ANATOMY OF A PRIZE FIGHT
What happens before, during and after a bout for the Canadian heavyweight title
HERBERT C. MANNING
EVER SINCE GEORGE CHUVALO of Toronto knocked out four opponents in twelve minutes one spring night in 1956 to win a boxing tournament sponsored by the former world champion Jack Dempsey, he has been a controversial figure in Canadian prize fighting. He has been described variously as a potential world champion himself, as a musclebound puncher with little skill and no future, and as a shiftless young man of many talents, too lazy to work his way up to a lucrative career. Tonight, under white-hot ring lights in Montreal’s Delorimier Stadium, where he will defend his Canadian heavyweight championship against Robert Cleroux of nearby L’Abord-à-Plouffe, Chuvalo is abundantly aware of all these arguments because, for the past month, he has heard little else from his own advisers. They have not lacked evidence on which to base their conversations.
At twenty-two George Chuvalo has all the physical endowments of a champion. He is big (six foot two, 210'/2 pounds) and tremendously strong, with the wide sloping shoulders of a man who has hefted meat carcasses and swung an axe and pick for a
living. His upper arms and chest bulge with the straining, rippling muscles of a weightlifter. He has a wasp waist — for his size — of 33 inches and heavy hips and legs that seem to be carved from stone, there is so much muscle and so little fat on them. He is good looking, with high cheekbones from his Croatian parents, shining white skin from constant greasing with vaseline to prevent abrasion, a high-ridged nose and wide-set eyes (“He likes to look in mirrors,” says a friend).
But if Chuvalo is proud of his physique, he has shown that he can use it for purposes other than decoration. Although he is not ranked anywhere among the world’s leading heavyweights, he is acknowledged to be one of the hardest punchers in that division. He knocked out a poorly conditioned James J. Parker of Barrie, Ont., to win the Canadian heavyweight title, and he stopped Yvon Durelle, the Baie Ste. Anne, N.B., fisherman, in defense of it. On top of this, he has another asset much prized in boxing: he can take a punch. In 18 professional fights (he’s won 14 and tied one), he has never been knocked off his feet. He says he has never been hurt by any of his opponents.
Yet it is the curious alchemy of professional boxing, where a single defeat can turn a champion
into a bum, that George Chuvalo, at twenty-two, could be washed up as a heavyweight attraction, depending on his fight tonight. Two of his most recent bouts were embarrassingly poor.
After his defeat by an uninspired boxer named Pat McMurtry in New York. Chuvalo lost to an ex-Olympic champion, Pete Rademacher, in Toronto. These two performances almost caused his trainer for five years. Tommy McBeigh, to give up his contract. “They pecked his ears off. I thought I was training a bum.” His manager, Jack (Deacon) Allen, was happy to accept tonight’s fight in Montreal and escape the chance of further disfavor in Toronto.
For Chuvalo, these two episodes have assumed the proportions of mountains in the nagging voices of Allen and McBeigh. In a month, he has appeared to mature ten years, and work as he never did before. He is inclined to be soft in training. He takes long vacations between fights. He dislikes roadwork, essential to getting a boxer’s legs in condition for a twelve-round bout such as tonight’s. He likes to have friends around and blames his loss to McMurtry on the fact he was alone in New York. Now he has taken up a whole new set of habits. He is physically tough and his nerves rasp in anticipation of the fight. “My teeth tingle,” he says,
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Anatomy Of a prize fight continued from page 17
Because of his punching reputation, he is a 5-to-6 betting favorite (you bet $6 to win $5). But his opponent, not Chuvalo, has the roaring support of a partisan French-Canadian crowd.
To Robert Cleroux, dancing heavyfooted in his corner to limber up and flapping the sleeves of his flaming red robe to acknowledge the cheers, the swelling vocal salute is a new and heady experience. Outwardly cold and cocky, the twenty-two-year-old Cleroux is inwardly excited by sudden adulation and by newspaper columnists’ assurances that he is now Quebec’s most compelling fighter in twenty years — since Dave Castilloux and Johnny Greco. Little more than a year ago, he was brawling with inept nobodies and was himself unknown except in neighborhood clubs. This was largely his fault, and his father’s. Robert Cleroux speaks no English, only French, and he is distrustful of everyone behind the scenes in professional boxing. His father Martin lumps them all in the phrase, "crooked promoters and managers who want to make fools of us.”
The Cleroux family sometimes made fools of themselves. When a friend and former boxer, Ned Lafontaine, a longshoreman, tried to arrange fights in the Montreal Forum, Papa Cleroux haggled fiercely with promoter Eddie Quinn, demanding impossible contracts and purse money. Quinn turned his back, shouting angrily, “Who do you think you are, Eddie Quinn?”
Cleroux might have gone back to the stone quarry in L'Abord-à-Ploufïe where he started if Raymond Lagacé, a wealthy businessman, had not become interested. He was impressed not by Cleroux's skill, because he had none, but by his strength and determination. At seventeen, Robert had been turned away from one club because he couldn't fight properly. He went to another, borrowed trunks and
shoes and, without training at all, won the Quebec amateur heavyweight championship.
Legace put up money to send Cleroux and Lafontaine to New York for coaching and to make business connections. They went straight to the 8th Avenue gym, the hub of boxing in North America, where Lafontaine hired Freddy Brown, who had trained such fighters as Rocky Marciano. They signed a contract with another New Yorker, AI Bachman, to act as manager. From there, Cleroux began to develop.
He lost a close decision to a rough Texan, Buddy Turman, who had won 31 of his 33 bouts by knockouts. Then Cleroux knocked out Willie Besmanoff, a good heavyweight; next, just a month before tonight’s fight, he stopped another Texan, Roy Harris, in five rounds. He replaced Harris as No. 10 in the National Boxing Association rankings, a recognition Chuvalo held briefly but lost.
Facing one another through a hovering mist of flies attracted by the strong lights, Cleroux and Chuvalo are alike in many ways. Cleroux, too, is strong, a legacy from his mother’s family. His uncle Gravel was the village strong man. At eighteen, Robert went to the Montreal docks one day with Ned Lafontaine. Longshoremen were unloading copper. Cleroux watched two of them wrestling with one mold weighing 256 pounds. He picked up two molds and carried them away. “He’s the strongest man in boxing," says AI Bachman. Cleroux also is a dangerous puncher with both hands. After being knocked out by Cleroux, Roy Harris, who had previously survived twelve rounds with heavyweight champion Floyd Patterson, said Cleroux hit him harder.
Like Chuvalo, he takes a punch well. "He has to,” says Freddy Brown. "He gets hit a lot. He’s crude. He's still learning. His only defense is his strength and his punching power.”
Cleroux wears a permanent scowl under heavy brows. He's taciturn and often a puzzle to his handlers. "Something
bothers him about fighting,” says Ned Lafontaine. “He keeps saying he’ll quit.” But the lure of money is strong even for the silent Cleroux. With his purse from the Harris fight he bought a gleaming black Thunderbird. He intends to build a duplex with tonight’s earnings, then get married to Suzanne Dubé, his village sweetheart.
“He won't quit,” says Ned Lafontaine. “He wants money.”
Delorimier Stadium has been “priced” to achieve a gate of $100,000 from 20,000 customers, with ringside tickets selling for $10 apiece. On this sweaty night, coins jangle endlessly into the cash boxes
as the preliminary bouts spin out toward the championship fight. As the fighters get word that the ring is clear, there are more than 13,000 in the park, and the gross at the gate is $64,800, more than for any previous match between two Canadians. Like all fight crowds, this is a melange. It is impossible to differentiate between Judy O’Grady and the colonel’s lady. A nightclub singer known as Doll Face, in a mink stole bought for her this afternoon, is seated next to the wife of a Quebec cabinet minister, also in mink. This is a largely French and wildly partisan crowd. There are no cheers for George Chuvalo.
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From a habit familiar to his fans, Robert Cleroux stands out of his corner about three feet waiting for the timekeeper's bell. When it clangs, he lunges across the ring, but he is no swifter than Chuvalo, who springs from his stool and meets Cleroux almost in mid-ring with a long jab to the head. Cleroux bulls his way in close to throw a right hand to Chuvalo's ribs and another to his head. He tries to push Chuvalo to the ropes. Chuvalo steps back momentarily and, as Cleroux rushes, he throws his left hand, like the steel ball at the end of a wrecking cable, into the challenger’s body. His shoes shriek in the resin sprinkled on the canvas to prevent the fighters from slipping, and both men grunt from the force of the blow.
Seated in a wood cubicle off the ring apron, Irving Phillips, a physical instructor at the Montreal YMHA and McGill University, scratches two numbers on a rectangular scorecard provided by the Montreal Athletic Commission. He is one of three judges appointed by the commission. If the fight goes the full twelve rounds, their opinions will determine the winner.
Almost everywhere on this continent, except in Montreal, the referee and two judges vote on a fight. In England, the referee alone renders a decision. “We think the referee has enough to do enforcing the rules,’’ says Phillips. But he is aware that "Montreal decision” is a term widely and derisively applied to an unpopular verdict.
He is scoring this fight on what is called the “five-point must system.” In each round he gives five points to the boxer he thinks has been more effective and four points, three, two, or one to the other, depending on how badly he has
been outmatched. To Phillips, it’s simple. “I watch closely and say to myself during a round, ‘A is ahead’ and then maybe ‘B is ahead’ and then, if A rallies, ‘A is ahead’ again. Whoever gets the last call gets my five points.” Unlike some judges, he gives no points for skilful defense, just for punching.
He has given George Chuvalo five points in the first round and Robert Cleroux four. So hits Judge John Gow of Toronto. But Judge René Ouimet of Montreal has awarded Cleroux five and Chuvalo four.
As Cleroux rushes once more, Chuvalo again unleashes a long left hook, this time to the head, and Cleroux is shaken but still pushes forward.Chuvalo throws the left again into his ribs. It is Chuvalo's type of fight so far. He is a counterpuncher — he prefers to let his opponent make the first move and then catch him off guard or off balance to throw his own heavy punches. Cleroux, fighting his own way, does not stop flailing and he catches Chuvalo with bludgeoning left and right hands to the head.
Shouting rises in waves with Cleroux's rally. Eddie Quinn, a trim fifty-four, immaculate in white linen jacket in a box seat fifty feet from the ring, darts his black eyes around Delorimier Stadium, assessing in numbers the cause of it. A former Boston cab driver. Quinn is North America’s richest and most important wrestling promoter. His shows in Montreal, Ottawa, Boston, Chicago. St. Louis and a dozen other centres bring in about $1,500,000 a year. Although boxing is not this lucrative, Quinn has a contract with Robert Cleroux to arrange matches and promote his fights in Mont-
real. Three months ^ago. he began to make plans for tonight's fight.
"I wouldn't have cared if Cleroux had lost to Harris or Chuvalo to Rademacher,” he says. "They're still the two best heavyweights in this country."
Quinn watched Chuvalo lose miserably to Rademacher. "He was ring-rusty from a long layoff. After the fight Deacon (Jack Allen) said. 'What now?' I said. Cleroux!’ You could have knocked him down with a ring post. He thought I'd call it off."
Even then, the fight wasn't settled. Papa Cleroux insisted on 37‘/2% of the gate. Quinn got him down to 25%. Jack Allen wanted 30% for Chuvalo. He too settled for 25%. Both boxers get the standard traveling and training expenses — 10% — and another 25% goes for park rental and publicity. That leaves 15% for Quinn.
An assistant hands him a slip of paper with the figures: Attendance, 13,014;
Gate. $64,800. "We had our own checkers on the gate." the assistant says. Quinn nods, "Good! How about the extra cops? East fight we lost a mint to gatecrashers."
"Twenty-five of them at five bucks a rattle," the assistant says. "Nobody got through.”
Mentally toting his own share of $64,800, Quinn is interrupted by a question.
"Who'll win this thing?" he says incredulously. "Don't be a damfool. Boxers are bums. Who'd bet on themV
Starting the third round. Cleroux goes to Chuvalo's body, head down, arms working like pistons past Chuvalo's covering elbows. This onslaught finished Roy Harris and. as Cleroux continues it in the fourth. Chuvalo clinches. The referee, former heavyweight champion Jersey Joe Walcott, steps between them. As he steps back. Chuvalo throws a savage left hook. It catches Cleroux.
ands down, on the cheek. Blood comes '.o his nose. Freddy Brown shouts angrily. "You fool, don't let him tag you that way." Cleroux shakes his head. As he walks heavily to his corner Ned Lafontaine is shouting Brown's words at him in French.
Seeing the blood. Freddy Brown fishes a small bottle from his trouser pocket. Uncapping it, he inserts two swabs of cotton. The instant Cleroux reaches the corner. Brown sponges blood from his nose and lips and shoves the swabs up his nostrils. They’re soaked with adrenalin chloride, a coagulant. "Good for nosebleeds." says Brown. "Not for cuts." For these he uses a substance called Thromboplastin. a stronger coagulant, which he works into the wound. With his fingers, he folds the parted skin back in place and covers it with vaseline.
With his New York partner. Whitey Bimstein. Freddy Brown is renowned in boxing as a "cut man." but they also have a large retinue of boxers whom they coach and train — for a fee or a percentage. Brown will get six percent of C'leroux's purse. He is responsible for what little boxing skill Cleroux has acquired in the past two years.
“Mostly we've tried to teach him the American style. The difference is that
U. S. boys don’t stop for a breather. Canadian and English boxers get in a good lick and then step away to pat themselves on the back or take a bow. You can't give the other guy a break like that. Keep hitting him. Get him out of there."
Freddy Brown says Cleroux is about as crude as any novice except for his strength and punch. He's also learning his lessons. He's inclined to punch in an arc. using only arm muscles, instead of putting body weight into his blows. For ten days. Brown has worked him for
hours, driving his arms like pistons at a sausage-like heavy bag. Tonight, this has been his best weapon against Chuvalo.
"I keep telling him to throw body punches," says Brown. "I also tell him how much money he can make. That seems to work best.”
Big as Chuvalo is (he outweighs Cleroux by four pounds) and hard as he
punches, he is fifth round. At t. to a neutral corn., one there, he turns his own.
Starting the sixth rot. surprises Cleroux with a G combination — left to the be the head. But it slows Cleroux . ^ an instant. He bulls Chuvalo into (Chuvalo's) corner, where his piston arms go to work. The crowd senses that this could be the end. Blood spurts to Chuvalo's nose. In a mounting din. a
The sparring partner
,-oobbing and weaving as boxers do when they’re viewing a fight, Dave Shoulders sees the danger as Chuvalo is forced to the ropes. His thoughts flash back to the past ten days when, as Chuvalo's sparring partner, each had tried to force the other into just such a predicament. A boxer on the ropes has little room to punch; his opponent, with all the elbow room in the world, has every advantage.
Shoulders, unlike many sparring partners, is not a punching bag. At twentyone. he is a beautifully conditioned 201 pounds, as tall as Chuvalo and somewhat
quicker on his feet. His hands are fast. In a preliminary bout tonight, he won an easy decision in six rounds.
He has been an athlete all his life, football player in school, boxer in the U. S. Army where he served two years. Now a buffer in a Detroit auto plant, he’s had 15 professional fights in the past year — almost as many as Chuvalo in his whole career — and he’s won eleven. He was sparring partner for Chuvalo before the fight with Yvon Durelle and made Chuvalo work so hard that Jack Allen invited him back.
For swapping blows with the heavyhitting Chuvalo, he gets thirty dollars a day, out of which he must pay his hotel and meals but not his traveling expenses.
“It would sound crazy,” he says, “if I wasn’t doing it for experience.”
Unlike some sparring partners, he is not paid to take a beating. His instructions all along have been to fight Chuvalo, and beat him if possible. Three days before tonight’s fight, in a furious
exchange in the gymnasium, Chuvalo caught him with a left hook that drove him into the ropes, knees buckling. Moving in, Chuvalo said, “Enough?” "Protect yourself, man!” Shoulders replied, and started swinging. Hunched behind Chuvalo’s corner, this is the picture in Dave Shoulders’ mind as he shouts, “Fight your way out of it!”
Although bruised around the body, George Chuvalo is still strong. He spears Cleroux with jarring left jabs that start blood trickling from the challenger’s nose again in the seventh. There is almost no cheering from the crowd, which senses that something has gone wrong with its calculations: Cleroux, not Chuvalo, is getting tired. Freddy Brown shouts at Cleroux: “He’s, making a fool of you. Throw your right.”
The old ring hand
Joe (Meatwagon) Brown’s eyes watch in fascination as his namesake, Freddy Brown, hard-faced, directs in biting tones the strategy of Robert Cleroux. Meatwagon Brown had once been a trainer and manager, too, but his boxers were an ordinary lot, which is how he got his name. Ten years ago, he took a youth named Arnold Hays to Toronto to fight Vern Esco for the Canadian heavyweight title. Hays was carried feet first out of the ring. Returning to Montreal, Joe Brown went immediately to Slitkin and Slotkin’s bar and grill to dilute his sorrows, which included a dismal series of knockouts. To his dismay, one of the proprietors, Jack Rogers (Slotkin), announced to those at the bar: "Gentlemen, Meatwagon Brown is back.”
The name has stuck. So has Joe Brown’s devotion to boxing. At fights, he often works without pay as second for low-paid fighters in preliminary bouts (he was Dave Shoulders’ second on tonight’s card). A “temporarily unemployed salesman” (since the Quebec Provincial Police walked in unannounced at his place of employment, a gentlemen’s social club), he had hopes for his son, a strapping six-footer, as a boxer. “But he doesn’t seem to care for it,” says Meatwagon Brown. "He’s a commercial artist.”
Cleroux hurts Chuvalo with a hard left and right to the body, in answer to the frantic advice of Freddy Brown, who is angrily aware that Chuvalo appears to be standing up better than Cleroux to the punishment. But in the ninth round Chuvalo clubs Cleroux with a left hook, then another left to the body. They stagger the challenger. Tommy McBeigh, in Chuvalo’s corner, shouts: “Right hand! Right hand! Move in!”
Tommy McBeigh — that paradox of paradoxes, a gentle and sensible little man in a rough, zany, bloody business — is angry. For a month, he has plotted this fight, knowing exactly what Chuvalo must do. The champion isn’t doing it. Although McBeigh’s duties are precisely the same as Freddy Brown's, the emphasis is different. Brown does his work largely during a fight, repairing physical damage and telling his fighter in insulting terms what to do. McBeigh tries to finish his job before a fight, sending in a fit fighter who wants to tear his opponent limb from limb.
In Montreal, for ten days, he has not left George Chuvalo for a waking minute. At 6 a.m. every day he has walked with Chuvalo to the foot of the mountain where the champion has run six miles. He has shepherded him to breakfast, to a morning rest, to the Immaculate Conception gym in Montreal East, to dinner, to an early show (“I hate movies”) and to bed. He has refused to permit Chuvalo’s parents or his wife in the champion’s room (“They baby him”). He has insulted the champion (“You want to be a bum all your life?”) and cajoled him ("You could buy a house if you get
past this fight"). Chuvalo lives with his in-laws.
McBeigh’s month-long campaign has been pointed to these few minutes when Chuvalo, a counter-puncher, must throw out style, step in and cut his opponent down. McBeigh fought 115 times as a professional and quit only when a blow broke the retina of his left eye and partly blinded him. He fought to help feed six brothers and sisters. He doesn’t understand why Chuvalo is not more hungry — and savage (“I don't know how he thinks”).
In the corner, he says: “Give it everything —or give up.”
Chuvalo stabs Cleroux twice with straight left jabs and a trickle of blood starts again from the challenger’s nose. Chuvalo catches him with a left hook below the ear and, as Cleroux tries to bore in past these long, hard punches, the champion puts a vicious left hook into his lower ribs. Cleroux is in no danger of falling, but he is hurt.
Jersey Joe Walcott follows Robert Cleroux to his corner and, as Cleroux slumps onto his stool, looks into his eyes. “Are you all right?” he says gently. Freddy Brown leaps forward. “What are you trying to do? Make things even for Chuvalo?” he shouts angrily.
Walcott’s chocolate features turn darker. "Protect your boy,” he snaps at Brown. "I’m referee here, and I say protect your boy.”
Jersey Joe Walcott, a former world champion (he lost his heavyweight crown to Rocky Marciano), was a last-hour selection as referee for this fight. Promoter Eddie Quinn had advised Walcott. Marciano and Jack Sharkey, another former champion, that he might call them, but he had made up his mind on Marciano. He stalled until the afternoon before the fight to get the maximum publicity out of newspaper speculation and then phoned Marciano in New York.
Marciano had got tired waiting. “You be nice to people and they think you’re a sap,” said Quinn, and phoned Walcott in Camden, N.J., where as Arnold Cream (his real name) he is a policeman. Walcott drove all night to earn $500 for refereeing.
Walcott has warned Chuvalo twice for “hitting on the break” (rules say boxers breaking from a clinch must take a full step backward before punching) and once for rabbit punching (hitting behind the head). “What I can see don’t bother me,” says Walcott. “It’s what I can’t see I worry about.”
He remembers Rocky Marciano’s second fight with Ezzard Charles. In the sixth round Charles split Marciano’s nose with a blow directly on the ridge, "like two noses.” Blood flooded out of the cut. "They should have stopped it."
However, Freddy Brown — the same Freddy Brown — somehow repaired the cut between rounds and Marciano knocked out Charles in the eighth. It wasn’t until much later that Brown revealed he had used a solution of Monsel, an iron concentrate that congeals blood like putty. It's illegal in most states. In Marciano’s eyes it could have blinded him.
"You must protect your boy,” says Joe Walcott.
Cleroux doggedly flails at Chuvalo’s body to hold him off in the eleventh round, but he has little left in the twelfth. Chuvalo knocks him about the ring with left hooks to the head and body and even throws in right-hand punches that he has hoarded all night. Cleroux stumbles on his way to his corner.
Irving Phillips jots down the final two figures on his card. They are Chuvalo 5, Cleroux 3. Then he adds the string of twelve figures across for each fighter. The totals are Cleroux 56, Chuvalo 52. He has given Cleroux nine rounds and Chuvalo only three. Judge John Gow has awarded the fight to Chuvalo 56-53 but Rene Ouimet has Cleroux in front, 5553. "Chuvalo makes a better picture,” says Irving Phillips, "but that is no criterion.”
Chuvalo. who thought he had won, is stunned. Cleroux, who had been shuffling dejectedly, head down, in his corner, the picture of defeat, looks up in surprise and throws both hands in the air as the announcer says he is the new champion.
The completely pro-Cleroux crowd, silent and almost sullen throughout the last three rounds, when Cleroux appeared to be weakening, is not prepared for this kind of decision. "He's young yet,” one man says to his neighbor. "He’ll get another chance.” Now they are both shouting "Robert! Robert!”
The fight is barely over before another is being planned. In promoter Eddie Quinn's office in the Montreal Forum, Jack Allen and AÍ Bachman say hello but do not shake hands. Each is aware that Bachman, by a single vote in Cleroux’s favor, holds an advantage in negotiations about to take place for another bout between their fighters. Both know, too, that the disputed decision leaves Allen a talking point. The two men, as unlike outwardly as two men can be, have many things in common.
Jack Allen, quiet-spoken, a deacon in demeanor as well as nickname, has been in boxing forty years and never wanted to be in another business. Bachman is a botanist who could not complete his course at the University of Iowa because of weak eyesight and turned to boxing because his father Frank had successfully handled such fighters as Maxie Rosenbloom and Lew Jenkins, both world champions.
"You could say I’m still a botanist,” says Bachman, with a heavy humor, "raising cauliflower.”
Bachman and Allen have similar managerial arrangements and problems. Each fighter tonight collects $13,249 as his share of the gate. The managers get a third of this. But such is the arithmetic of prize fighting that each must part with half his share for the privilege of acting as manager. To get Chuvalo’s contract Allen agreed to divide his earnings as Chuvalo’s manager with Sonny Thompson, a TV repairman who started Chuvalo on his career. I o get Cleroux's contract Bachman had to sign another contract with Papa Cleroux giving him half his (Bachman’s) cut.
In the smoke-filled room, Bachman
talks of a possible fight with Henry Cooper of England for the British Empire heavyweight title. That could lead to a world title bout with Floyd Patterson, he muses, since he and his father Frank are close friends of Cus D’Amato, Patterson’s manager.
In a few minutes, however, Bachman and Allen have agreed verbally to a return bout between Robert Cleroux and George Chuvalo, either in Montreal or Toronto. This decision is left with Eddie Quinn and Frank Tunney, his companion promoter in Toronto.
The old pro
In a room full of pugilistic celebrities, Dave Castilloux moves quickly from boxer to manager, shaking hands. Twenty years ago, Castilloux held three Canadian championships at once — featherweight, lightweight and welterweight. He made $200,000 in a few
years. Some of it he lost by bankrolling a Montreal gambling establishment frequented by gamblers luckier than he was. Dave Castilloux is lithe in his body and his face is happy. The celebrities call him Champ. Tomorrow he will go back to work as a trucker for the CNR at $1.77 an hour,