Ali vs. Inoki (10 page)

During Eaton's run at the helm of the Olympic, one of the things that made her promotional style unique was that she didn't offer long-term deals to fighters. She believed that multi-fight agreements came with the temptation to protect boxers in easy bouts, thus cheating the fans.

“We lost some good, good fighters by doing that,” Don Chargin said. “She would say, ‘Look, if they don't want us, we don't want them.' You'll never find that kind of approach again.”

There were plenty of big fights, of course, like Ali's return to L.A. in July of '62 against ranked Argentine Alejandro Lavorante. Fighting for the last time at less than 200 pounds, Ali looked tremendous on his way to a fifth-round knockout that set up a graduation of sorts against Archie Moore.
(Lavorante tragically died following injuries sustained in a bout at the Olympic Auditorium two months later.)

Moore, like Ali, could talk. Not as poetic or poignant, but after 217 fights, he had figured out how to promote. He was also smart enough to know he really didn't have a chance against Ali, and took the fight versus his former training partner with that in mind. Moore had previously attempted to mentor Ali, but the young stud had no interest in sweeping floors or doing gym chores like a typical pug. He left Moore in 1960 and signed up with Angelo Dundee.

When they met in 1962, “The Old Mongoose” talked a big game, as he usually did, and came up with fun lines like a “lip buttoner” punch. But Moore really had no intention of fighting enough to risk getting hurt. A paid crowd of 16,200 at the Sports Arena watched the soon-to-be retired boxer try to score hooks to Ali's body, but the aspiring heavyweight's speed was simply too much. Moore's cover-up defense cost him as he went dizzy under a stream of punches that dotted the top of his head. Moore fought once more before retiring, stopping a wrestler no less, Mike DiBiase, who made his only boxing appearance in Phoenix in 1963.

By the time Ali stepped into the ring with Inoki, he had felt enough hard shots to be too familiar with the full-body jar that punctuates a clean hit.

Throughout Ali's career the ability to endure punishment proved to be both a blessing and curse, which is why absorbing punches isn't high on his list of attributes. But it was nonetheless true and tested several times before, during, and after the peak of his fame.

Sonny Banks' fist elucidated answers about the great boxer's recuperative powers, and sixteen months after being
floored at the Garden, Ali scared his supporters again. England's Henry Cooper dropped Ali with a vicious left hook at the end of the fourth round, nearly knocking him through the ropes. Ali was saved by the bell and Dundee's guile—lore places the delay at closer to a few minutes, but the trainer actually bought Ali an extra six seconds with some commotion in the corner about his fighter's gloves. Cooper, the British champion, was put away by Ali in the next round.

Just in case critics were onto something and Ali's chin really couldn't hold up under the strain of heavyweight boxing, his handlers figured it was time to put him in front of “The Big Bear” Sonny Liston.

In Miami, on February 25, 1964, Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr., like his father named in honor of a white abolitionist from Kentucky, won the heavyweight championship of the world when Liston, a 7–1 favorite, quit on his stool after six rounds. The following morning in front of reporters and with Malcolm X at his side, Clay, twenty-two, a decendant of African slaves, revealed his conversion to Islam then renounced his surname as a “slave name.” The young champ would be known as Cassius X until the Nation of Islam founder, Elijah Muhammad, bestowed him a holy name. On March 6, he became Muhammad Ali.

ROUND SIX

I
n wrestling. In business. In politics. In religion. In life. Inoki, the wrestler with a landing strip of a chin who attached himself to Muhammad Ali, almost always broke the rules and found a way to prosper. There are many reasons for fans to celebrate Inoki, not the least of which is one of the most recognizable faces in Japan.

From his days as an apprentice “young boy” under the direct guidance of Rikidōzan through his legendary retirement from
puroresu
thirty-eight years later, Inoki carved out a niche as a mercenary capable of creating and inserting himself into dynamic, sometimes prickly situations while emerging largely unscathed.

Inoki's ambition to face the boxer was born out of his plan to capitalize on the foundational relationship laid down by Rikidōzan that bonds wrestlers and the Japanese people. Meanwhile, Inoki's machinations helped extricate himself from his deceased mentor's murky shadow, even if he
sometimes wandered similar paths. Inoki is a complicated man, as difficult to pin down in life as he was in the ring. Even when Inoki appeared to be finished he was not, and his subversive nature helped him become an important sporting and political figure throughout Asia.

Like many Japanese boys of the 1950s, Inoki was infatuated with wrestling and the televised spectacle that Rikidōzan perpetrated before his death in 1963.

Inoki was reportedly born to an affluent family in Yokohama in 1943, the second-youngest of seven boys and four girls. Some people have openly asked if segments of the story of Inoki's life, including where he was born, are fact or fiction. Like Rikidōzan, skeptics wonder if Inoki was also brought into the world in Korea, perhaps even the North.

The official account says Kanji Inoki was five years old when his father Sajiro, a businessman and politician, passed away. As Inoki matured he was a natural athlete and showed ability throughout grade school in various sports, including basketball and track and field.

By 1957, Inoki's family had fallen on hard times and the decision was made to depart Japan for Brazil. The first Japanese settlers had arrived in Brazil a half century earlier, escaping poverty and unemployment to serve as laborers on coffee plantations in the southern part of the country following the abolition of slavery. Conditions were difficult. The cultures were vastly different, and so were illnesses like malaria, which exacted a terrible toll on the immigrants. But in spite of the hardship, the contributions that Japanese immigrants made to Brazilian society are far-reaching. They introduced organized farming to the Amazon, replacing a
hunter-gatherer system, and early settlers popularized martial arts, helping create Brazilian jiu-jitsu with the influence of judo men like Mitsuyo Maeda.

Inoki, aged fourteen, joined his grandfather (who died during the trip), mother, and brothers in emigrating to the country with the largest ethnic Japanese population outside of Japan. This is where Inoki's connection with pro wrestling and Rikidōzan took root. During a wrestling tour of Brazil in the spring of 1960, Rikidōzan heard stories of the Japanese boy winning championships in shot put, discus, and javelin. The superstar wrestler sought out Inoki and found a strong young man who had shaped his adolescent frame toiling on coffee bean plantations.

“In those days, it was like living as a slave,” Inoki said in interviews. “Now it is good to think I worked on the plantation in 45-degree [Celsius] heat. I struggled to eat, but such a life gave me the spirit to fight.”

In the same way that a sumo wrestling scout found Rikidōzan and delivered him to Japan for grooming, the star performer intended to mold a young Inoki, who learned as a “young boy” for six months before stepping into the ring. The mentorship of Rikidōzan instilled in Inoki the principle that a pro wrestler is supposed to be the strongest. The kid learned a great many things from his teacher, and on September 30, 1960, Inoki was part of a trio of debuting Japan Wrestling Association prospects who made it big, including Shohei “Giant” Baba, a six-foot-eight baseball player turned wrestler, and Korean star Kintaro Ohki. Only Inoki was asked to lose, which he did to Ohki in front of 6,000 fans in Tokyo.

Over the next three decades, the two biggest stars in Japan were “Giant” Baba and Inoki. A negative stigma clung to pro wrestling in Japan in light of revelations regarding Rikidōzan, but the emergence of Baba and Inoki led to a second boom from '67 to '71. The pair teamed up for tagteam matches and produced sellouts wherever they went, regardless of the night.

As the audience experienced it, Baba was the sun and Inoki was the moon. Without the light of the sun, the moon isn't visible at night and Inoki could not stand playing second fiddle. Inoki was recognized as Baba's partner when they worked for the JWA until 1972. The Japanese people love watching athletes with size, and Baba, a notably tall man, was immediately captivating to them. His stature worked away from Japan, too. While Inoki failed to develop notoriety away from home, Baba became a big star in the U.S. throughout the 1960s.

Inoki grew frustrated with Baba, who did not have it in him to take risks in business when he secured booking control of the company after the owners of the JWA, businessmen with no real connection to wrestling, went broke gambling. Both of the company's stars wanted to get away, and Inoki left first, insinuating he had been fired. Fans and other wrestlers felt Inoki's impatience as he played the bad guy. With the helpful defections of some of the wrestlers Inoki had groomed alongside Karl Gotch, New Japan Pro Wrestling soon formed. Both Inoki and Baba, who quickly created the rival All Japan Pro Wrestling group, were able to headline on television in primetime in 1972.

After dropping his first wrestling match in 1960, Inoki wanted to beat everyone. But such was Inoki's reverence for
Gotch, who was awarded the title “God of Wrestling” after settling in Japan, that he lost the first NJPW main event to a wrestler in his 40s. “There is one man who is worthy of the belt,” Gotch said in the ring. “It's Inoki.” They rematched four times, alternating wins and losses, with Gotch taking the lifetime series. Inoki could have done what he did with everyone else—win the last two matches and stand out as superior—but for realism's sake, he couldn't top the catch wrestler.

Gotch's reputation as a Wigan-trained grappler became the backbone of New Japan Pro Wrestling. Matches may not have been real, but the wrestlers were. This is how NJPW and Inoki attempted to convey that pro wrestling, a remnant from the old days, remained a legitimate fighting style.

“The idea was you put in any of our guys against football players, rugby players and the New Japan wrestler is kicking ass,” said wrestling scribe Dave Meltzer. “That was what New Japan Wrestling was built on, and Inoki was the king.”

Starting in 1972, Gotch was paid $60,000 a year as the head trainer and booker for NJPW. He received the money until passing away at the age of eighty-two in 2007. Months before he died,
Gong
, the Japanese fight sport magazine, sent a reporter to Tampa, Fla., where Gotch had retired to, and asked the no-nonsense trainer to look at fight footage from Josh Barnett's classic 2006 clash with Antônio Rodrigo Nogueira in the Pride Fighting Championships. At the time, it was considered one of the great heavyweight fights in mixed martial arts. Because Barnett trained with Gotch and represented the catch-as-catch-can lineage into the twentyfirst century, the concept was for professor and student to discuss—and critique—the Nogueira clash.

Gotch didn't care who you were or what you did. He didn't think much of Brazilians and their jiu-jitsu, according to LeBell, who said Gotch described the practice of fighting from the guard—a neutral position where one fighter is on his or her back and the other sits between their thighs—as spreading legs like a whore. In catch, this position is called “hip-and-leg control,” and it was Gotch's contention that anything jiu-jitsu pedaled as new or revolutionary was in truth old and well tested. As far as he was concerned, if he sat in a jiu-jitsu man's “guard” he would simply fall back, take a leg, and give them a half-second to tap or suffer a broken ankle.

In 1948, three years after being interned in a Nazi concentration camp in Poland, Gotch, twenty-three, wrestled in both freestyle and Greco-Roman competition at the London Olympic Games.

Remaining in England, the hard-nosed Belgian shooter born as Karel Istaz made his way to “The Snake Pit,” Billy Riley's incubator in the Lancashire mining town of Wigan, near Manchester. He turned to professional wrestling and won several European titles before moving to the United States, where he took on the surname Gotch in honor of American catch-as-catch-can pioneer Frank Gotch.

In Los Angeles, Lou Thesz introduced Gene LeBell to Gotch, who was in town looking for sparring partners. Thesz and Gotch didn't have a meeting of the minds, but “Lou knew who was good and who wasn't,” LeBell said. “Lou grappled like a boxer. Karl was a grappler. He grabbed with either hand and had a death grip. He used to snatch parts of bodies and use them as a handle, because everything is a handle.”

“He loved wrestling and he didn't like clowns,” continued LeBell. “If somebody fooled around in the ring, turned his back to the crowd to get heat, he'd soufflé them—and hard. He didn't pay attention to wins or losses. A lot of people would not work with him.”

For the most part Gotch blew off pro wrestlers he didn't respect. And he didn't respect many. He probably hurt more people than he gave the time of day to. Buddy Rogers, the first wrestler to hold the WWWF and NWA heavyweight titles, was confronted by Gotch and another wrestler, Bill Miller, in Columbus, Ohio. In the skirmish, Rogers broke his left hand. Refunds had to be issued for the August 31, 1962, event, and charges were filed. The incident made Gotch's bad reputation worse. There was chatter about Gotch hurting Thesz's ribs, and about Gotch injuring 1972 Olympic wrestler Riki Choshu with a submission.

“They happened enough where everyone knew the stories,” said Meltzer.

Gotch's stateside wrestling career, or lack thereof, is a good example of how pro wrestling shifted from shoot to show. He was never much of a draw and couldn't get the crowd to react to him, which confused and frustrated a wrestler who was likely the most dangerous guy in the locker room. Gotch may not have racked up big wins or scored famous matches, but he became a mythical figure and was hired by Inoki to teach New Japan wrestlers how to shoot.

Developing a reputation for strength based on the Indian grappling art
Pehlwani
, Gotch later instilled his work ethic in the men around him. Inoki, for example would often do pushups and squats during airport layovers.

As
Gong
's reporter and photographer sat with Gotch watching Barnett fight Nogueira, the surly old man was clearly unimpressed. “That looks like shit,” Gotch said as the video played. Expecting a far different experience, the Japanese pair grew increasingly nervous. When Barnett's exciting split decision win ended, Gotch looked at Barnett. “Does that piss you off?” Gotch said. Barnett, a six-foot-three smart submission artist, replied that it did not. He said all he wanted was an insight into Gotch's mind so he could improve. If there was a possibility to be better, why wouldn't he embrace that? Gotch nodded, and until his death regularly called Barnett to chat.

Barnett also had the occasion to train with Billy Robinson, regarded by most observers of “The Snake Pit” as the top shooter in the gym during the 1960s. Robinson wrestled some in the U.S. and enjoyed better success with crowds and promoters than Gotch, but he never went over big. Robinson ended up in Japan in the late '60s, and for years never lost by pin or submission. He brought a sense of showmanship with the technical sensibilities of scientific wrestling, straddling the line between work and shoot people at that time strived for in pro wrestling.

“Karl was very bright. Him and Billy were incredibly bright when it came to fighting,” said Barnett. “Very hardnosed. Very demanding people. The thing about guys like Karl and Billy, you always hear stories about them yelling at you, but the biggest thing I think was the yelling wasn't so much about you doing wrong, the yelling is about you not doing it with your all and you making things more difficult for yourself than they need to be. You're overthinking things. Getting too caught up in the thought of something rather than existing and doing.”

Inoki met Robinson for a famous match at the end of 1975.

Sold in the Japanese press as a contest between the top two technicians in wrestling, they tussled during a classic work that was treated like sport. A sixty-minute draw indicated Inoki was much improved over the green wrestler Gene LeBell saw in Los Angeles in the mid-1960s called “Little Tokyo.”

After the tie, “Giant” Baba offered Robinson a hefty fee ($8,000 to $10,000 a week) to wrestle for him in 1976. Seeking to one-up Inoki, the first thing Baba did was pay the man from Manchester, England, a bonus to suffer his only loss in a singles match in Japan.

Still, as a promoter, Baba was considered a more honest broker than Inoki. He forged relationships and contracts with a group of American stars including Terry Funk, Bruno Sammartino, Harley Race, and “Killer” Kowalski. Inoki was effectively frozen out and could only count on himself and ambitions of building a roster of wrestlers to support his business. Tiger Jeet Singh, a wild man from India who literally accosted fans, and Canadian Johnny Powers helped Inoki and NJPW rapidly expand their footprint in the 1970s.

Part of that effort included the idea that Inoki should be matched with outsiders to make the popular Japanese wrestler the new Karl Gotch. With his manager Hisashi Shinma, Inoki set out to create an image of himself as a shooter, the Japanese dragon slayer. By the mid-70s, Inoki fancied himself another Rikidōzan, defending pro wrestling and Japanese honor against foreign invaders and their disciples.