This year, legendary boxing champion Freddy De Kerpel turned 75. He is still an example of vitality. In the sports club where he trains like an animal every day, we visited him for a conversation about kind-hearted fathers, calling Elvis and the missed European title. “Half came to see me win, half came to see me lose – but the room was always packed.”
Text: Bert Voet Photography: Thomas De Boever
'From Overbeke? Really?' Freddy De Kerpel is surprised. We come from the same working-class neighborhood in Wetteren, where his parents had a business in café games and produced billiard tables. The undersigned was twelve when he stood in the parking lot of the municipal recreational area De Warande staring through the window of a dark blue Ferrari Testarossa. With a bath towel around his shoulders, its owner sat in a lounger on the roof terrace of the accompanying castle, overlooking the lawn and the outdoor swimming pools. The hundreds of young people who came to swim there stared at the imposing body of their famous fellow countryman.
De Kerpel can laugh heartily at my memory. “The Ferrari was my last sports car,” he says. 'I also had a De Tomaso Pantera earlier – a monster! – and two Lotuses. But I had that. You should buy things like that when you're young. It's not that I feel old now. But I don't care anymore. Now I drive a Hyundai Tucson. I discovered that when I lived in Brazil. Super nice car.'
He invited us to Fit-out Sports & Health Center in Destelbergen, not far from where he lives – and also run by an Overbeken resident. And here too he appears in the cafeteria in half-bare bark and with a towel around his shoulders. At 75, he is an example of vitality. “That figure means nothing to me,” he says. 'It doesn't bother me – although I don't shout loudly either. I weigh 78 kilograms, just like fifty years ago. I train every day, wherever I am, even if it is in a small room. You can do abdominal exercises or pumps anywhere. Many people stop doing that after their career, but not me. If I can't do it for a day, I feel sick.'
“I still have the mental strength to train very hard,” he continues. 'I do different exercises every day, but always on time, today it was 60 minutes. I do 200 pull-ups in nineteen minutes. Or jumping on boxes 60 centimeters high: thirty series of eight jumps per minute, without stopping, with the chrono in hand. Then the sweat drips off me. And no one should say a word to me. Everyone knows that here. I am super concentrated. I'll give up then, yes. Naturally. But afterwards I feel good, like now. It's my drug, my addiction. That's why I asked to come after the training. Otherwise, I want to finish the conversation as quickly as possible. Because I want to train. I don't smoke, only drink coffee and water, and eat healthy. But I don't miss anything, I don't have to be denied anything. Everything is habit.”
“I also run five to kilometers every day at 12 kilometres per hour,” he adds. 'I am lucky that I know the sports physiotherapist Lieven Maesschalck well. He helps me a lot to remain almost injury-free. An injury is a disaster. Then I feel depressed.'
FATHER HENRY
Boxing started in his teens in a club in Kalken, a sub-municipality of Laarne. “Without my father knowing,” he says. 'He was firmly against it. And so I had to make sure I never had a black eye.
He was a tyrannical man, that's right. I was regularly spanked. And when I was eight, I was already in boarding school in Ledeberg. Every three weeks I was allowed to go home from Sunday morning to Sunday evening. That was terrible. This was followed by boarding school in Aalst. When they bullied me, I didn't let them do it. I also handed out slaps to children who were much older than me. But that has nothing to do with boxing.'
'I eventually moved to the Lindenlei in Ghent, where I obtained a diploma in sales and distribution. At that time, the combination of studying and boxing was rare. Half of my mates had started working in the factory at the age of fourteen. That's what I wanted too, but my father made me study. In the end I'm happy about that.'
'My father died of cancer when I was seventeen. That was a disaster for me. But I kept boxing. At that time I wasn't thinking about competing: it was pure entertainment. When I was twenty, that changed. I was able to go to a club in Schaerbeek, where I had lived for a while. Victor D'Haes was a very good trainer there. A year later I won my first major title. I became Belgian heavyweight champion among the amateurs. But I wasn't a heavyweight. I weighed only 80 kilograms. My opponent 94 kilograms.”
In the autumn of 1970 he made a big leap: he moved to Los Angeles. 'Now everyone does things like that, back then Blankenberge was the furthest that many people had already been. Or to Switzerland with the health insurance association. A kind-hearted, sporty father of the Josephites at the college of Melle, whom I knew through my parents, taught at a high school there. I could sleep there for free. Father Henry, they called him there. His real name was Maurice. He took me with him. As soon as I arrived, I started looking for a boxing club. I had read about Jerry Quarry, one of the best heavyweights in the world and a superstar. I wanted to get in touch with him, which was actually a rather naive idea. On the second day I saw a motorcycle gang. “They know everything,” I thought, and I spoke to them. They did not know his address, but they did know where his mother lived. At that time I had no means of transportation. Maurice took me there. I rang the doorbell and the lady opened the door. I introduced myself in bad English. You have to imagine that: no one knew where Belgium was.'
“Jerry was training at “the camp” 125 miles away, it turned out. The mother wanted to brush me off, but I will never forget what happened next. Just as she was about to close the door, her daughter, Jerry's sister, appeared in the background. “Mom, what are you doing,” she said. She thought I was “a good looking guy” and let me in. The next day I was at that door again, with all my boxing equipment. They were going to visit Jerry. And I was allowed to come along.'
SAY HELLO TO ELVIS
'The fact that I got into his training center was actually a miracle. It was a sweltering Sunday afternoon. There was a golf course nearby. I'd never seen that before. The training center itself was a wooden house. The parking lot was full of gigantic American cars. The door opened by itself. In the cafeteria, cola was poured from a hose, like gasoline. Very strange, all.' (Laughs)
'Jerry was sitting on a rocking chair with all kinds of people around him. He was friendly, but of course I wasn't interested in him.
His mind was elsewhere. It was the period of Muhammad Ali's return after his suspension. Everyone talked about that. They took away all his titles because he refused to serve in Vietnam. But he got his license back and his first match was against Jerry: the number two after Joe Frazier, against whom he had lost the fight of the year. Now there are countless fake titles, back then there was only one world champion.”
'Mike, Jerry's brother, was also in the top ten, but lived somewhat in his shadow. We clicked immediately. The training started at four o'clock. Three or four hundred people came to watch that. I put on my boxing clothes. Jerry first trained with Eddie Bossman Jones, the former sparring partner of George Foreman and Muhammad Ali who had also boxed for the world title. “Goddammit, what is this here?” I thought. They boxed completely differently than I was used to. They came to the center and didn't take a step back. Chat! Chat! Vaseline and sweat flew everywhere. Then he trained with Mike. And then suddenly it sounded through their trainer: “Get him ready.” As in: move that chair. I would spar with Mike. I entered the ring with shaking knees. A year later he would fight for the world title against Bob Foster. And he didn't know me – he wouldn't spare me. We sparred a first round. “Time!”, the trainer shouted. A second round. Boom! Boom! “Time!” After which the trainer looked at me. “You can stay,” he said.'
'I was 22 then. I boxed four amateur fights in L.A., and then my first professional fight, which I won on points. Jack Quarry, Jerry and Mike's father, was my manager there. A special figure. He had eight children, four boys and four girls. He had a tattoo on both hands: 'Hard' and 'Luck'. That family had lived in tents. They had really fought their way out of poverty. They would eventually return there, but at that time they were very wealthy. Against Ali, Jerry's purse was $200,000. In 1970! That was ten houses. Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley were personal friends of Jerry. One day he passed the phone to me. “Say hello to Elvis,” he said. Of course I didn't know what to say.' (laughs)
And all thanks to a priest from Wanzele. “It was not that unusual for Maurice to support me,” said De Kerpel. “The great champion Sonny Liston was a gangster who could not read or write. When he came out of prison, his supervisor was a Jesuit. That was the only one he trusted. He also came to train in that room, but I did not meet him. Sugar Ray Robinson is, the greatest boxer of all time. I also went to Atlanta and Georgia, where we trained in the same room as Ali. He at twelve, we at four. I then went to take a look with Mike. They knew each other. And even though they were in the opposite camp, Ali was always calm, approachable and friendly. Unbelievable for such a star. I also went to the premiere of the film A.K.A. Cassius Clay.”
EUROPEAN NUMBER ONE
After a few wonderful months, De Kerpel had to return to Belgium for his military service. “I boxed a few amateur camps here,” he says. 'I was given facilities to train in the army, but I did not see a future as a professional boxer. You have to build a boxing career. You have to invest in it. And the guidance, both mentally and physically, is something very delicate. Sometimes you win but the judges let you lose. Then all your morals disappear. I was actually planning to quit. Or should I go back to L.A.? “You shouldn't fight there, just come back,” Jack had said. He really wanted to guide me for the world title.' It turned out differently. “In Ghent I met Raymond Noé, the owner of the legendary snack bar Martino,” says De Kerpel. 'He had been a manager in the 60s and had a great vision for boxing. A special person, indeed. Very surly. His business was open day and night and was a magnet for street fighters. I worked in a disco at the time and often went there for dinner afterwards. He always got up at a quarter past four. One such morning he came to me. “You still have a desire for boxing, don't you,” he said in flat Ghent. I nodded. “Please be here tomorrow at five o'clock,” he said. The next morning we were already training at the Watersportbaan. And a little later in a room. So I started again. That was in December 1972. After that, my career went so fast that it was no longer necessary to return to the States.' 'At first I boxed amateur matches. I always won by KO in the first round. In September 1973 I became a professional with Noé. I won my first match against Gilbert Monteyne, the Belgian champion. I also won the revenge match, as well as the next nine matches. The last of these was in April 1974 against Jan Lubbers. As a result, within a few months I was among the European top ten half-heavyweights. When I wanted to box for the Belgian title the following year, no one wanted to fight me. That's why I boxed against Jean Tschikuna, the Congolese champion who boxed with a Belgian license. I won. After that I won four more matches in a row. The third was against British champion Johnny Frankham, The Gypsy King. He was number five in the world. That win put me at number one in Europe.”
CONTROVERSIAL
On April 19, 1975, he boxed in Wieze as a challenger against the Italian Domenico Adinolfi, who was defending his European title. 'That title was really big at the time. They paid him 1.2 million francs. My purse as a challenger was 400,000 francs.'
Is that the match he would like to repeat? “I don't think that way,” it sounds. "That's a useless question. Alea iacta est. What happened happened. I didn't approach that match tactically wisely. It was all or nothing, and I had pushed myself and exhausted myself, leaving me completely stressed. I lost with an injury in the eleventh round, when Raymond threw in the towel. The result was the classic phenomenon: we got into an argument.'
“I was a controversial figure,” he explains. 'With journalists and the public: when I boxed, half came to see me win, the other half to see me lose – but the room was always full. The fact that I received a lot of criticism was stressful. And in the weeks before that European title match, the pressure got to me. Mentally I felt weak. I was too nervous. Normally I boxed carefully for the first five or six rounds, then I went all out. During that match I immediately shot all my arrows. Although Adinolfi was also going through it. He was good, but I could beat him. When I went to congratulate him after the match, he was completely exhausted on the massage table. It turned out that he would have stopped after the twelfth lap.'
'I then boxed and won five more matches. At one point I had 20 wins in 21 matches. I was particularly popular in Wallonia. La Dernière Heure sent four journalists to that European title camp. The newspapers filled pages. It was the main point in Sportweekend and Weekend Sportif on RTBF.'
In 1976 he would box a regular match in Liège against Emile Griffith, five-time world middleweight champion. 'I was 28, he was 38. I could never lose against him. The weight limit for the intermediate heavyweights was 175 pounds or 79,300 kilograms. I was always just below that. But he wanted to box at 76 kilograms. That was a tough effort but it was possible. If I was just above that, I could still pay a fine. The contracts were signed, but a week before the camp I received a telegram: he couldn't come. The organizers were looking for a replacement. That wasn't easy, but eventually they met Kevin Finnegan in England, ex-European middleweight champion and number three in the world on the WBC list. He wanted to box against me, but at less than 73 kilograms. I accepted. I had to lose three kilograms in one week. It worked. How? Don't eat and continue training. Even drink little water. I came into the ring completely weak, but I boxed perhaps my best match ever. In the ninth lap I was two points ahead, after which I fell exhausted. The only time in my entire career. I got up again but my coach Jef Van Driessche threw in the towel.'
'In 1977 I won the semi-final for the European title against the French champion Robert Amory, but what followed were just games to keep busy. In the match against the Italian Cristiano Cavina I received an involuntary headbutt in the second round. Result: a cheekbone fracture and eye socket fracture. In the eighth round the injuries were very swollen, after which the doctor stopped the match. That's how I lost my European leadership position.'
'That fracture had to heal. I went on holiday to Brazil and stayed there for two years. I don't box anymore.'
ROBBED
“I had earned a lot of money to live, but not to be inside,” he laughs. 'I still had to work, yes. Sure. The café games business still existed but was almost at a standstill. I built a new factory in Lokeren and worked on it for twenty years, after which I sold it in 2002. I was also active as a manager, including Jean-Marc Renard, who became European super featherweight champion, and African boxers who I brought here.'
In Brazil he encountered love twice. He had two daughters with his first wife Cleide. 'Christina designs jewelry for her own account and also works at Prosper, a watch and jewelry store in Brussels. Claudia lives in London. Her husband is an Italian plastic surgeon, she stays at home with their two children, Cesar and Stella. I have always been there for my daughters. They were allowed to do what they liked to do. I didn't let them go completely, but they were raised completely differently than what I experienced. They both have a lot of perseverance.'
'My second wife Fernanda worked in Brazil for the Belgian company TVH. She became boss for all of South America. During that period I was there more than half the year. But I had a house in Rio, she lived in São Paulo. We saw little of each other. At a certain point I got tired of traveling back and forth and we came here. Now she works for Volvo. She speaks six languages: Portuguese, Spanish, English, Dutch, French and Italian. We have been married for twenty years. We still go to Brazil regularly.'
Mrs. De Kerpel is 43. There is no doubt that her husband is young at heart. But it is a certainty that decline will occur. Is he afraid of that? “You shouldn't think about that,” he says. 'Then you can't live anymore. That's the trick, yes. Sure. Of course, there are friends who are already sick or dead. But a person should not be concerned with that. I'm a day older than yesterday, that's it.'
He is a co-commentator at the Ghent boxing gala every year. To an outsider it sometimes looks a bit amateurish, but he himself emphasizes the success of the event. 'There are always a lot of people. The organization does its best to provide a good program. But financially it is not always easy.'
Isn't it sad that someone like Delfine Persoon can't make a living from it? “That is somewhat her own fault,” says De Kerpel. 'She has boxed twice against Katie Taylor, who earns £1million per match. And Delfine won twice but was robbed twice. It's none of my business and I don't want to say much about it, but if I was her manager I would make a deal with the promoters in England because they can't pay her here. She boxed there twice, and made a lot of money twice. She can do that. We also have great talents with Oshin Derieuw, Victor Schelstraete and Vasile Usturoi. But there are currently seventeen boxing associations. And within certain associations there are four world champions. The reason is called money. But it's ridiculous. Imagine seventeen Olympiads. The fact that there is no world structure is detrimental to the sport of boxing. Now, I can't change that. My comments are useless.”
