Ali leaned forward.
“There’s $10 million involved,” he said, which was an exaggeration since he had agreed to a purse of $6.1 million while Inoki was set to take home in the neighborhood of $2 million. “I wouldn’t take the sport of boxing and disgrace it. I wouldn’t pull a fraud on the public. This is real. There’s no plan. The blood. The holds. The pain. Everything is going to be real. I’m not here in this time of my life to come out with some phony action.”
The next night Charlton Heston and comedian Kelly Monteith had the pleasure of welcoming Johnny Carson back to Burbank, Calif. After hearing Ed McMahon describe a wacky time at a bicentennial gathering in the West Chicago suburb of Wheaton, Ill.—“You told me never to play a fairgrounds, and I made a mistake,” McMahon admitted to Carson. “I didn’t listen to you.”—the late-night king lamented his days touring the Midwest.
Professional wrestlers knew as well as anyone what it was like to play in front of fairgrounds fans. The tradition of wrestling tours, like America, is long and vast, and in significant ways linked to the man Ali signed to fight in Tokyo.
Inoki, a famous disciple of the father of Japanese professional wrestling, better known as Rikidōzan, was the B-side of a contest poised to produce the largest purse and audience for a bout of this type. Ticket prices at the Nippon Budokan arena were exorbitant, yet, with Ali involved, the fight was a sellout. Ringside seats for regular wrestling shows at the Budokan were 5,000 yen (roughly $17 at the time). For the Ali–Inoki rumble, that price put fans in the nosebleeds of a 14,000-seat building. The face value of the most expensive ticket available to the public was $1,000 ($4,100 today). Sponsors could access “royal ringside” seats for three times that price.
“My memory was, ‘Oh my God, you’re charging how much?’” recalled Dave Meltzer, a sixteen-year-old fanatic with a pro wrestling newsletter who watched the match at the Santa Clara Fairgrounds, one of four Bay Area venues carrying the closed-circuit feed from Tokyo.
“It was announced in Japan long before it was announced in the United States,” he said. “And even though it was announced in Japan, I thought the Japanese wrestling people were just making noise because there was no way in hell this was ever going to happen. And they actually announced it and I was stunned. There was always in wrestling historically this idea of a boxer versus a wrestler going back to ‘Strangler’ Lewis and Jack Dempsey—it never happened, probably because when the boxer started training with real wrestlers it was like, wow, this is a really dumb idea.”
At Shea Stadium in Flushing, New York, 32,897 spectators gathered to watch Ali meet Inoki after a World Wide Wrestling Federation extravaganza, “Showdown at Shea,” a precursor to modern-day WrestleMania events. For the sake of business that night, a gimpy Bruno Sammartino returned to the squared circle two months after fracturing his neck in a match at Madison Square Garden against Stan Hansen. Anchoring the event before Shea Stadium went dark for the Ali–Inoki contest, Andre the Giant faced Chuck Wepner— Sylvester Stallone’s inspiration for Rocky Balboa. (Decades later, most people believe the action at Shea and Tokyo also prompted Stallone to include a boxer-versus-wrestler scene in Rocky III. Through his publicist, Stallone denied any truth to that.) Cards like these took place across North America that night, and at the behest of Vince McMahon Sr., were billed as a sort of “Martial Arts Olympics” to support the so-called World Martial Arts Championship.
Whatever trepidation Ali felt ahead of the Inoki bout, it was at least rooted in combat sports reality. Unlike earlier generations of American audiences, fight watchers in the mid-1970s weren’t clued into matches that allowed for more than trading punches. Boxing was the combat sport, in large part because of Ali, who ably served as its king and jester. Martial arts in the age of Bruce Lee were repurposed as flash for film and television, further eroding the prominence of American grappling arts that had been influenced by Japanese martial arts missionaries and European immigrants during the Industrial Revolution. By the summer of America’s 200th birthday, when fans gathered in arenas across the globe to watch Ali fight Inoki, a sense of excitement brewed on all sides. Ali was the best boxer on the planet, The Greatest of All Time, and anything he did received huge attention. But this? This was unique. Something mysterious. And that made it potentially something bigger.
Seven minutes before Ali and Inoki stood in the ring together, the first images from the Nippon Budokan were beamed by satellite to the rest of the world. Closed-circuit sites—predominantly movie houses with stadiums and arenas sprinkled in—filled with people hoping for a great show on a Friday night.
In San Jose, Calif., Meltzer and some high school friends put the finishing touches on a debate that had raged for weeks. “Beforehand we didn’t know if it would be real or not,” said Meltzer, who, forty years later, is a highly respected pro wrestling and combat sports journalist. “The prevailing view in the media was that it was going to be a fake pro wrestling match.”
Was this thing on the up-and-up? Could a boxer, even someone as great as Ali, really beat a wrestler? Oh my God, what if Inoki takes Ali to the ground and hurts him? These discussions played out wherever people congregated to take in the action.
Jeff Wagenheim spent fifteen dollars on a ticket to watch at the Liberty Theater in Elizabeth, New Jersey. Having graduated high school a week before the match, Wagenheim, who went on to cover mixed martial arts as a reporter for Sports Illustrated, had mostly matured past the wrestling fandom of his childhood. Yet after hearing of the Ali–Inoki pairing, he and a friend decided to see what the noise was about.
“I remember the air-conditioning wasn’t working,” Wagenheim said. “As soon as we got in the theater I started feeling a little feverish, a little clammy and sweating, and you’re not quite yourself. The place was packed.”
Unlike Wagenheim, Kevin Iole continued to love wrestling into his high school days, especially the McMahonowned WWWF (World Wide Wrestling Federation). And for Ali to insert himself in that world made the closed-circuit event a must-see. Iole took a seat in the small ballroom at Monzo’s Howard Johnson’s in Monroeville, Pa., as the summer prior to his senior year was getting started. “I didn’t think for one second it would be a real thing,” recalled the prolific boxing writer who, while working for the Las Vegas Review-Journal in 2004, was among the first American newspaper reporters to give the fledgling sport of mixed martial arts his attention. “I thought it’d be a work and we’d get a kick out of it, and who knew what Ali would do or say.”
Noted handicapper Jimmy “The Greek” Snyder explained that he was unwilling to post a line on the fight, highlighting the difficulty in guaranteeing the bona fides of such a spectacle. “How do I know it’s anything but an exhibition?” he wrote in his newspaper column on June 3. “I’ve been bombarded by karate lovers who insist Ali doesn’t have a chance, that no fighter can beat a wrestler.” At the fabled Olympic Auditorium in downtown Los Angeles, bookies ignored history and installed the boxer as a 3-to-1 favorite.
The Olympic, like Shea, hosted a live wrestling undercard the night of the Ali–Inoki dustup. It was one of several venues scattered amongst pro wrestling territories from the Northeast to the Southwest, under the auspices of the National Wrestling Alliance, that held talent-rich cards in support of the closed-circuit broadcast from Tokyo.
By comparison, Saturday’s afternoon action at the Budokan offered little attraction outside the main event. Demonstrations of a traditional Iranian martial art as well as Goju Ryu karate preceded a pro wrestling tag-team match for Japanese fans, whose reputation as intelligent, mindful watchers of combat is well earned. If a sense of uncertainty circulated among American audiences, the Japanese were utterly fixated on the enormous event that, courtesy of Inoki, had arrived on their shores.
Hideki Yamamoto, a fourteen-year-old junior high student fond of Coca-Cola packed in 350-milliliter steel cans, was in his second year at Wakasa Junior High School. On Saturday afternoon the left fielder was supposed to be practicing with his baseball club, but he and some of his teammates slipped out