The World in My Fist

By Nino Benvenuti

In the spring of 1967, Nino Benvenuti was the first Italian to keep the entire nation awake all night for an event taking place on the opposite side of the ocean, in New York, when the six hour time lapse collapsed under the enthusiasm for his victory over Emile Griffith in the old Madison Square Garden stadium.

This book is unusual and interesting. The boxer leaves nothing unsaid when he tells of those tormented years of his life engraved with the rhythm of his successes in the ring, but also with the lacerating contradictions in his private life.

A World Champion who was able to get a lot of courage to show up, providing the unpublished story of what he thinks, testing, suffer, moment by moment, a fighter in the ring, but also the unexpected reflection on the limits of man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AIDIF Editore
• Release date: Jul 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311847799

Book preview

Nino Benvenuti

The world in my fist

AIDIF

Copyright 2014 by Pro Aidif S.A.S.

Via Salaria, 53 - 00198 Roma

[e-mail] - www.aidif-editore.it

ISBN 978-88-906332-9-4

Graphic design and layout of this eBook Gabriele Giagnoli

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Index

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Preface

Introduction

The beginnings in Isola d'Istria

My first boxing coach

The roots of a passion

A first love and a first match

The tragedy of Istria's annexation

The beginning of a career

1956: I lose my mother and miss the Olympics

A first european triumph in a mortified prague

First earnings and an adventure in Sublin

Lucern: the second european triumph

1960: the Olympic gold in Rome

A fireman with Giuliano Gemma

The difficult start among professionals

The first wedding

Two riveting knock outs

I become someone: I win against Ortego, Wright, Moyer and Duran

A brief experience in politics

Mazzinghi and I divide italy; but I send him ko and win the world championship

I knock Folledo flat for the european middleweight title

The day of reckoning with Mazzinghi

A meeting in argentina with the son of the Dux

A victory in Berlin and my first commercial

The Seul insult

My children

The discovery of America

Waiting for Griffith, I attempt to secure my future

The New York adventure begins

April 17, 1967: the night I won the World Title

I become part of boxing history and pay homage to Carnera

Nadia comes into my life

The ordeal in the second match against Griffith

Travelling with Nadia to New York

A humiliating press conference in Bologna

The lights in Madison Square Garden

I lose over business matters; but win at the Ariston in Sanremo

A western with Giuliano Gemma and a thriller with Dick Tiger

Family troubles and redemption against Rodriguez

I beat Bethea and Baird; but twenty years of fatigue in the ring leave their mark

My unexpected collapse in front of Monzón

Without peace I prepare for the return match against Monzón.

Montecarlo, march 8 1971: my story as a boxer comes to an end

I step down from the ring and begin the most difficult journey of my life

Amaduzzi's team

My private life after Monzón

All those chances lost outside the ring!

My precious opponents Griffith and Monzón

My story with an argentinian woman: Teresa

Face to face with La Motta, Graziano, Robinson and Ali

My present job

My relationship with religion and my journey to India

I find Nathalie again and marry her mother

A letter to Nadia

Epilogue

The book sports of Giovanni «Nino» Benvenuti

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Preface

In the spring of 1967, Nino Benvenuti was the first Italian to keep the entire nation awake all night for an event taking place on the opposite side of the ocean, in New York, when the six hour time lapse collapsed under the enthusiasm for his victory over Emile Griffith in the old Madison Square Garden stadium.

Italy would burst with joy again three years later when the blue footballers, led by Gigi Riva and Gigi Rivera, won the semifinal match against Germany in Mexico City by four goals to three. However the challenge against the Germans led by Beckenbauer had taken place in Aztec Stadium in the afternoon; evening time in Italy. Therefore Benvenuti continues to be the first champion to have stolen the nation's sleep. It would happen later to Muhammad Ali who, having served an unjust suspension after refusing to fight in the Vietnam war, would return with a series of memorable matches that led to worldwide fame that all began with the Olympics in Rome in 1960. Nino also bloomed at those Olympics, as this book relates, and he followed in the footsteps of The greatest. He became the best boxer of the latter half of the last century, even if with a little less splendour than Ali due to the fact that he was a middleweight and not a heavyweight boxer.

The support Italy offered the young Istrian refugee, Triestine by adoption, that night in April 1967 was well deserved. He had become the best middleweight boxer in Europe, winning the right to go to America and challenge a black immigrant from the Virgin Islands who as a welterweight had quickly become a hero figure who went on to win the next category world title against a very tough Biafran, Dick Tiger.

Benvenuti had earned the right to aspire to becoming the white hope in a boxing world that still didn't fully accept the idea of having to applaud mainly black or Latin American boxers in the ring. In fact in Europe he had eliminated every contender he had faced, from the sophisticated Spaniard Luis Folledo - crucified by a tremendous straight right in the stadium that Benvenuti by then considered was his: Palazzo dello Sport in Rome - to the fury of Sandro Mazzinghi. Mazzinghi was a rough Tuscan much loved by the fifty per cent of Italians who detested the elegance and nerve of the Triestine Nino, whose right uppercut made history sending his opponent dramatically to the canvas in the sixth round at the San Siro stadium in Milan. In June '65 Nino not only stole the world title from Mazzinghi, won from the North American Ralph Dupas after two matches fought tooth and claw; in fact with his cutting action and a blow only true champions can carry, Nino set light to an eternal rivalry typical of the Italian 'contrade' (town districts). It still hadn't subsided six months later when, as Giorgio Tosatti wrote: The best Mazzinghi ever seen couldn't beat the worst Benvenuti ever seen.. in a match won, not without difficulty, by the Triestine who twice knocked down the most persevering opponent of his career.

Mazzinghi never accepted that second verdict and every time he appeared on television he would underline the fact, confirming a rivalry that distinguished an era. Together with the Milan and Inter football victories, under Nereo Rocco and Helenio Herera in the European intercontinental cup finals, that rivalry not only entered the history of sport but also became a typical expression of Italian behaviour in the Sixties.

Yet Nino Benvenuti distinguished himself not only inside the ring. He also offered an indisputable turning point for the image of the boxer and the image of the athlete in general. Until then press and television had never really taken into consideration that they were perhaps capable of speaking.

Nino never attacked the media like Muhammad Ali, then known as Cassius Clay, would do. Encouraged by Malcolm X, Ali had chosen to support and fight for the black Muslims of America. Nino, on the other hand was honest enough to declare his attraction for the Movimento Sociale Italiano, at a time when many of those who now say they support the Right believed it was more convenient to deny or elude compliance with the party considered heir to fascism.

Benvenuti, like many Istrian refugees who chose Italy rather than Tito's communist Yugoslavia; even if non-aligned with Soviet Union strategies; felt offended. The indifference with which the majority of Italian political parties welcomed such a painful choice on the part of many Istrian and Dalmation communities to be part of our population, disturbed him. A lack of feeling prevailed, in particular from left wing forces who encouraged the greater part of the refugees to chose, at such a delicate period after the Resistance and the civil war, the only party that at the time made irredentism and the concept of native land their flag.

This book is unusual and interesting. The boxer Benvenuti leaves nothing unsaid when he tells of those tormented years of his life engraved with the rhythm of his successes in the ring, but also with the controversial attitudes like those just described and by the lacerating contradictions in his private life. His marriage, with many children, failed after six years, but was dragged along against all logic because of an emotional fragility in stark contrast with his courage in the ring. That fragility was hostage to the rigid Catholic upbringing he had received from his mother Dora, his only indisputable point of reference, and he was also conditioned by the morals of the time in an Italy where divorce had still not been voted by referendum and where a champion in order to be accepted had to give a good example with his behaviour. Some might say this is pure hypocrisy. Certainly the Triestine champion didn't know how to cope with the trials he had to face outside the ring. As he himself admits, it was deeply selfish of him to ask another woman to give him a child and then to have been incapable of carrying through the new and unexpected responsibilities. His marriage in later life with Nadia, the woman who all those years before had been able to refuse an ambiguous situation with dignity, has offered Nino Benvenuti's existence an almost unhoped-for redemption from those days almost thirty years earlier when he hadn't known how to face his responsibilities with the same loyalty and determination he had constantly shown in the ring.

But this biography, written in solitude and capable of tough self-criticism, not only of his professional mistakes, but also concerning his absence in the role of companion and father, offers the picture of a man who, like in boxing, has given and received; a man who has however always paid in person and who now of mature age perhaps still finds himself fighting for the quiet existence he deserves.

Despite the conflicting emotions, that he doesn't hide, his disarming sincerity when faced with his more indomitable opponents like Mazzinghi, (...in the end he was the winner, I envied him his family.) or someone as devastating as Carlos Monzón, is worthy of note. It was the Argentinian who put an end to his career, but Nino went to visit him in prison after his conviction for the murder of his third wife. He has often repeated to me, and written: Carlos left boxing a world champion after defending the title for six years. His lengthy invincibility restored dignity and prestige to my defeats against him. The day he retired I felt that a part of his invincibility belonged to me.

Nino is not your typical champion. Writing this story in his sixties, he has found the courage to lay himself bare, offering this unique account of what a boxer thinks, feels, and suffers every second he is in the ring. And not only, he offers unexpected reflections on his limits as a human being; a self-analysis that not many years ago took him, for example, to India for three months where he helped the Salesian ministers care for the lepers; and not so that he could tell someone about it, but simply to attenuate the uneasiness of a controversial character who felt pushed to feeling indebted with life.

I am happy to have helped him undo the knot that gripped his conscience by getting it out onto the written page. As well as thanking Nino, I would like to thank Valter Delle Donne, whose wisdom and investigative abilities helped me put together as much data and other elements possible to offer Benvenuti so that his own sensitive mind could put together his personal and professional life as only he could do.

This book also owes a thank you to the patience and skill of Antonella Bonamici and to the generosity of Roberto Fazi, famed director of the magazine Boxe Ring, who helped integrate the historical photographs of an unrepeatable career.

Gianni Minà

Introduction

The most important match of my life has yet to be won. I often repeat these words. I don't know if I really believe them or if it's simply a way of pushing myself constantly to do better.

Some people react with a sceptical glance, not bothering to hide their suspicion of a boutade: they see my words as a wisecrack from a bragging old glory. And yet I continue to believe that what is truly important to an individual is constant and cannot be conditioned by the passage of time.

Strength, courage, intelligence, spirit, will, and commitment develop in each human being in appropriate quantities. We have to cultivate them so that they develop more strongly in us than in others. It is said we are born with a destiny, a pre-established programme from which we cannot escape, that will accompany us until the end of our days. Personally I do not agree with this. I have experienced too many episodes that have taught me how decisive human contribution is, how it can totally alter the course of events and the fate of an individual.

When faced with a choice between an easy option or an arduous one, some people can render their lives unpredictable by choosing the latter... not making do with second best; preferring risk to security. It is through these choices that we become the authors of our own destiny, and on the basis of this conviction I believe that many important things still have to happen in my life.

On many occasions I have been asked: Why don't you write your life-story?. Until now I had never seriously considered a similar suggestion, and yet I have a lot to tell. The truth is something had always unconsciously hindered me and it only emerged clearly once I decided to write this autobiography. I discovered that the initial obstacle had to do with time not yet accomplished. It was as though the moment I fixed my story, my past, into words... I risked interrupting the normal course of my life, the evolution of events. I felt I was placing a barrier in front of the vicissitudes that await me, and I feel there are many. I am under the impression there are essential parts of my life still waiting to be written.

The most important match has yet to be won. Some might say: Nino, enjoy what you have! I, on the other hand, feel there are new chapters awaiting me because I am my own destiny. It's obvious, it's obvious, I am my own destiny...

I have never accepted surrender. For my part surrender never happened. Others forced it on me, against my will. So much pain, so much bitterness; such a sour taste to all that useless rebellion against a decision not shared.

It was in Montecarlo, on the evening of March 8, 1971. During the famous fight against Carlos Monzon, three rounds into a match anything but over and I saw that towel fly into the ring that would have decreed a final, irreversible, surrender.

Kicking the towel into the crowds three seconds later did not suffice. Not even my tears of grief and the desperate protests could then do a thing against the destiny that was writing the final chapter of my life as an athlete and a boxer.. The tears simply gave vent to the pain.

Maybe it was right things ended that way. It was how I had always wanted it to be, but I was only to realise this later. I would never have agreed to abandon the ring a champion. Yes, many have done so, but it was not for me, it would have felt like refusing the challenge; avoiding the next opponent for fear of losing. It would have left me with the sensation, a vulgar suspicion, that I was leaving something unfinished. I always want to face the strongest of them all. is what I would say to my manager Amaduzzi.

Now and then Amaduzzi, the unforgettable Amaduzzi who died several years ago, would offer me a more comfortable match, a less tough opponent, an easier, almost inevitable victory. Systematically my response dissuaded him; they were the situations in which I could turn nasty. I would ask myself what kind of world champion would I be if I couldn't face an opponent, the best opponent, an opponent who is stronger than me?

This is how, that night in Montecarlo, my career as a boxer came to an end. Had I refused to meet Monzon, firstly in Rome and then in Montecarlo, obviously I could have continued fighting; but for how long and in what state of mind, knowing I had avoided the best?

I have never tolerated compromises. An honourable defeat is preferable to having to offer my conscience explanations. So this is why my story might resemble a fairy tale without the happy ending, yet it is indeed an authentic story, the reality of a life lived in virtue of the pursuit of truth, something my parents taught me.

The beginnings in Isola d'Istria

I'm pedalling in the dark. I have to reach the top of a hill called Albaro Vescovà, that stands between Trieste and Isola d'Istria. Hot on my heels a voice insists as I ride my bike: Keep at it, Nino, we're there now. I'm standing on the pedals, not solely to transmit greater thrust, but because the bicycle, my father's old Bianchi, is too big for me: if I sit on the saddle my feet can barely reach the pedals.

I'm really tired this evening. Having reached the top of the hill I get off the bike to urinate before stretching out on the grass to rest. The evening is pitch black. From where I am lying, apart from a few stars I can see the lights illuminating the coast from the bay of Capodistria to Isola d'Istria, as far as Pirano. After which my gaze gets lost. Only when the night is particularly transparent is it possible to see the lights as far as Umago.

This is the western coastline of Istria, a wonderful peninsula that extends into the sea right where the Adriatic begins. This is my country, where I was born. I would have slept beneath such peace this evening if the voice from the dark hadn't suggested I eat the succulent bread roll that mamma Dora, as usual, had prepared for me. The year is 1951, I am thirteen and I have recently discovered my strong passion for boxing. I can remember as if it were today. The voice that encouraged and helped me to reach the top of the hill and then reminded me to eat the bread roll was Luciano Zorenon, my first boxing coach. We were returning home to Isola d'Istria: we visited Trieste twice a week for training sessions at the famous APT, the Accademia Pugilistica Triestina. It was a breeding ground for champions. Before me, athletes of the calibre of Tiberio Mitri and Dulio Loi had trained there. I had my parents consent of course. We had to cover thirty kilometres to reach Trieste, and with the return journey they amounted to sixty: but I faced them with such enthusiasm that I felt gratified and even rewarded.

Zorzenon, a robust athlete with incredibly wide shoulders and a head of thick black hair, had always trained at the APT. He was a natural middleweight and a competent amateur with few dreams. He was a diver by profession: specialised in the recovery of submarines. In 1950 he by chance found himself, with some other divers, in Istria. They were employed by the Slav authorities who had occupied Istria since 1945. Among other things, they had taken possession of the famous Italian transatlantic wreck, Rex, sunk by British aviation in theCapodistria bay. The Rex, pride of the Italian shipbuilding industry, that so touched Federico Fellini's childhood fantasy, was among the fastest and most elegant cruise ships of the day. To protect her during the war she had been moved to Trieste to be used as a warehouse for the Società Italia.

The effort was in vain. On the morning of September 8, 1944, six British fighter-bombers took to the air with the sole aim of destroying her. A series of rockets was fired against the enormous target, sinking one of the most luxurious steamships of her time. For years the Rex lay little more than half submerged, her port side on the sea floor. I would see her every morning from the bus that took me from Isola to secondary school in Capodistria. As a diver, Zorzenon was responsible for recovering materials from the ship. There was plenty to find: not just iron, but also sanitary fixtures, tiles, pipes, electric motors, precious metals, in other words anything and everything. I asked myself why, instead of cutting the ship to pieces, she couldn't be made buoyant again considering she lay in low water and so little damage had been done. Some years later it was explained to me that the high costs estimated necessary to get her floating again, plus the uncertain outcome regarding her recovery, had forced the Slav authorities to demolish her on sight.

My first boxing coach

Between immersions, Zorzenon had decided to set up a boxing gym in Isola. One hundred meters from where I lived there was an empty foodstuff warehouse. It was just what he was looking for.

Sport, in my town, had a strong tradition. There was the canoeing society that boasted no less than an Olympic title, won in Amsterdam on August 10, 1928: the gold medal in the 'quattro con'. The society was founded in 1925, seven years after Istria was given to Italy after the First World War. The very name, Giacinto Pullino, was a source of pride for the inhabitants of Isola. In fact, Pullino was the name of Nazario Sauro's submarine. Nazario Sauro was the heroic naval officer and Istrian irredentist who, during the First World War, had carried out daring, fearless ventures until he was made prisoner by the Austrians and hung in prison in Pola. Nazario Sauro, gold medallist for military valour, was a common topic of conversation in schools and family circles. Not one youngster was left unaware of his existence and what he represented for Istria. Following the gold medal in Amsterdam, Pullino earned nine Italian titles and four European titles as well as countless regional titles. In 1951 the society was teaching canoeing to countless youngsters. Many of them would come from the country to train after long hours of work in the fields. They came on the backs of their donkies that were then tied to the railings in front of the hut that housed the society's headquarters. Over the door of the hut it said POOR IN MEANS, RICH IN VIRTUES. This too was Istria: an almost childish candour and a deep spirit of sacrifice. For a small town of little over six thousand inhabitants made up mostly of fishermen, peasants and workers from the fish plants, Pullino was a source of great pride.

Isola d'Istria also boasted an extraordinary record. There were four factories in the town that specialised in processing and canning bluefish: the two larger ones were Arrigoni and Ampelea. It was the Fifties, and a curious slant to this story was that the factories employed over five thousand workers, a number nearing that of the entire town's inhabitants. It was natural that the majority of workers, mainly women, came from the outskirts of the town, from nearby villages and hamlets that could well be up to an hour's walking distance from the factories.

My memory still recalls the long, powerful scream of the siren that every evening at 5.30 announced the end of the working day. The main roads in the town would be invaded from then on by a mass of people all diligently dressed in blue cloth, their chatter blocking out every other sound until disappearing once they began to scatter towards their distant homes.

Not so the strong, pungent stench they left behind them however: the stench of the fish they had been handling throughout the day. It was actually possible to get used to it, in fact I don't remember ever having heard nasty comments on the subject. The fish they worked were mostly caught from the boats moored in the town's port. These measured from ten to fifteen meters long and went out to sea every night with no moon. At the stern they had a large, rolled up net called the secaleva. It would be lowered in a semicircle to leave an opening for the fish to enter, attracted by the powerful light from the lampara situated on the caicio at the centre of the sunken net. It was the chief boatman who decided when it was the right moment to close the circle and pull in the net that would often hold many hundreds of pounds of bluefish. A small part of the catch went to the fish market together with the quality fish, the bulk went straight to the factories.

Isola was a town I considered a happy place. As well as the fishing, and the work in the factories, nearly every family had its own piece of land to cultivate that provided agricultural products and wine. Of course, a