EDITOR’S LETTER
But Chuvalo, now 80, seems destined for an unhappy ending
The tragic tale of George Chuvalo
ITHINK I’m okay mentally,” George Chuvalo said in a Cardiff hotel in 2010. “I don’t think I suffer from any dementia, at least not yet anyway. Floyd Patterson seemed all right, didn’t he? The next thing you know, he can’t remember anything. Next thing you know he’s dead.”
We’ve all heard the one about a great uncle who chugged his way through 30 cigarettes a day before a freak gardening accident, and not his deadly habit, killed him at the ripe old age of 104. His superhuman lungs are used as evidence, by those clinging to a semblance of hope that cigarettes won’t kill them, to prove smoking might not be such a bad idea after all.
For a long time, the boxing equivalent of the miracle smoker was perennial 1960s and 70s heavyweight contender, Chuvalo. His gargantuan resolve, which remained even when three of his sons sacrificed their lives to drug addiction, survived countless blows from some of the best fighters in history. And off he marched, into old age, with a mind sharper than your average twentysomething’s.
Chuvalo’s wit, warmth and intelligence belied his violent past, and spending time with him was always such an enlightening experience it was easy to conclude that being repeatedly whacked in the face by the likes of Patterson, Joe Frazier, George Foreman and Muhammad Ali was good exercise for the brain.
But, alas, no. Even Chuvalo, who quit the sport in 1978 with a 73-18-2 (64) professional record, could not withstand those fierce shots forever. According to an article in the Toronto Star, forwarded to me by my BN predecessor Tris Dixon, George’s mind is deteriorating quickly. He is often confused, his memory is crumbling and, as the punches he swallowed many years ago at last repeat on him, he’s at the centre of a bitter, almost unbelievable, family dispute.
The product of a chicken-plucking mother and cattle-skinning father, George carved out a reputation as the most durable fighter in history. Armed with impressive power, and a thick square jaw that was so thick and square it looked like his skull had been fitted with reinforcements, Chuvalo was never dropped or knocked out.
But he plummeted to unthinkable depths in retirement as three of his kids got hooked on, and were killed by, drugs. His first wife committed suicide under the strain of the torment and the Canadian legend later admitted he was close to diving headfirst into the grave after them. With his finances in disarray, he was evicted from his home but, with thoughts of suicide swirling inside him, he met his second wife, Joanne. Not so long ago, George described her as his salvation.
The boxing fraternity welcomed him back with open arms, and he was paid handsomely for lecturing on the evils of drugs. It seemed that Chuvalo’s luck had changed, and the happy ending he deserved more than anyone was in sight. Yet the man defined by his ability to withstand heartache and pain finds himself in a fight he does not even remember starting.
Two of his surviving children now manage his affairs and, under power of attorney, have filed for Chuvalo, on his behalf, to divorce his wife of 23 years. Whether it’s what he actually wants is unknown. The report from Canada states he changes his mind regularly, often in the space of a few hours, as he’s repeatedly reintroduced to his lawyers because he can’t recall their names.
His wife claims her husband has effectively been kidnapped, and online you will find her petition to get Chuvalo safely returned. It’s hard to identify who is truly looking out for boxing’s 80-yearold miracle man as he heads into the abyss he always feared.
“A lot of fighters are okay for a while and then they all get messed up,” George said when asked if he was concerned about brain damage eight years ago. “You see them one day and they’re fine. The next time you see them they can’t remember anything. I don’t know what will happen when I run out of steam.”