Classic American West Coast Boxing

[kikibalt]

Joey Giardello

"Joey G."
By Diego

[dagosd2000]

"He was a fighter. He liked to fight."
Jerry was rambling on again.. He was using hindsight again to make himself look smart.
"Chacon fought too long."
"Yeah,he did."
Me and Jerry sat at the counter and ordered the cinnamon roll and coffee special. Working for the County was putting the pounds on me.
"Mancini gave him a good beating," said Jerry.
He always thought he was enlightening me.
"What's so good about getting a beating?"
Jerry guzzled his first cup of coffee.
"Miss,can I have a refill?"
The waitress came over with a pot of coffee and poured a refill..
"I don't think Chacon was as good as Sanchez",said Jerry.
"They never fought each other."
"Sanchez was the best there was."
I wanted to leave,but Jerry was going to drink as much free coffee so he could do less work as possible. I wasn't much interested in my cinnamon roll. The waitress came over again and topped of his cup.
"Sanchez died young. We don't know how his career would have ended."
"Sanchez wouldn't have ended up like Chacon. Chacon took too many good beatings."
I was reaching for my wallet. Jerry didn't make a move.
"Salvador Sanchez sure gave them their money's worth,"said Jerry.
"The fights he had with Cowdill and LaPorte could have been better."
"Chacon wouldn't have had a chance against Sanchez."
I waved the waitress over and pretended like I was writing on my hand. She put the bill down on the counter. I reached for it.
"Look at Chacon now. Like I said he took too many good beatings."
Before he could finish what he was saying I got off the stool.
"I'll tell you what. You leave the tip."

[dagosd2000]

Hey Frank
I got to apologize. You called me up and I did all the talking. Was there anything you wanted to tell me? Like running away with that showgirl and going to Brazil? Dagos

[kikibalt]

Hey Frank
I got to apologize. You called me up and I did all the talking. Was there anything you wanted to tell me? Like running away with that showgirl and going to Brazil? Dagos

Diego,

No need to apologize, I didn't really had anything say, other then hello, besides I'm a good listener.

The manudo with pata was great, also had one taco, and a beer.

[kikibalt]

James J. Parker vs Archie Moore

[Expug]

I was looking at James J Parkers record and I saw where he fought a guy named Ewart Potgeiter who was seven foot two and 335 pounds.They went ten to a draw.
That is the biggest fighter I have ever heard of!
About the same size as Shaquille Oneal who Ive met a couple times and who is a MONSTER.

[Robinson]

That is a big man. I would love to see how that fight played out.

Parker looks a mess against Archie there.

[Expug]

Hello Kym.
Yes, Parker has that look in his eye that suggests that that one needs to be stopped.
That was most likely the end right there.

[kikibalt]

Charlie Powell (L) vs Chalrie Que

[kikibalt]

Charlie Que vs Charlie Powell

[dagosd2000]

Hey Pug
What's goin on? Trying to find an air conditioner? I'd tell ya' to take a dip in Lake Michigan to cool off,but the last time I was at the Lake Shore Drive,I looked at that water and felt like getting a tetenus shot.

I never told you about my Aunt Jeanette. She was my father's sister. She was the youngest. My Aunt Jeanette and my Grandmother(her mother)were waiting on the porch when my grandfather,Diamond Joe,was walking home from the Union Hall with his body guards. My Aunt must have been around five when she saw him murdered. She was going to run down the street to greet him,but my grandfather wanted to buy some fruit from the sidewalk vendor and told her to wait.(Isn't that how Marlon Brando got it?).

Anyway this car comes squeeling alongside my grandfather. Two guys jump out with shotguns. The Varchetti brothers,the body guards,fall flat on the pavement. My grandfather is standing there alone and these guys let him have it. 56 slugs. And to top it off, the slugs were coated with garlic.

Well I firmly believe my Aunt witnessing this event was permantly traumatized. She's still alive. She lives in Oak Park with her surviving son,my cousin,Frankie. My Aunt Jeanette is one of the most grossest women I've ever known. For starters she must weigh in at a good 250. Every time I've seen her she's got this peroxide blond hair. She can cuss worse than a longshoreman and she's as dishonest as Capone was. Her and her mother got kicked out of the Catholic Womens Monday Night Poker League for cheating at cards. My aunt got a civil service job at the Police Station filing traffic tickets. You don't have to use your imagination to figure how much money she took under the table to pull pending traffic tickets and tear them up. After a while there was a standing order for no taxi cabs to pick her up because she would fake like she fell out of the cab injuring herself and then sue the cab company. Somehow her and Frankie bought a race horse and were banned from racing in Illinois for doping the nag. Her youngest son,my cousin Joey overdosed on drugs and they found him dead in some motel room. My cousin Frankie was drunk one day and fell off a window ledge and wound up a parapelegic. Her daughter,my cousin Little Jeanette, hasn';t spoken to her mother in 25 years and nobody knows where she's at.

As vulgar as she is,she never had a problem finding a husband. Her first husband had a drinking problem. One night he put his head down on the counter at the neighborhood tavern and never woke up. Her second husband was a jeweler and a real quiet guy. But he's been dead for over 20 years and it's just her and her son Frankie living off Social Security in Oak Park in an apartment.

I remember when I was little kid living on the South West Side. I'd never seen a black person up close. One day I'm bouncing this tennis ball off the wall out in the street. These two black kids come walking down the street. The Italians were complaining that the blacks were moving closer to the Italian neighborhood,but I'd never seen one up close. Well these two black kids ask if they can bounce the ball off the wall. I let one of them have the ball.Then the kid says he won't give it back. I'm frozen. Well at the top of the steps is my Aunt Jeanette. She witnesses the whole thing. She comes flying down the steps yelling at the top of her lungs,"You little f-----g(you know whats),I'm going to cut your balls off!" Those two kids threw the ball back at me so fast it hit me in the face. I never saw them again.

My Aunt and my Grandmother,I remember, had this big parrot they named Chico. I remember the first time I saw it. Every other word out of its mouth was"F--- Y--" and "S---".Well come to think of it ,that was every other words out my Aunt's and Grandmother's mouths. I'll never forget going back to Chicago when my Grandmother died. We went to the old house on Polk and Oakley. We walk inside the living room and I see Chico sitting on his perch inside his cage. I looked at the bird and said,"How's it goin' Chico?"
My Aunt Jeanette turns to me and says,"Watch what you say in front of him. He repeats things."

[kikibalt]

Bobby Chacon

"Bobby"
By Diego

[Expug]

Hey Pug
What's goin on? Trying to find an air conditioner? I'd tell ya' to take a dip in Lake Michigan to cool off,but the last time I was at the Lake Shore Drive,I looked at that water and felt like getting a tetenus shot.

I never told you about my Aunt Jeanette. She was my father's sister. She was the youngest. My Aunt Jeanette and my Grandmother(her mother)were waiting on the porch when my grandfather,Diamond Joe,was walking home from the Union Hall with his body guards. My Aunt must have been around five when she saw him murdered. She was going to run down the street to greet him,but my grandfather wanted to buy some fruit from the sidewalk vendor and told her to wait.(Isn't that how Marlon Brando got it?).

Anyway this car comes squeeling alongside my grandfather. Two guys jump out with shotguns. The Varchetti brothers,the body guards,fall flat on the pavement. My grandfather is standing there alone and these guys let him have it. 56 slugs. And to top it off, the slugs were coated with garlic.

Well I firmly believe my Aunt witnessing this event was permantly traumatized. She's still alive. She lives in Oak Park with her surviving son,my cousin,Frankie. My Aunt Jeanette is one of the most grossest women I've ever known. For starters she must weigh in at a good 250. Every time I've seen her she's got this peroxide blond hair. She can cuss worse than a longshoreman and she's as dishonest as Capone was. Her and her mother got kicked out of the Catholic Womens Monday Night Poker League for cheating at cards. My aunt got a civil service job at the Police Station filing traffic tickets. You don't have to use your imagination to figure how much money she took under the table to pull pending traffic tickets and tear them up. After a while there was a standing order for no taxi cabs to pick her up because she would fake like she fell out of the cab injuring herself and then sue the cab company. Somehow her and Frankie bought a race horse and were banned from racing in Illinois for doping the nag. Her youngest son,my cousin Joey overdosed on drugs and they found him dead in some motel room. My cousin Frankie was drunk one day and fell off a window ledge and wound up a parapelegic. Her daughter,my cousin Little Jeanette, hasn';t spoken to her mother in 25 years and nobody knows where she's at.

As vulgar as she is,she never had a problem finding a husband. Her first husband had a drinking problem. One night he put his head down on the counter at the neighborhood tavern and never woke up. Her second husband was a jeweler and a real quiet guy. But he's been dead for over 20 years and it's just her and her son Frankie living off Social Security in Oak Park in an apartment.

I remember when I was little kid living on the South West Side. I'd never seen a black person up close. One day I'm bouncing this tennis ball off the wall out in the street. These two black kids come walking down the street. The Italians were complaining that the blacks were moving closer to the Italian neighborhood,but I'd never seen one up close. Well these two black kids ask if they can bounce the ball off the wall. I let one of them have the ball.Then the kid says he won't give it back. I'm frozen. Well at the top of the steps is my Aunt Jeanette. She witnesses the whole thing. She comes flying down the steps yelling at the top of her lungs,"You little f-----g(you know whats),I'm going to cut your balls off!" Those two kids threw the ball back at me so fast it hit me in the face. I never saw them again.

My Aunt and my Grandmother,I remember, had this big parrot they nemed Chico. I remember the first time I saw it. Every other word out of its mouth was"F--- Y--" and "S---".Well come to think of it ,that was every other words out my Aunt's and Grandmother's mouths. I'll never forget going back to Chicago when my Grandmother died. We went to the old house on Polk and Oakley. We walk inside the living room and I see Chico sitting on his perch inside his cage. I looked at the bird and said,"How's it goin' Chico?"
My Aunt Jeanette turns to me and says,"Watch what you say in front of him. He repeats things."

Great stuff Dagos.
A True Chicago story .
To people who have never lived here, its hard to explain the wildness that has taken place throughout this towns history.
Traffic court is better now after the "Greylord indictments".
And corruption is probably a little better after the "Gambat" cases.
But Chicago, and Cook County in general are..like nowhere else.

[dagosd2000]

I was looking at James J Parkers record and I saw where he fought a guy named Ewart Potgeiter who was seven foot two and 335 pounds.They went ten to a draw.
That is the biggest fighter I have ever heard of!
About the same size as Shaquille Oneal who Ive met a couple times and who is a MONSTER.

Pug
I heard Archie Moore say one time that when he beat Nino Valdes,the big Cuban heavyweight and top contender,in an outdoor arena that he would maneuver him so Valdes's face was directly facing the sun. He said the sun's glare helped wear out big Nino. I don't know if that's true or not,but leave it to Arch to be thinkin' that way.

[Expug]

I was looking at James J Parkers record and I saw where he fought a guy named Ewart Potgeiter who was seven foot two and 335 pounds.They went ten to a draw.
That is the biggest fighter I have ever heard of!
About the same size as Shaquille Oneal who Ive met a couple times and who is a MONSTER.

Pug
I heard Archie Moore say one time that when he beat Nino Valdes,the big Cuban heavyweight and top contender,in an outdoor arena that he would maneuver him so Valdes's face was directly facing the sun. He said the sun's glare helped wear out big Nino. I don't know if that's true or not,but leave it to Arch to be thinkin' that way.

Ole Archie was a pros , pro.
It wouldnt surprise me if he did that.
Hey the ref tells ya before the first bell , "protect yourself at all times".
Even from the sun I guess.

[dagosd2000]

Charlie Que vs Charlie Powell

I don't know what's flatter? Charlie Que or his handler's hair. They called that"conking" .The hair laid down flat with "lye solution."

[Rick Farris]

Rick,

I have to say up front that I never liked Whitaker, lots of people say he was a great fighter, maybe he was, I just couldn't see it, he would have a better chance with Carter, as Carter was a "Hot-N-Cold" fighter, you never knew which Carter would show up on any given nite, I do agree with you that Carter was a better fighter then he is given credit for, now Williams was special, great fighter, and Bolanos was up there with Williams, there's not to many people around that saw Bolanos fight live like I did, they are now in Rose Hills or places like that, Mando Ramos fought some what like Bolanos, but Bolanos was a better fighter then Mando.

Frank, you don't have to be apolegetic by saying you never liked Whitaker, cuz I hated him. He was right up there with Chris Byrd for raw excitement. And I appreciate skillful fighters as well as the slam-bang style. I could watch Willie Pep and Wilfredo Benitez all day. They could stand right in front of you, make you miss and counter the crap out of the other fighter. What it was with Whitaker was that he could slow a fight down to nothing by continuously altering angles. It made for a non-fight. Very effective, but it put me to sleep every time. I might have a different opinion if he could bang just a little bit, because his counters would be worth something. But instead, very little punches thrown by the opponent and pitty-pat counters from Whitaker. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! Oh, sorry, fell asleep just thinking about it.

Scartissue

LOL! Well put Scar, don't feel like it's just you guys puzzled by all the Pernell Whitaker hype. This year, Pernell Whitaker is on the ballot for possible induction into the World Boxing Hall of Fame. I received my ballot last week and just filled it out. I'm sure Pernell Whitaker's name will draw a number of votes, however, not mine.

-Rick

[kikibalt]

Once the home of Archie Moore and Ken Norton. Now the home of the homeless.




The old Coliseum

[kikibalt]

The year the Big Train stopped in Brea, and brought the Babe

Brea Museum and Heritage Center

Babe Ruth bats in an exhibition on Oct. 31, 1924, at the Brea Bowl, a natural amphitheater. The game was part of a postseason barnstorming tour and is commemorated in an exhibit at Brea Museum and Heritage Center. A residential/commercial neighborhood now stands on the bowl site.

The Orange County community was a tiny oil town in 1924 when favorite son Walter Johnson and Babe Ruth played an exhibition game there on a postseason barnstorming tour.

By Chris Dufresne, Los Angeles Times Staff Writer

Careful examination of an old photograph and a street map determined this had to be the spot -- or at least near the spot.

It's all tract homes now, the memories buried beneath cul-de-sacs just downslope from the intersection of Brea Boulevard and Lambert Road, but something special happened here a long time ago.

Some estimates put attendance of an exhibition game at Brea Bowl at 15,000, 10 times the population of Brea in 1924. Walter Johnson, who had ties to nearby Olinda, pitched for one team; Babe Ruth pitched, and homered twice, for the other. Ruth’s team won, 12-1 or 11-1.

Big Train and Babe Ruth in BreaDid anyone know?

A man, on a Saturday, was washing his car on St. Crispen Avenue when a reporter approached and posed the question, half expecting a "what-the-?" response.

Barry Ghrist, instead, set aside his wash rags and smiled.

He looked down at his driveway.

"I'm guessing we're standing close to second base, right on the edge of the infield," Ghrist said.

Ghrist knew.

On Oct. 31, 1924, in Brea, an oil town in north Orange County, on ground now beneath Ghrist's feet, Babe Ruth swatted two home runs against Walter Johnson in a baseball game.

What?

One of Ruth's blasts was estimated to have traveled 550 feet -- one of his longest ever.

Come again?

Not only did Ruth sock two homers, he pitched a complete-game victory.

Seriously?

Johnson, a 23-game winner and the American League most valuable player in 1924, gave up eight runs in five innings and took the loss. Johnson could have blamed arm fatigue, having recently pitched the Washington Senators to the World Series championship.

This is no Hollywood yarn -- Shoeless Joe Jackson walking out of a cornfield.

It honest-to-Honus (Wagner) happened.

Two of the five players in baseball's first Hall of Fame class once laced up cleats where Ghrist was now washing his car.

"Somewhere in my backyard is third base," he said.

Back then his parcel patch was the infield skin of the Brea Bowl, a natural amphitheater owned by Union Oil. The 1924 exhibition game, organized by the Anaheim Elks, was part of a postseason barnstorming tour.

No one who attended the game is believed to be still living, so the memories now are secondhand. The physical proof -- Ruth's signature on a baseball, pictures -- is on exhibit at the Brea Museum and Heritage Center.

Bob Bickel, who turns 81 in June and his lived his entire life in Brea, was born three years after the game.

"There's not too many of us old ones anymore," said Bickel, who worked at Union Oil for 35 years and was also a local mail carrier.

There's not much left of old Brea, either, its once "old-town" main street having been mostly modernized.

Bickel studied a large panoramic photograph of the game, shot from right field looking toward home base, the left-field foul line running parallel to Brea Boulevard.

"This building is still here," Bickel said as he pointed to the structure that today stands as Ron and Wayne's Automotive.

The Babe Ruth/Walter Johnson story was recounted many times in Bickel's youth and remains a part of the city's lore.

Future Hall of Famers Babe Ruth, second from right, and Walter Johnson, fourth from left, were the star attractions at an exhibition game in Brea on Oct. 31, 1924.

How, though, and why?

Many know Walter Johnson as one of the greatest pitchers in baseball history, amassing 417 wins and 110 shutouts in a career that spanned 21 years, all with the Washington Senators (also known as the Nationals). Johnson was the hardest thrower of his era, nicknamed "The Big Train" by sportswriter Grantland Rice, and his strikeout record of 3,509 stood for more than five decades before Nolan Ryan broke it.

Not as many know that, though Johnson was born in Kansas and died in Washington, D.C., he spent formative years in Southern California.

Walter's father, Frank, brought his family west at the turn of the century in search of oil and found it in Olinda, a burgeoning boomtown east of Brea. It was here that Johnson frolicked as a teenager, rode a black mare, worked the rough-and-tumble oil fields, began playing baseball for the Union Oil Wells and forged his future.

Johnson attended Fullerton Union High long enough to have, in 1905, struck out 27 batters in a 15-inning game against Santa Ana High.

No oil town could hold this kind of talent, though, and two years later Johnson was pitching for big league paychecks.

Johnson was 36 and nearing the end of a great career when he triumphantly returned to Brea in 1924 only days after winning Game 7 of the World Series against the New York Giants. It was the only championship ever won by the mostly sad-sack Senators and a crowning, about-time moment for the beloved Johnson. Think, in modern terms, of John Elway finally winning a Super Bowl.

Johnson's Orange County friends crowded around newspaper offices to get updates from the 1924 World Series. Some, according to his biographer, crowded around primitive radio "crystal sets."

Johnson returned west for a little business and barnstorming and brought with him a pretty good ringer . . . Babe Ruth.

The Yankees failed to win the pennant in 1924, but it wasn't Ruth's fault. He won his only batting crown that year, hitting .378, led the league with 46 home runs and drove in 121 runs.

The Anaheim Elks even coerced Ruth into riding with Johnson in a pregame Halloween parade.

An Anaheim Bulletin headline -- "All roads lead to Brea for Monster Athletic Contest" -- summed up the pregame sentiment.

The Los Angeles Times dubbed it "the greatest de luxe sandlot game Southern California has ever seen."

Two thousand seats were erected at the Brea Bowl to accommodate the fans. Some estimated a crowd of 15,000 had descended on a town of 1,500 citizens.

School that Friday was canceled. The Boy Scouts directed parking, the American Legion policed the grounds, the local churches supplied refreshments and Babe Ruth provided the punch.

Both squads were sprinkled with local and big league talent. Johnson's squad included a few chums from his Olinda days along with Bob Meusel, Ruth's Yankees teammate. Ruth had on his side future Hall of Famer Sam Crawford, who had retired in 1917.

Ruth's team won, 12-1 or 11-1, depending on what story you read. The game lasted 90 minutes.

Johnson admitted he may have grooved a couple of balls to Ruth, certainly the one that traveled 550 feet to center field.

"It probably landed in the barranca," Bickel guessed.

Johnson also struck out Ruth once.

Ruth didn't hit a home run for any kid in the hospital that day but he did, according to accounts, conk a boy on the head with a ball.

Brea resident W.E. Griffith, who attended the game, years later recounted to The Times that Ruth "hit a foul ball that bounced off a car and hit a boy in the head. He started bawlin' and Ruth walked over to him, handed him a silver dollar and said: 'Don't cry kid -- here.' "

After the game, Johnson and Ruth visited Hollywood, with Douglas Fairbanks giving the two a set tour of his latest movie, "The Thief of Bagdad."

The Brea exhibition was the last game of the barnstorming season, beating the Nov. 1 deadline set by baseball commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis.

Ruth operated at full throttle on his swing west, playing to an estimated 125,000 fans in 15 cities.

"He made 22 scheduled speeches, headed four parades, refereed a boxing match, drove a golf ball 353 yards, visited eighteen hospitals and orphan asylums," Marshall Smelser wrote in his 1975 biography, "The Life That Ruth Built."

Smelser also added that Ruth "ate four bison steaks at a sitting, and played a turn in a Los Angeles theatre. He was back in New York on Dec. 5, much richer and ten pounds fatter."

Ruth was 29, in his prime, his 3-4 batting-order partnership with Lou Gehrig still a year away. Ruth's 60-home run season was still three seasons away.

Johnson never pitched again in California. He played three more years before retiring as one of baseball's cornerstones. He died in 1946 of a brain tumor.

Brea, obviously, has changed. It's more than an oil town now.

The opening of the 57 (Orange) Freeway and the Brea Mall in the 1970s made the town a magnet for shoppers and home buyers. The population has swelled to 40,000.

The Brea Bowl is long gone -- overtaken above by single-story homes and mortgages.

Barry Ghrist has lived on St. Crispen Avenue for 20 years. In his house hangs a photo of the ghosts who played that game, beneath his driveway, all those decades ago.

"It's cool, just to know it was right here," Ghrist said. ". . . I had a lot of sliding into third base in my backyard . . . in little ol' Brea."

[email protected]

[kikibalt]

Danny “Little Red” Lopez in the Hall?

Do the right thing.
—Spike Lee

Record: “Little Red” went 42–6 with 39 KOo’s and a KO percentage of 81%, which is extremely impressive given the level of his opposition.

Style: Soft-spoken and humble, he was ferocious and unrelenting once the bell rang. In an era in which fights were regularly seen free on non-cable television, he was one of the greatest of the television fighters and his name guaranteed big ratings. Danny was a high volume puncher who worked hard to set up his knockout blows. His fights often turned into melodramas in which he overcame knock-downs, severe punishment, and adversity to score sudden and spectacular knockouts. In this regard, he was like Matthew Saad Muhammad and then later Carl “The Cat” Thompson.

He would get off the canvas and roar back. Turning predator, he would hunt down and take out his opponent in savage fashion. He was heavyhanded and if he connected flush, it usually spelled big trouble for his opponents. He won his first 21 fights by stoppage. His 1972 win over undefeated Arturo Pineda was typically violent and short. The fight filled the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles, and featured three rounds of excitement and violence before Lopez won by KO in the fourth to tally a dramatic victory.

A 1973 brawl against Japan’s Kenji Endo showcased his excellent recuperative powers. Danny was decked and hurt by a hard right in the opening round. He rallied from this near disaster to floor Endo just before the bell. In the second round, he scored three more knockdowns to notch another thrilling win marked by rapidly changing fortunes. Japan’s Genzo Kuresawa became the first man to take him the distance in early 1974.

Against the equally popular Bobby Chacon, (23-1 coming in), and before over 16, 00 fans at the Sports Arena in LA in 1974, Little Red, (23-0), would lose his first fight. The dangerous and more talented Chacon, always tough inside, prevailed on this night. He was just 21 and had yet to reach maturity. He needed to come in at a heavier weight; he needed to be stronger. Lopez improved and became a World Champion just two years later.

After knocking out Chucho Castillo, Ruben Olivares, and Sean O’Grady (all champions at one time or another), he met David Kotey, 33-2-1, and captured the WBC World Featherweight Title in 15 rounds in 1976 before more than 100,000 screaming Kotey fans in the Sports Stadium in Accra, Kaneshie, Ghana, a remarkable feat. He KO’d Kotey in a rematch. Here is what great friend and fellow writer Mike Casey had to say about Danny’s win over Kotey in a 2007 article entitled, CLIMATE OF HUNTER: WHEN DANNY (LITTLE RED) LOPEZ CONQUERED DAVID KOTEI IN AFRICA:

“It was past midnight at the Accra Sports Stadium in Ghana, yet the temperature was still well into the eighties. A pulsating record crowd of more than 100,000 people only served to stoke the shimmering furnace. Tribal drums boomed and the people cheered as they waited for the arrival of their hero, WBC featherweight champion David ‘Poison’ Kotei…. “But Lopez was one of those exceptional men who could win wherever the plane set him down… Kotei launched a final flurry in the fifteenth, one last hurrah as his crown slipped from his head. It spoke volumes for his fortitude that he was still willing to trade punches with a man who specialised in toe-to-toe warfare. But the champion’s final fling could not match the power of Danny’s grandstand drive to the finish line. There were moments in those last minutes of battle when Kotei looked set to crumble in the face of the Lopez offensive, but the plucky champion survived to hear the final bell. “The decision for Lopez was unanimous and the stunned thousands in the Accra Sports Stadium were downcast over the sad fall of their hero. But Africa is awarrior nation and the new chieftain was saluted accordingly.”

Danny Lopez made work on Friday go by faster knowing you would see him fight on television on Saturday.

Lopez went on to make 8 successful title defenses as one of the most popular fighters of the 70’s. In 1979, he fought in a Ring Magazine Fight of the Year against Mike Ayala winning by a dramatic 15th round knockout. Then, following thrilling back-to-back stoppage losses to the great Salvador Sanchez, he retired in 1980.

As Lee Groves states in a supertb article on Everlast.com, “Little Red.… was boxing’s ultimate thrill ride, a television fighter’s television fighter whose bouts stirred the passions of red-blooded boxing fans everywhere…when Danny Lopez fought, you knew what you were going to get…You were going to get excitement and that’s the way boxing is supposed to be. Lopez was willing to walk through any amount of punishment to get the job done because he had unwavering faith in his ability. More often than not, that faith was justified – all he had to do was look down at his fallen opponents for evidence.”

Danny’s legacy with aficionados is secure. He is a member of both the World Boxing Hall of Fame and the California Boxing Hall of Fame. But inexplicitly he is not in the International Boxing Hall of Fame and that is manifestly wrong. This is not about comparing this warrior who stirred the passions of boxing fans wherever he fought to others who have been inducted. No, this is about Danny Lopez making it on his own merits with no hesitation.

Watching Little Red fight reinforced my affinity for warriors of the 1950s and 1960s. He bridged the gap into a new era of fighting. If Saad was Gatti before Gatti, Lopez was Saad before Saad.

[kikibalt]

SOLID GOLD CLASSICS: THE MEMORABLE TRILOGY BETWEEN VICENTE SALDIVAR AND HOWARD WINSTONE
By Mike Casey

MARKS OF BATTLE: Mexico's Vicente Saldivar was a fantastic world featherweight champion who retired undefeated in 1967 and then came back in 1970 to rule again when he outpointed the dangerous Spanish-based Cuban, Jose Legra. Vicente's most intriguing battles, however, were his great trilogy with the brilliantly clever Welshman, Howard Winstone. The two men were made for each other as they traded skill and courage over a combined total of 42 rounds. Vicente won all three fights, but each had a fascinating story....

Who can beat Vicente Saldivar? That was the question being posed at the outset of 1967 after the tireless, barrel-chested Mexican ace had swept away the challenge of Japan’s leading challenger, Mitsunori Seki.

It was a very pertinent question to which few could furnish a valid reply. Saldivar was picking off his featherweight challengers with such class and relish that the field of possible successors was shrinking to the point of threatening to disappear.

He was relentless, this man Saldivar. He was smart, deceptively skilful, pounded the body mercilessly and set a formidable pace. He was born to fight and ultimately drank himself to death when he could fight no more.

Saldivar overpowered boxers and out-fought fighters. He was the first truly great featherweight since the golden days of Sandy Saddler and Willie Pep.

How I admired this glorious fighting man when I was a boy. For it was Saldivar who set the exceptional benchmark for the Mexican fighters of the future. Following hot on the heels of former bantamweight champion, Jose ‘Joe’ Becerra, Vicente was better and more durable than his predecessor and paved the way for such future legends as Ruben Olivares, Julio Cesar Chavez, Erik Morales and Marco Antonio Barrera.

“This is what I did,” Saldivar might well have said to his successors. “Now see if you can beat it.”

Vicente, alas, was also responsible for severely testing my allegiance. For there was another brilliant boxer in his world, a sublime and gifted matador who came to test the bull in a magnificent trilogy of fights. I speak of that wonderful wizard from Merthyr Tydfil, Wales: Howard Winstone.

What a beautifully gifted boxer Winstone was. He possessed the natural skills that legions of men can’t acquire in a lifetime of trying. On his best nights, his every move was so wonderfully fluid and perfect that even his opponents couldn’t help but marvel at his talent.

I believe it was Jimmy Anderson, the former British junior-lightweight champion, who remarked that his punches had repeatedly missed Winstone by fractions of inches due to Howard’s innate ability to deftly move his head at the right moment.

Watching the Welshman at his best was akin to seeing a top class Brazilian soccer ace threading a ball through a sea of befuddled players. Great soccer players and footballers don’t run, they glide. Great boxers don’t consciously plan their moves, they simply let them happen. Every punch, every tactical manoeuvre, comes across to the observer as a completely natural reaction. Howard Winstone was such a boxer.

His left jab alone was a thing of beauty, a rapier-like weapon that bruised and bewildered a succession of opponents. Combined with his many other skills, that rare jab helped to make Howard unbeatable in Britain and Europe from 1961 to 1967.

He became the idol of his native Welshmen, one of the few to bear the honour of being compared to his legendary compatriot, Peerless Jim Driscoll, whose brilliance had dazzled such titans of the game as Abe Attell and Owen Moran some 50 years before.

The one ingredient missing in Winstone’s otherwise flawless make-up was a knockout punch. Perhaps that was God’s way of giving his opponents a fair chance. It was often said that if Winstone had been able to marry his skills to true punching power, he would have been virtually invincible, perhaps one of the greatest featherweights.

Yet there was another obstacle that prevented him from attaining such heights, in the form of an omnipresent whirlwind of a man who persistently surfaced to frustrate him. That man was Saldivar.

It was cruel luck on Winstone’s part that by the time he had established himself as an outstanding contender for the world crown, Saldivar was the champion. For Vicente was Howard’s nemesis.

Clashed

The two fighters clashed three times over a two-year period, and had their bouts been ten-rounders, Howard would have won them all. On each occasion he had the beating of Saldivar in the early going, only to be overhauled in the later stages. To this day, traditionalists still regard the 15-round distance as being the true test of world championship quality, and Saldivar seemed to relish that crucial trio of closing rounds that mortal men of his era dreaded.

The tough Mexican was a throwback to Henry Armstrong, a precursor of Roberto Duran. Blessed like Armstrong with a slow heartbeat, Saldivar was a tireless puncher who seemed to grow stronger as the rounds wore on. He defended his title against Winstone at Earl’s Court, at Ninian Park and at Mexico City, and all three fights followed the same pattern where strength and superior punching power eventually prevailed over skill.

Those fortunate enough to have witnessed the three epic battles will have their own ideas as to which was the best. For my money, the second Saldivar-Winstone fight at Ninian Park on June 15, 1967, was the most thrilling.

It was the first world championship fight to be staged in Wales for more than 20 years and marked the resumption of a rivalry that had first exploded in glorious fashion nearly two years before at Earl’s Court in London. Then the two mighty little men had waged war for 15 fierce rounds, with Saldivar carving out a narrow points win.

I can remember listening to the radio commentary of that first terrific fight and feeling a growing sense of elation as Winstone appeared to be on the way to victory. Then came the decision and the disappointment that one feels when a gamecock has failed by an eyelash.

By the time Howard had steered his way back into contention, he had added six impressive victories to his record, including three European title defences. During this phase of his glittering career, only Saldivar was a superior featherweight and only then by the narrowest margin.

In more than 60 fights, Winstone had lost to only two other men and even those blots on his record looked curiously unreal: a crushing second round defeat to American puncher Leroy Jefferey and a points loss to the world ranked Don Johnson.

To this day, the many men who struggled vainly to lay a glove on Winstone must marvel at Jeffery’s achievement. The close and controversial defeat to Johnson, whom Howard subsequently twice defeated, is easier to comprehend since the Californian was an able and shrewd ring mechanic. At the time, however, it was hard to believe that someone had actually outpointed the Welsh boxing master!

From the time of embarking on his professional career in 1959, Winstone had exuded that special quality that separates great fighters from the rest. In just two years he sailed to 23 successive victories, and when he mesmerised Terry Spinks into a tenth round defeat to win the British featherweight title in 1961, Howard began his rapid ascent into world class.

He relieved Italy’s Alberto Serti of the European crown and reigned supreme in that capacity for more than four years, turning back seven challengers before eventually relinquishing the title.

Winstone dazzled the cream of domestic and international competition during his peak years as a world title contender, defeating such class men as Rafiu King, Yves Desmarets, Lalo Guerrero, Jose Legra and Richard Sue.

Instalments

Some 21 months elapsed between the first and second instalments of the Saldivar-Winstone saga, but for Howard the wait was worthwhile. For the venue of Ninian Park presented him with a wonderful chance of revenge in the land of his fathers. But even with home advantage, his task was daunting.

During the interim period, Saldivar had added to his already glowing reputation, winning the respect of the critics as an outstanding world champion. At first glance, his record looked lean and almost insignificant alongside Winstone’s, until one measured the rate of Vicente’s progress and the quality of the opponents he had conquered. Forty years ago, it was still fairly uncommon for young fighters of limited experience to win world titles. And we are talking about undisputed world titles here!

The boxing world stood up and took good notice of Saldivar when, at the tender age of 21, he battered the featherweight championship from the talented Sugar Ramos.

The young Mexican slugger was having only his 24th professional fight on that night of September 26, 1964, yet he fought with tremendous authority as he wore down and finally stopped Ramos in the eleventh round with a punishing body attack.

Saldivar at once showed himself to be a highly accomplished champion and a typically tough and menacing product of the Mexican fight school. Powerful, rugged and a damaging puncher, he pressured his opponents with a constant attack and his great stamina made him a dangerous man from the first bell to the last.

His early record was studded with a succession of quick victories. He stopped the dangerous Dwight Hawkins in five rounds, Eloy Sanchez in one and needed less than two rounds to wrest the Mexican featherweight title from Juan Ramirez.

In later fights, Vicente proved he was no less effective over long distances. Indeed, he relished the marathon duel. Prior to lifting the world title from Ramos, Saldivar outscored Lalo Guerrero and future lightweight champion Ismael Laguna in hard-fought contests. In his first defence of the world championship, Vicente came through a vicious war with the tough Raul Rojas to post a stoppage victory in the fifteenth and final round.

A miniature powerhouse of a man with the upper body of a welterweight, Saldivar imposed his presence on opponents from the outset, daring them to challenge his authority as he bulled and punched his way forward. Like any great champion, he had his share of worrying moments during his reign, but his strength and his great will always saw him through. Saldivar refused to be denied in any circumstances, whether being tormented by the ringcraft of Winstone or forced to the limit by that fiery Japanese warrior, Mitsunori Seki.

It was Seki who gave Vicente his most torrid fight, with a performance that surpassed even Winstone’s spirited Earl’s Court challenge. Fighting before Saldivar’s home crowd in Mexico City, Seki matched Vicente punch for punch through 15 hard rounds before losing a unanimous but desperately close decision. It was a verdict that many neutral ringside observers disputed.

Saldivar knew he had a point to prove to his critics, and in a return match just four months later he removed any doubts about his supremacy over Seki by stopping the brave challenger in seven rounds. In doing so, Vicente gave one of his top performances, an exhibition of destructive punching that re-established him as the undisputed leader of his division and left him with a near perfect record.

He had avenged his sole professional loss, a disqualification in the early part of his career against Baby Luis, and Vicente knew that a second victory over Winstone would make that record shine even brighter.

Ninian Park

When Saldivar and Winstone came together again at Ninian Park, they were greeted by an emotion-charged crowd of 30,000 and the atmosphere was pulsating. Wales had not enjoyed such a feast of boxing since Ike Williams defended his lightweight championship against Ronnie James at Cardiff in 1946, and while the many thousands of Welshman who longed for a Winstone victory welcomed their hero with a tremendous roar, they sportingly cheered the mighty little Mexican as he approached the ring. They knew they were in the presence of a true fighting champion, a man who had defended his title against the best men in the division and beaten them all.

Soon the fight was on: Saldivar, the 24-year old bull, against Winstone, the 28-year old matador. The roles were well assigned, although on this occasion the matador did his own share of charging.

Winstone must have surprised even his most ardent fans as he immediately carried the fight to Saldivar in a confident and almost arrogant manner. Three left jabs, released with speed and grace, snapped into Saldivar’s face, and a following right brought a look of mild surprise from the champion. It seemed that Howard’s intention was to play his cards aggressively and utilise his full repertoire of skills to unsettle Vicente. And for the first half of the fight, Winstone’s cards were all aces wild.

He had an almost contemptuous air about him as he swept forward. Countless jabs found Saldivar’s face and perfectly timed right crosses reddened his nose.

Frustrated and angry, Saldivar lashed back with heavy hooks to the body, but many of his punches missed as Winstone glided out of range with almost balletic moves that took one’s breath away.

But Saldivar, wonderful Saldivar, always had that ominous look about him. The few punches he was landing were solid and quietly menacing. There were times when Winstone’s aggression forced Saldivar to the ropes, each attack accompanied by a mighty roar from the crowd, but the determined champion was always slamming back with those bronzed and perfectly muscled arms. Howard was supremely fit, but even the fittest men were eventually weakened by the masterful body punching that was Saldivar’s speciality.

The roar of a crowd can do funny things and certainly blur one’s perception of a fight. Much of Saldivar’s quiet industry went unnoticed to the many who were entranced by Winstone’s brilliance. Howard was ghosting around Vicente, flashing out punches with amazing speed and not seeming to be greatly disturbed by the return fire.

Had Winstone finally found the key to defeating his arch-rival? Saldivar’s frustration was clearly visible in the fifth round as he momentarily dropped his arms and stood still, as if taking time out to revise his game plan.

But Vicente was a rare bird, possessed of great mental toughness. Regardless of how the gods were treating him, he just kept punching. He was struck by a gorgeous left-right combination in the sixth round, but still his piston-like arms kept pumping away and Winstone was forced to give ground after taking a couple of hefty blows to the body.

Howard’s pace didn’t slacken and he upped the tempo in the eighth round as he jabbed fast and accurately to have Saldivar on the retreat. Both men began to show the marks of the taxing encounter and Winstone appeared to slow a little in the ninth round as the champion bulled forward and slammed him about the body.

As the fight swung into its later stages, Saldivar began to catch Howard much more frequently, but the battle was full of twists. Each time Winstone appeared to be fading a little, he would rally gloriously. There was a golden moment in the tenth round when he tagged the champion with a perfect combination and quickly followed up with a burst of rapid-fire jabs.

However, the tide was most definitely turning. The crowd held its breath in the eleventh round as Saldivar shifted into top gear and winged in powerful hooks to the body. A big left hook hurt Winstone and a right to the jaw sent him to the ropes. Suddenly Howard looked weary and Vicente seemed to pick up the scent as he drew on his phenomenal stamina and increased his punch rate.

The following rounds were agonising for Winstone’s fans as Saldivar pounded away furiously. Too often Howard elected to trade punches with Vicente instead of retreating, and while these adventurous tactics had reaped dividends in the earlier rounds, they were now proving to be Winstone’s undoing. In his worst moments, though, the courageous Welshman refused to be overwhelmed. From somewhere, during one of those hectic bouts of slugging, he produced a stinging right that sent Saldivar reeling back, and the crowd thundered its approval.

Thrilling

The fight was approaching its climax and had flared into an absolute thriller, full of quality, courage and skill. While Winstone was beginning to wilt, he had carved out such a commanding lead with his whirlwind start that the battle was still an even affair. But the going was now tough for Howard. Like a golfer trying to maintain a fragile, one-stroke lead in a major championship, he was suddenly flagging and looking on the verge of being swamped by the immensity of the task.

In the fourteenth round, Winstone nearly went under as Saldivar stormed forward with a punishing two-fisted attack. A flurry of hard blows suddenly cut Winstone down and sent his supporters into a state of panic. Gutsily he scrambled to his feet, but the following seconds were tortuous for the Welshman as he was driven every which way by Vicente’s ceaseless onslaught.

Lost in the wonderful romance that comes from boxing, I pleaded silently for Winstone’s survival, trying to balance my bias with the contention that any man who has fought so magnificently for so long doesn’t deserve to get knocked out right at the death. Something or someone took Howard by the hand and guided him through the wilderness, but the gut feeling was that the fight had slipped from his grasp as he sat wearily in his corner and awaited the final bell.

Somehow Howard managed to pull himself together during his precious sixty seconds of rest. He fought valiantly throughout the last three minutes, even though he was sent scurrying all around the ring by Saldivar’s violent rushes. The champion was a revelation in that final round as he ripped home punches with a rare ferocity, and it was a measure of Winstone’s mettle that he was still able to fight back.

The crowd let out a deafening cheer at the bell and the optimists prayed for referee Wally Thom to raise Howard’s hand. But the decision was Saldivar’s, and for the second time in his career Howard Winstone was left to reflect on the tantalisingly narrow gap in class that separated him from the great little Mexican. This time the gallant Welsh maestro had failed by half a point to seal that gap and win the one title that had eluded him.

Dream

Undeterred, Winstone chose to pursue his dream. Four months later, his fascinating rivalry with Saldivar entered its third and final chapter in the fierce heat of Mexico City. Winstone boxed brilliantly for ten rounds, but Saldivar’s wave-like attacks proved even more debilitating in the heat and high altitude. Brave Howard was eventually ground down and stopped in the twelfth round.

Three defeats against the same stubborn and ferocious man would have broken the will of many other fighters, but the proud Winstone couldn’t leave it at that. The unexpected retirement of Saldivar as undefeated world champion imbued Howard with fresh ambition and encouraged him to try for the big prize one more time. In January 1968 his persistence finally paid off when he won the WBC version of the vacant title by stopping Mitsunori Seki in the ninth round at the Royal Albert Hall in London.

Much of the old magic was missing in Howard’s work that night, but that was of little importance to his supporters. Winstone was at last a world champion and nothing else seemed to matter.

[Expug]

A couple great articles there.
Danny Lopez deserves major recognition in my opinion.
Hes always been one of my favorites.In fact watching his fights on tv in the 70s made me want to become a boxer.
He and Carlos Palomino.And a couple others .But Danny really captured my interest.
Great article about Winstone and Saldivar also.
I didnt know that Howard was from the same town in Wales as Johnny Owen.
Merthyr Tydfill.They grow em tough in that town I guess.
Too bad that both Saldivar and Winstone also died young.Vincente in his early 40s and Winstone at 61.

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Babe Ruth

"The Babe"
By Diego

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Once the home of Archie Moore and Ken Norton. Now the home of the homeless.




The old Coliseum

Diego,

In the mid-late 1970s there was a amateur fighter named Byron Lindsay fighting out of San Diego, my son Tony fought him at the San Diego Coliseum and lost, then fought him in L.A and he beat Byron, anyway Byron got killed in a plane crash in Poland (1980?), also killed was his coach, whom's name I can't recall, he was also out of San Diego, also killed was Carlos Palomino's brother, I believe his name was Paul, did you know Byron Lindsay and his coach?