of record, even though Tony Accardo was really the guy pulling the strings. Accardo—also known as “Big Tuna”—had been a fixture in the Chicago rackets since the Prohibition days. He’d risen through the ranks, going from a small-time associate of Al Capone to the all-powerful boss of what became known as the “Chicago Outfit,” with partners like Frankie Carbo, who was widely thought to be responsible for engineering the murder of Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, the guy who built Las Vegas.

  Glickman was a rich businessman who’d been involved in boxing for several years, most notably as co-manager of Virgil “Honey Bear” Akins, who was world welterweight champ for six months in 1958. Glickman served as Accardo’s front man, and that connection scared away a lot of would-be challengers once Terrell became champ.

  With limited options for Terrell in the U.S., Glickman and Accardo looked north. I was ranked No. 3 by the WBA, so when Ungerman got an offer of $45,000 for me to challenge for Ernie’s title at Maple Leaf Gardens on November 1—the day before my son Stevie’s fifth birthday—we jumped at it.

  When I think about it now, it’s almost comical how the fight unfolded. Even if it was for only a piece of the title, I was ecstatic about finally getting the opportunity, but almost from the second we signed it was obvious to me that Irving had no clue about how to deal with the big boys.

  Without even talking to me about it, Ungerman decided to bring in Rocky Marciano and Joe Louis as “special advisers.” What a joke! Marciano grabbed $3,000 as his fee, did absolutely nothing for a couple of weeks and then blew town before the fight. My pal Marvin Elkind hooked us up with Warren K. Cook, one of Toronto’s top tailors, to get free suits for me, Joe and Rocky. For some reason Ungerman told him I didn’t need a suit and Joe—always a gentleman—declined the offer, so Marvin ended up taking just Marciano down to the store. “Gimme a blue one and a brown one,” Rocky told the guy. After being informed they only had one suit for him, Marciano didn’t miss a beat: “I’m takin’ Joe’s, too.”

  That was Rocky. He was so goddamned cheap, he wouldn’t spend a nickel for a phone call. Still, he was very charming, very pleasant to chat with. But having him and Louis in camp was just another grandstand move by Ungerman to get some ink for the fight. It was good for publicity, of course. The newspaper guys loved rubbing shoulders with Rocky and Joe, but to me having them around was more trouble than it was worth.

  While Irving was playing babysitter to Rocky and Joe, Teddy and I were concentrating on getting ready for the fight. Terrell was slow and couldn’t punch a lick, so I had no doubt whatsoever I could outmuscle him. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for Ungerman vs. Glickman.

  For the first time, Irving found himself dealing with guys who had the backing of major muscle, guys who knew how to turn the screws—and he was way out of his league. As the fight drew closer, Ungerman almost came unglued. He was scared shitless. Why? Because to Glickman and his guys, “doing business” in Toronto wasn’t any different from what they were used to in Chicago. If the usual backdoor intimidation didn’t work, they had no second thoughts about resorting to more brazen tactics—and they did.

  For me, there was a much more worrisome consideration. A week before the fight, Lynne and 18-month-old Jesse were visiting the home of some friends who also had a little guy. The two kids were playing in another room when Jesse bit a live electrical cord and badly burned his mouth. It was a horrible injury that eventually required plastic surgery, and for years afterward my son endured a lot of teasing and name-calling because of his scarred mouth.

  On the night of the fight, as we drove along Lake Shore Boulevard to Maple Leaf Gardens, Ungerman barely said a word. He was nervous and fidgety, and I had to tell him to get rid of his cigar because it was making me sick. He was white as a ghost, and every 15 or 20 seconds, staring out at the breakwater, he’d slap the dashboard like he was killing a fly.

  Ungerman didn’t tell me until after it was all over that his life had been threatened. Basically, Irving had been told that if I won, he would wind up on the bottom of Lake Ontario. No wonder the poor bastard was so nervous as we drove past the water! A few days later, referee Sammy Luftspring said right to my face that he was told he’d be killed if the decision went my way. It didn’t matter what happened in the ring; it came down to management muscle. Ernie had it, and I didn’t.

  The fight itself wasn’t what you’d call a classic. Far from it. For 15 rounds, I plowed forward and Terrell retreated. From the opening bell, he fell into his usual routine of sticking out that beanpole jab and then trying to tie me up every time I made a move inside. There was a trickle of blood coming from my nose in the second round, but so what? In the eighth, Ernie thumbed me in the eye and landed a decent right to my chin, but that was pretty much his entire offense.

  From Round 11 on, Terrell was strictly in survival mode. In the 13th, I pounded him into the ropes and opened two nice cuts over his left eye. In the 14th and 15th, I trapped him on the ropes and rocked him with big shots to the head, but it wasn’t enough for the judges. Fred Norbert scored it 73–65, while Billy Burke had it 69–65 and Luftspring saw it 72–65.

  The scoring stank. All Terrell did
was beat the hell out of my right glove for 15 rounds. Every time I moved in, he backed away—and you don’t keep a title by running backwards. He just wanted to survive the 15 because he knew, with his manager’s influence, that he’d get the decision. What I’ll never forget is that before the scores were announced, everyone in the joint was cheering and all the photographers, newspaper guys and fans were crowding around in my corner. The only guys in Ernie’s corner were his trainer, Sam Solomon, and Bernie Glickman … and Ernie looked pretty glum. To me, that was a good sign. After the announcement there was kind of a pause, as if people were letting it sink in, and then a mass exodus from my corner over to Terrell’s. But those people knew I won the fight. Why would they want to take my picture and ask me questions if they thought I lost? Nobody talks to the loser first.

  That was almost 50 years ago, but it still bothers me. In my heart, in my soul, I know I beat Ernie Terrell that night. Yeah, it was only for a piece of the title, but I know I won a world championship that night. Even if it’s only for two minutes, once you win the heavyweight championship of the world, you’re always a champ.

  To get robbed like that in my own hometown still hurts.

  I wasn’t the only one who thought I beat Terrell. A few days later, Ungerman got a call from Mike Barrett, the preeminent promoter in Britain, who said he thought I was robbed. We accepted his offer to fight former British Commonwealth champ Joe Bygraves on December 7 at Royal Albert Hall in London.

  When it came to selling a fight, nothing was too outrageous for Barrett. Bygraves was Jamaican, and as soon as the deal was done, at Barrett’s urging the British press dredged up the same old “White Hope” angle that was used when I fought Patterson. Barrett also said the winner would be “guaranteed” a shot at Henry Cooper’s Commonwealth title. That sounded good to me, since I’d been ahead of Cooper in the world ratings for years.