by Bob Bozic

(photo of Bob Bozic during his boxing days, c/o boxrec)

In the summer of 1970, my professional boxing career was flourishing. Undefeated, I had secured half a dozen wins, albeit all in Toronto. However, to garner serious attention, one needed wins in prominent American venues such as Vegas, Philly, L.A., or, if fortunate, Madison Square Garden—simply referred to, as the ‘Gardens’ in the fight game. That summer, luck was on my side, and I was among the fortunate few.

In early June I commenced sparring with George Chuvalo, the Canadian heavyweight champ, aiding his preparation for an August 4th bout in the Gardens against the emerging George Foreman. Chuvalo, having faced off against the reigning champ Joe Frazier, as well as former champs Muhammad Ali and Floyd Patterson, held a legendary status for being the toughest in the brutal sport. My style as a slugger, like Foreman, was a good fit for Chuvalo. Thus, four times weekly, starting mid-June, I received compensation to engage in two or three rounds of exchanging punches with George. Irv Ungerman, Chuvalo’s manager, generously remunerated sparring partners, yet George made sure I earned it—no favors asked, none given.

(poster c/o lelandsdotcom)

Around mid-July, while awaiting my initial payment, Bertie, my manager, relayed that he had waived my compensation, contingent on Ungerman arranging my inclusion in the Gardens’ undercard. This prospect materialized when Teddy Brenner, the boxing director at the Garden, vetted my undefeated status and learning of my no-nonsense approach in the ring, Brenner directed Duke Stefano, the Garden’s matchmaker, to secure an opponent for me.

Stefano’s choice fell upon Brian O’Meila, an Irish American known for his rugged fighting style hailing from New Jersey. Brenner and Stefano seemingly anticipated that Brian and I would ignite the crowd while simultaneously possibly having the extra benefit of enhancing O’Melia’s local reputation.

It was all incredible to me. Just five years earlier, I was homeless, sleeping on the streets of Toronto, and now I was gearing up to fight at Madison Square Garden. Word had spread among my old high school friends, who, despite being in college and tied up with summer jobs, managed to wrangle a couple of days off to witness the fight. A few of them, thrilled at the idea of attending a match in New York, hastily organized a road trip.

Three days before the main event, Chuvalo, his entourage, and mine (which, at this point, comprised only Bev, my trainer, and myself, as Bertie and a couple of Lansdowne guys were coming in for just one night) arrived in New York. We all checked into the New Yorker Hotel, a venerable establishment nestled on Seventh Avenue between 33rd and 34th Street. It stood just south of what was arguably the seediest area in New York City, quite possibly in the entire United States. This neighborhood was infamous for its porn shops, strip joints, and a mix of greasy eateries like the original Tad’s Steakhouse, sprawling northward up to 43rd Street, where the Broadway Theatres began. On the southern border lay Eighth Avenue, home to the main bus terminal, Port Authority. Within a block or two of the Port Authority, a series of the most desolate-looking hotels offered rooms by the hour.

Like any seasoned New Yorker, I quickly learned to avoid eye contact and keep my belongings close when traversing these streets. Nonetheless, it was the perfect backdrop for the fight game.

On the day of the fight, I found myself nearly invisible at the press conference, save for a couple of Canadian reporters and one journalist from Jersey City who aimed to cover the local guy, my opponent Brian. Feeling a tad unsettled, I exited through the back of the Garden onto Eighth Avenue, where I encountered a handful of bookies. They had me pegged as a 9–5 underdog, while Chuvalo, oddly in my opinion, faced even steeper odds at 3–1, akin to a team being spotted a massive 18 points in pro football.

Restless but eager to soak in the Big Apple, I opted for a stroll in Central Park. Walking to and sitting for a bit by the famous boat pond, which ran parallel to the East 72nd street entrance, helped calm my nerves. Returning to the New Yorker Hotel, I tried to rest, though sleep was out of reach. Around 3, my Toronto pals arrived, and they were absolutely thrilled when I invited them to join me for a pre-fight steak, even though it was rather early for dinner. After consulting the hotel concierge, we found a decent steakhouse that opened at 4, a bit of a walk away on Madison. Pumped for the event, we all returned to my room by around 5:30, where they planned to hang out until it was time for me to head to the fight. However, Bev, checking up on me, managed to disperse my friends with just his expression.

By 6:45, Bev returned. After ensuring I had all my fight gear—boxing shoes, sweat socks, shorts, jockstrap, protective cup for the groin, and two mouthpieces (in case one got lost)—we made our way to the Garden. At the back entrance on Eighth Avenue, the bookies’ betting line on Chuvalo remained at 3-1, but the line on my fight had tightened slightly to 8-5. This led me to wonder if Bertie had placed a bet on me through a connection, possibly shortening the odds. I mentioned this to Bev while changing into my fight gear, to which he responded typically, furrowing his brow as he admonished, “This has got nothing to do with us.”

There wasn’t much conversation between Bev and me thereafter, as there was no necessity to explain the significance of the evening. There wasn’t even much point in discussing strategies, as a brawler; I didn’t adapt to my opponent’s style but rather compelled them him to adapt to mine.

“Tight enough? Or too tight?” Bev inquired, referring to the wrapping around my fists that he had just completed.

To this, I replied, “Fine,” after clenching each fist and testing it by striking Bev’s open hand. Now, it was simply a matter of waiting for a fight official to examine my wrapped fists for any bulges. The official arrived, inspected the taping, and, satisfied that there were no creases or bulges, stamped each fist before handing Bev a pair of G&S boxing mitts. The Garden’s guy observed as I sunk my hand deep into each glove, and Bev finished by tying and wrapping a swig of tape around the laces, preventing any loose lace from potentially catching an opponent’s eye.

George and I, both prepared, sat across from each other—him actually lying on the bench—engrossed in our own thoughts throughout the preliminaries. The only sound during this time was the faint hum of the crowd outside, occasionally accompanied by the sound of the dressing room door rattling as the crowd cheered for some unfortunate soul being knocked out.

This was the essence of the business: knockouts.

Despite feeling tense, I managed to doze off until the dressing room door swung open and a Garden’s official leaned in, barking, “Bobby, get ready, you’re up next.”

Bev acknowledged this with a nod and gesturing to the bathroom told me, “Go loosen up,” adding, “I’ll come get ya.”

In the bathroom, facing the mirror, I began some light shadow boxing while mentally taking stock of the upcoming hour’s importance. The previous fight going to a decision had given me plenty of time to work up a sweat. I continued until I heard Bev knock on the door and partially open it, growling, “C’mon.”

George, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, managed to wish me good luck as I passed but made no eye contact. The three of us—Bev, myself, and a hired corner guy carrying a half-filled water bucket—exited the dressing room and entered the short tunnel leading to the Garden’s main arena. Making our way up an aisle to the ring, we passed a coterie of recognizable faces: Jackie Gleason, Frank Sinatra, and ringside, Woody Allen, and a funky-looking woman who might have been Diane Keaton. I didn’t have time to confirm, as Bev caught my gaze and snapped, “Forget all the nonsense,” into my ear as he took off my robe.

Upon entering the ring, a rush of cool Garden air struck my sweat-filmed body, still warm from the shadowboxing.

I have no recollection of what happened before the opening bell. It passed in a blur, and I awoke to the sound of the bell. O’Meila and I came out, not taking time to size each other up, and began exchanging punches. This was right up my alley. For the last month or so, I had been trading punches with Chuvalo, one of the toughest and best in the fight business.

Soon, maybe half a minute in, O’Meila, unable to match me punch for punch, began to back up. Encouraged, I pursued him into a corner, leaving him no choice but to fight his way out. Instead, he wisely forced a clinch, and after giving us a few seconds to untangle ourselves, the referee stepped in and pried us apart. This gave O’Meila the space to retreat to the open ring, but in the square space, there was no place to go. Soon, we locked our sweaty heads together up top and began trading body blows below. He couldn’t keep pace and attempted to clinch again, for which he paid the price of a couple of solid shots to his ribs. On hearing Brian grunt, I grinned inwardly, understanding that if it was going to be toe-to-toe, Brian was tough, but I was tougher.

At the bell, on returning to my corner, Bev, while working on me, sternly suggested that I double up on my hooks when cornering O’Meila. Just before the bell rang for the next round, Bev, slipping in my mouthpiece, added in a firm tone, “You can take this guy out.”

Indeed, he probably was right, except I hesitated to go all out, concerned about running out of gas. Over the next three rounds, it was apparent that the fight was mine. A few times, I had O’Meila reeling and on the verge of a knockout. Not finishing him off seemed to upset Bev. He appeared disgruntled on my return to the corner after each round, thinking I could shorten the evening.

At the end of the fifth round, with the last round coming up, Brian’s corner must have realized he needed a knockout, as at the bell, Brian raced out. Confident of the win, my strategy changed. Looking to wear him out, I began to strategically stick and move. This did not sit well with Bev, who believed it was always best not to leave the result in the judges’ hands. He began screaming for me to “Finish him off.”

His berating led me to reignite my assault until halfway through the round when I heard a sharp crack as we both ducked our heads and mine banged into his. Instantly, a sharp pain over my right eyebrow led me to clinch. As my face rested on O’Meila’s shoulder, the referee broke us apart and took a second to examine my eye.

Worryingly, the ref, raising my chin, cracked, “I want to take a closer look at this.” He drew in closer to my right eye, which had been blinking rapidly from what I thought was sweat. It was blood. I was cut. The ringside doctor was called to examine the cut, and the timekeeper was told to stop the clock. After a brief discussion between the ref and the doc, it was decided to let us continue, at least for now, since the cut was from an accidental butt. Aware that the fight could be stopped soon because of the cut, Bev, yelling “stick and move,” appeared to have a change of mind

The final bell rang, a relief for Bev and me as we awaited the judge’s decision, our nerves slightly on edge. There lingered the possibility that the judges and the referee hadn’t witnessed the same fight we had—a notion that fueled Bev’s philosophy of not leaving outcomes solely to the judges. However, the decision overwhelmingly favored me, with only one round, possibly the last, awarded to O’Meila. Instead of congratulations, Bev seemed perturbed. Finally, through clenched teeth, he hissed, “You should have taken him out in the first or second round,” implying it would have spared us the anxious wait for the decision.

Post-shower and dressed, I hurried out just in time to witness George succumb to Foreman in four rounds. The referee halted the fight moments before Chuvalo might have hit the canvas—a significant event considering George never once touched the canvas in his entire career.

Respecting George’s need for privacy, Bertie, Bev, and I congregated in the hallway outside the dressing room. After discussing the cut over my eye, we agreed to fly back home early the next day to have it stitched up in my hometown, a far better alternative than spending the night in a New York emergency room.

Later that night, my evening culminated in a memorable fashion. Exiting the Gardens, I was greeted by a jubilant group of Canadian friends and two attractive local nurses. Together, we ventured to a nearby bar where I, recognized by fight fans, was repeatedly treated to drinks.

Subsequently, at an apartment a short walk away on 28th street, I experienced my first intimate encounter with those two eager nurses. Frankly, the deed was scarcely accomplished; after I undressed, there arose some concerns… well, let’s just say it was an eventful night for this twenty-year-old Canadian.

After securing a few more wins, I experienced a fight in Toronto in July 1971 which on the record would appear like a meaningless victory, but in reality it held significant sway over the trajectory of my life as well as his own.

My preparation for the fight was somewhat haphazard, given that I had only a month and two weeks of sparring due to a three-month hiatus to nurse a broken knuckle. Probably a smidge too confident as I was undefeated, Bertie, Bev, and I, after checking my opponent John Williams, we felt his record wasn’t too impressive. However, though we and the promoter had scrutinized his record, there was failure on all our parts to investigate who Williams had lost to. Three of his losses were against top ten contenders, with two of them decided by points.

The first heads-up I received was from a Toronto reporter who had witnessed Williams knocking out a guy in nearby Buffalo—a skilled fighter I had worked with a couple of times a year back. Approaching me as I awaited Bev’s return with the gloves, the reporter cautiously spoke, knowing Bev would disapprove of the distraction so close to the fight. He simply said, “Gee, Bobby, I know you’re good, but I wish you had a few more weeks of training,” referring to sparring. I glanced at my taped fists and chuckled, replying, “Thanks, but a little late for the warning.”

Williams, had a light tan or perhaps a more bronze complexion, which highlighted his muscular definition. Standing at six feet two inches and a solid two-fifteen—weighed in earlier—he presented an imposing figure. More concerning, despite his average record, Williams lacked any noticeable scars. Bev had advised me early in my career, “It’s not the guys with scars you should worry about.”

Confident in my undefeated status, I at the bell, launched an aggressive offense, believing I could quickly diminish Williams. However, my overconfident charge was met with a couple of strong jabs, drawing the taste of blood before I could retaliate. Unfortunately, my attempts were futile as Williams strategically shifted, not out of reach but slightly to the side. Upon turning to counter, I faced even stiffer jabs that struck my mouth, causing my already disturbed upper lip to bleed profusely. Before I could gather myself, he positioned his left glove against my forehead as if measuring, waiting for me to brush it away before delivering a disguised fist straight into my left eye. Uncharacteristically, I chose to clinch, affording me a few moments to collect my thoughts and for a second take in the crowd, who silent, appeared somewhat astonished at this point.

The remainder of the round echoed the initial struggle: my forward lunges to land a hit were met with jabs that halted my advances before a powerful right from Williams pushed me back. As the opening round concluded, the referee followed me to my corner, noting only my cut lips and partially swollen eye, grimacing before leaving Bev to tend to the minor injuries. After finishing, Bev remained silent until just before the bell, shaking his head and simply stating, “You’ve got to fight this round.”

Entering the second round, I charged, yet it swiftly fell back into the same pattern: a couple of stiff jabs followed by a right that landed squarely on my chin, forcing me backward. Worse, midway through the round, with my left eye beginning to close, the referee checked it a couple of times but allowed the fight to continue.

Anticipating the imminent end of the fight, I reached out, grabbing Williams in something resembling a headlock, forcing him into a corner. Upon the ref separating us, I received a warning, while Williams, hearing this, smirked. Confident of victory, it was here he, on some fateful whim, chose, needlessly, to make a crucially poor decision that, no doubt significantly affected my life as well as his.

He proceeded to place his arms over my shoulders, not to restrain me but to taunt me, inviting me to strike his body.

This I obliged by dipping to my left and unleashed a left hook what might have been the hardest punch I had ever thrown in a fight that landed with a pronounced thud into his rib cage. The momentum of the hook swung me back into a position, that culminated in my already cocked right fist landing with a resounding smack on the center of his face.

He dropped as if struck by a bullet, causing the crowd to leap to their feet. The referee didn’t bother to count, for Williams was out cold—so much so that the doctor checked on him as he sat up. 

His impulsive decision a minute into the second round, changed everything, much the same as when one unconsciously hesitates to step off a curb and a car whizzes by.

XXXX

This is a chapter from Bob Bozic’s upcoming memoir, Still On My Feet. From the Introduction:

“Still on My Feet” beckons to memoir enthusiasts intrigued by narratives of childhood trauma transcended, immigrant odysseys, boxing, bank heists, and bartending.