Ali vs. Inoki (17 page)

“A lot of times it's the referee that does the gimmick,” said Dan Madigan, the former WWE writer.

“Even Ali wouldn't know what the fuck was happening,” McMahon is quoted as saying in Blassie's book. “We had the deal where Ali wouldn't get hurt, but he would bleed profusely because Gene would do a damn good job, and Gene would have to stop the fight because of the blood. Thus, the fans would want to see a return match or some damn thing.”

For his part, LeBell said he doesn't even recall McMahon being in Japan. LeBell knew McMahon Sr. and spoke with him, but said he never got on well with Junior. “Vince McMahon Jr. didn't mean much to me at the time,” he said. “Just Freddie,” his old dear friend from Los Angeles.

Over the years LeBell heard the McMahons wanted the Ali–Inoki contest to be pro wrestling, “but it's just hearsay,” he said. “I thought Vince Jr. wanted to see Ali win and go against Andre the Giant. Shoot or work, either way, Junior wanted to make it happen.” LeBell asked Blassie in Japan before the match if Ali–Inoki was going to be a shoot or a work, and Blassie responded, “Sounds like it'll be a shoot to me.”

LeBell thought that was nice.“I heard every story about that in the world, but I didn't get it from the
jefe
, the boss. Nobody told me anything. If the promoter said, ‘Hey, we're going to work,' I would have said, ‘Fine.' I'll referee a work or referee a shoot. It doesn't make any difference to me.”

Asked if as part of a work he would have taken a razor to Ali, LeBell said he wouldn't. The WWE did not reply when asked if the quote from McMahon Jr. was accurate.

“You have a better chance of reaching the president or the pope,” Madigan said. “Vince is protecting the business, as he should.”

McMahon Jr. learned many lessons from the Ali–Inoki promotion that shaped his opinion of mixed martial arts contests as being a far riskier proposition than wrestling. Even with the rules stacked against Inoki, there was a tremendous amount of uncertainty on all sides because of lack of control. For a pro wrestling production, it was a unique feel. And Junior, an adventurous guy with vision, felt what it was like to operate on the world stage.

The soon-to-be-dominant pro wrestling impresario didn't know how his dad found out about the plan, “but he knew I was up to no good over there,” McMahon Jr. explained for Blassie's book. “He said, ‘Goddammit, you're dealing with Muhammad Ali, and you're going to get into trouble legally in Japan. Get your ass back here now.'”

Madigan, who was privy to the company's versions of the Ali–Inoki stories, noted that Senior had placed great faith in Blassie.

“How can Vince not trust and respect a guy like that?” Madigan said. “No matter what, with Freddie over there Vince Sr. knew he had
the
set of eyeballs.”

McMahon Jr. returned to New York by the time the official weigh-in began in Tokyo on Friday. The weight tally was to be shown on live local TV but Inoki materialized a half hour behind schedule and, not to be outdone, Ali followed him with nearly forty of his entourage in tow. Andrew Malcolm, the
New York Times
Tokyo bureau chief, shadowed Ali as he made his way to the scale. There was plenty of cheering and yelling to accompany the moment. Inoki stood waiting on the stage and Ali bounced down the aisle, acting as if he wanted to get at the Japanese rassler.

“Save it for the fight, champ,” said one member of the entourage. “Save it for the fight.”

Ali looked at Malcolm and winked a knowing wink, like
you know this is just show business, right?

“I don't want Inoki,” he told the reporter. “I want that redhead over there.”

“There really was a redhead,” Malcolm recalled. “There was a thing in his eyes. Because I happened to be close in that moment you could see that.”

After the experience of the stage falling in Munich, Goodman tested the platform to make sure it was stable. He smiled knowing it was. Soon it filled with people from both camps, and Ali started up with his act.

“I will dee-stroy Inoki,” he yelled. “I want Inoki . . . Inoki . . . Inoki . . . you are in trouble.”

Ranting and raving, Ali finally pushed Inoki towards losing his cool. The broad-shouldered Inoki stood, arms crossed, staring at Ali. Then put his hands on his hips. He had held fast but finally . . . Enough.

Inoki's personal physician claimed he was in fine shape. There was some concern with his left shoulder but it wouldn't be an issue. Inoki looked strong at 100.5 kg (221.6 lbs). When he stepped off the scale Ali jabbed in his direction.

“I hit you and it's all over,” Ali said. “Just don't get hit.”

Ali weighed 99 kg. “How much is that in English?” he asked. The answer: a fit 218.3 lbs.

Before leaving the stage Ali grabbed Inoki behind the neck. Inoki bristled and Ali went theatrical. Dundee and the rest of the entourage stepped between them.

Kilroy, Brown, and Rhee all stood close by. Kilroy looked concerned as he sized up Inoki.

“You wait until I let go for real,” Ali said. “I'm joking now.”

Inoki stuck a finger in Ali's face and Ali swatted it away.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” Ali shouted, wagging his finger at the wrestler's nose. “Be serious tomorrow. Be serious. You're meeting Muhammad Ali. The gloves will be small and I will be dancing. I will be dancing. I don't like you. I don't like you. Tell him I don't like him. You're ugly. I will destroy you. Tomorrow. I want you tomorrow. I'll see you tomorrow.
Sayonara. Sayonara
motherfu . . .”

ROUND TEN

P
itting a heavyweight world champion boxer against the top Japanese heavyweight wrestler was professional wrestling's way of saluting the American bicentennial. That's what it said on the cover of the program that sold at arenas where live wrestling supported the American closed-circuit broadcast. The photo-heavy souvenir was clear about the night ahead. Under the simple headline “W
restler
V
s
. B
oxer
,” the program explained that the broadcast was promoted by Top Rank, Inc., Video Techniques, and Capitol Wrestling Corporation (unmentioned were New Japan Pro Wrestling and Lincoln National Productions, Ltd.).

“Your local wrestling promoter has arranged this exclusive showing for this area,” it said.

Fans at Shea Stadium in Queens had the chance to see one half of the closed-circuit feed in person. As an appetizer to Ali vs. Inoki, thanks to Vince McMahon Sr. and the World Wide Wrestling Federation, boxer Chuck Wepner
would meet iconic pro wrestler Andre the Giant. Meanwhile, WWWF heavyweight champion Bruno Sammartino's emotional return from a broken neck got top billing at Shea.

Running the evening's production and promotion, pro wrestling folks were in the midst of making a major statement about the future of their business.

The “WRESTLER VS. BOXER” program included images and quotes from the contract signing at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan in March, laying out the expectations and relevance of the live pictures being beamed from inside the stifling Budokan Hall, and a ring above the Mets' pitcher's mound on the first Friday night of summer in Flushing, Queens. Ali vs. Inoki and Andre the Giant vs. Wepner “are the culmination of an effort to decide which sport has the superior fighters. Both will be seen here live tonight through the magic of television” the program promised in advance of a “history-making presentation.”

The technology that allowed audiences to view backto-back events as they happened on opposite sides of the globe came courtesy of Henry A. Schwartz. His Brooklynbased Video Techniques was basically alone in pulling the strings on major heavyweight closed-circuit fights since Ali–Frazier I in 1971. According to a piece published in
New York Magazine
ahead of the “Rumble in the Jungle,” Schwartz made money in more than a few ways as cable television penetrated American homes.

Forerunner to the pay-per-view business—which generated grotesque wealth in 2015 because of the promotion of Floyd Mayweather's fight with Manny Pacquiao and a record setting year for the Ultimate Fighting Championship— Video Techniques monetized the lease and sale of projection
equipment and technical services for satellite broadcasts, and Schwartz worked with Don King and Bob Arum to do all of Ali's fights on closed circuit.

In 1974, Schwartz found the money to put on Ali– Foreman in Zaire, and joined with King to sell the fight. The “Rumble in the Jungle” was seen perfectly in 390 closed-circuit locations in North America and in nearly one hundred countries worldwide. At Madison Square Garden, seats to watch ranged from twenty to thirty dollars. Ali and Foreman were set to split a $10 million purse, double Ali's take versus Frazier three years earlier, and the bout was projected to bring in twice the revenue, too, increasing from $20 to $40 million.

In addition to the group-watching experiences, the bout was available live in about 50 million homes, mostly in Central and South America and Japan. The rest of the world except China, India, the Soviet Union, and other Communist-bloc countries saw the fight live or tape-delayed over free home television.

On the road to Ali, Foreman trashed Joe Frazier and Ken Norton in the second round each. Hundreds of millions of people around the world watched live as Ali's brilliant ropea-dope strategy unfolded against a man who hadn't needed more than four rounds to put away any of his previous twelve opponents.

A new kind of megastardom was bestowed upon Ali as the spread of communications technology netted him a much larger audience. And Schwartz was the guy creating the conditions for record purses to go to Ali, whose incredible feats were shared with the world in innovative and exciting ways.

Even if the mixed-ruled contest failed as an event—and there was a chance of that because some of the regional promoters weren't 100 percent on board—wrestling would likely benefit in the long run from being attached to The Greatest. On the night Ali–Inoki was broadcast in the U.S., there were significantly more closed-circuit locations in place than for the first Wrestlemania in 1985.

The WWWF delivered for promoters across the country both with press attention and satellite access. This was a rare spotlight moment for wrestling, which had been relegated to near backwater status by the mid-1970s. The pro wrestling business was split into little fiefdoms across the U.S. Each promoter intended to protect his enclave since it wasn't to anyone's benefit for fans to learn about different regions and champions.

Though action was live at Shea Stadium, and Jeff Wagenheim had on many occasions made the trip from New Jersey to see the Mets play, he and a friend felt it was too much trouble to make the trip for Ali vs. Inoki.

“Our interest level was enough to go to the next town over and go to a theater,” Wagenheim said. “But our interest level was not so high that we were gonna hop on a bus or a train into New York and then take a subway out to Queens and see it there.”

The open-air spectacle played out on a hot and muggy New York summer night. Other cities featuring live wrestling to go with the satellite show included Chicago, Houston, San Francisco, Atlanta, Indianapolis, Dallas, Miami, Los Angeles, Detroit, Calgary, Tallahassee, St. Louis, and Tokyo.

Depending on what part of the country the feed was coming from, star pro wrestlers from their territories were
shown in addition to the two matches everyone saw. Wrestling pulled out its biggest names and matches during the nationwide festival.

“This wasn't the NWA that did it,” said Dan Madigan. “This was the WWWF at the time. The country was still divided up at the time. That was huge.”

The WWWF, under an increasingly influential Vince McMahon Jr., held over four hundred dates across the Northeast in 1976.

“Superstar” Billy Graham was the first WWWF champion to take the belt outside the territory, and in 1978 he wrestled NWA heavyweight champion Harley Race in a bigtime crossover bout on a rainy night at the Orange Bowl in Miami. Other than slipping on the wet canvas once in a while, neither champion was allowed to look weak. After an hour the match ended in a draw, each wrestler scoring a fall apiece.

The “Superbowl of Wrestling” again showed the McMahon family's ambition to grow their brand beyond its current confines. Respected by everyone in the business, Senior was old school and wanted Junior to honor the traditional boundaries.

However, when Senior stepped down and Junior formed the WWF—World Wrestling Federation—with his wife Linda in February 1980, all bets were off. NWA-affiliated or not, promotions across the country soon struggled and many of their popular wrestlers found safe harbor under the WWF banner.

“This is a business. The Ali–Inoki match was business. How can we generate revenue?” Madigan said. “It was also the seeds of Vince's expansion into other territories.”

In Los Angeles, where the LeBells dominated after the Daros, strong local wrestling promotion ended when Worldwide Wrestling Associates, whose title was on the line during the Blassie–Rikidōzan trilogy, closed the day after Christmas in 1982. By shuttering his NWA promotion, Mike LeBell, the first North American promoter to make closed-circuit television locations available to fans who couldn't get into the arena, ceded the territory rights to Vince McMahon.

“Cable guaranteed the end of the territories,” Dave Meltzer said. “It was just obvious because once you had national exposure you could promote in more places and offer the guys more money to work major cities. The local promoters couldn't afford to keep up.”

Speaking in a famous article from 1983 that blew up kayfabe, Bay Area wrestling promoter Roy Shire told the
Los Angeles Times
the truth behind wrestling, in and out of the ring.
What you thought you saw, you didn't. And this is how it all really happened
. Shire left the wrestling business two years earlier after a long stretch as the dominant promoter out of San Francisco's Cow Palace, but in reality he was out of the game well before that.

Approaching retirement, Shire's last partnership was with Eddie Graham, a promoter out of Florida who served as the NWA president in the 1970s. Graham was the one who approached McMahon Sr. with the idea of a WWWF vs. NWA title match in '78, and though Florida is a long ways from San Francisco, he and Shire pulled off three shows.

Shire hosted his last eighteen-man “Battle Royal” at the Cow Palace, which had a reputation for its share of knife fights on wrestling nights, on January 24, 1981. Fans did not know they were witnessing the final wrestling event
Shire would promote after decades of selling seats to Bay Area crowds. Without a TV partner he was only able to draw 6,000 fans for his last show. Lacking good TV exposure, which he lost in the early 1970s, he simply could not promote.

Speaking with the
Los Angeles Times
, Shire tabbed the rise of the WWF and Vince McMahon to the promotion's national television exposure, and longstanding connection to Madison Square Garden.

“He's not that great a promoter,” Shire said. “But if you've got TV, and you go national, you know, and people are seeing those wrestlers, week in and week out, then you come along—that's the scenario of our business—you put a guy on TV and you get people to like him or hate him, then you put him in a town, and the people that have seen him on TV for seven, eight, ten weeks or months or ten weeks—or whatever, long enough to either you really like him, or really hate him, you bring him in the people'll pay their money at the box office to see him. That is the essence of our business. Has been.”

Starting on December 5, 1982, Joe Blanchard's
Southwest Championship Wrestling
became the first weekly wrestling program on cable, airing its regional stars to the country Sunday mornings on the USA Network. As a result of the new national exposure, SWCW staged a one-night tournament in Austin, Tex., to determine an “undisputed world heavyweight champion.” Lou Thesz even presented Adrian Adonis with the oldest existing pro rasslin' championship belt, which is on display at the National Wrestling Hall of Fame Dan Gable Museum in Waterloo, Iowa.

USA canceled the program (in spite of the high ratings the show was garnering for the network) and turned the time slot over to the WWF when SWCW couldn't pay the bills to keep up the time buy. The promotion soon disappeared.

McMahon Jr. was the one that made the move but some people, especially those immersed in the Japanese side of the business, like Dave Meltzer, who spoke a lot to Terry Funk, saw it coming.

“Terry Funk was the booker of All-Japan Pro Wrestling, so he was living in the Japanese world,” said Meltzer, who started printing the
Wrestling Observer Newsletter
in 1982. “He knew, because Japan was way ahead of the U.S. in every aspect of pro wrestling, that cable would be the equivalent of network. And he knew that Japan is all over the country because you're on TV all over the country. And the small guys can't compete with the big guys.”

This hit Meltzer while he watched wrestling from Georgia. All of a sudden, his interest in the California stuff waned because there was better professional wrestling below the Mason–Dixon Line.

McMahon figured it out and implemented a broader vision before anyone else. Whatever competition he had along the way went belly-up, and the wide territory system consolidated into super groups.

Both the business of American pro wrestling and its reach around the world greatly expanded under McMahon Jr., who became known as an innovator and more enterprising than his father. They lived apart for much of Junior's childhood, reuniting when the son was twelve. Following college, to the displeasure of his dad, Vince quickly moved
into the family business and concocted gimmicks like slicing Ali with a razor blade.

Junior had returned to New York by the night of June 25 so the voice of the WWWF could call the matches from Shea Stadium. Publicly McMahon was just the announcer, but behind the scenes he was starting to build the third-generation business. Sitting at the precipice of control of a solid pro wrestling kingdom, McMahon surveyed what was in front of him and asked how he could push the business. He wanted to be the world's biggest promoter, not necessarily of just pro wrestling, though that was the priority.

“I believe that no matter how outlandish it is, knowing Vince to be the risk taker that he is, that he's out there trying to push,” said Madigan, who left the WWE in 2010 and writes screenplays in Los Angeles. “He's always tried to elevate wrestling outside of its parameters. This is another way of opening up the world. At the time it was still territorial. WWWF, which came from the Capitol Wrestling Corporation, was territorial and you're still trying to carve out who you are.

“You could walk in a room and see the potential of something from Point A to Point B. Vince sees it from Point A to Point D. To Point E. Vince sees the potential going off until he can't see it anymore. I've been in meetings when Vince will talk about something. He'll look up and all of a sudden his eyes will look off. You can see where Vince sees this going. This is amazing foresight. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Without Vince's foresight, wrestling would still be territorial. It would be in the dark ages, and no matter who you had wrestling for you—you could have the greatest guys in your promotion—but you are still watching
the promotion. Vince knocked the walls down. He was like the Romans and spread the empire.

“Vince doesn't push the envelope. Vince knocks over the post office. That's what I love about him. He's always said no matter what you do you learn from it. I think he learned from it. What to do. What not to do. And never put yourself in a position to look weak.