Classic American West Coast Boxing

[dagosd2000]

THE SWITCH

Heard this one today from my friend Pat who used to be real close to Moyer and Ronnie Wilson when those two were still trying to represent themselves as contenders in the ring.

Sid Flaherty was handling the two, along Johnny Rodriguez who was Sid's trainer. Flaherty opened up a camp in the foothills outside San Diego.Within the boxing camp was a kennel that housed Sid's malmutes. From what I saw and what my pal Pat has related,I think Sid was closer to man's best friend more than his stable of fighters. Just trying to deal with Moyer and Wilson was enough to make a guy eat dog food.

I'm going to have to bend Pat's ear more about those two Irishmen. Wilson was rooming with Pat when Ronnie was getting the "heave ho" out the door from his wife for various miscodes of conduct of being a proper husband.

Moyer was brought down to San Diego to help Ronnie out being a fighter,but they both liked drinking more than fighting by that time,so all they did was help each other buy drinks for the saloon patronizing.

Training at Flaherty's camp in the foothills were a group of Mexican fighters.Pat told me they never spoke English. With Rodriguez working them, the language stayed Spanish. Moyer and Wilson,according to Pat,would get sore about hearing words that were either "feminine" or "masculine." Sometimes they thought the Mexican boys were taliking about them and didn't want them to "comprende." After a night of drinking,the Irish gladiators were really on the defense about their talk.

Pat told me one day before an afternoon training session,Moyer had had enough about not understanding a word of what was going on. One of the Mexicans he was going to spar with that day was a "hombre" Moyer never took a liking to. Before going into the ring for a workout,Moyer told Pat that he was going to piss into the guy's water bottle. And he did.

Well the sparring was going on like usual and Moyer was grinnin' ear to ear every time the Mexican was slurpping down his water. After the sparring was done for the day,Moyer saw Pat in the locker room and was laughing about how the Mexican got more than H2O in his drink.

Just then Johnny Rodriguez walked in. Rodriguez walked over to Moyer and said the Mexican fighter wanted to switch water bottles before the sparring session. Rodriguez said he just shrugged his shoulders and switched the bottles.It was Denny who was drinking "lemonade".

From what Pat told me Moyer wanted to kill the Mexican. I guess one of the other Mexican fighters saw what Denny had done and the switch was made.

The Mexican fighter who had pulled the double cross never came back to camp. It was probably for the best. I don't think Denny would heve asked him to give him Spanish lessons.

[bennie]

The British Lion

Nice one, Rog. The Bulldog Spirit of 'Winnie' kept the Brits going. He knew what to say and when to say it. The Battle of Britain in 1940 and Pearl Harbour a year later were the beginning of the end for Hitler.

[Chuck1052]

Don't forget about Adolf Hitler making a massive mistake by attacking the Soviet Union. I am not saying that the Battle of Britain or the attack on Pearl Harbor weren't major events, but I shudder when I think about what could have happened if the Soviet Union wasn't on the side of the Allies during World War II.

- Chuck Johnston

[raylawpc]

delete

[raylawpc]

The British Lion

Nice one, Rog. The Bulldog Spirit of 'Winnie' kept the Brits going. He knew what to say and when to say it. The Battle of Britain in 1940 and Pearl Harbour a year later were the beginning of the end for Hitler.

Boxing note: Winston was a big boxing fan, and was in the audience in 1892 when Peter Jackson defeated Frank Slavin at the National Sporting Club. He made some sketches from ringside that, if memory serves, are still preserved in a British museum.

[dagosd2000]

ALI

[kikibalt]

Dado Marino, Flyweight Champion-1950-51, Davey Gallardo, world ranked featherweight contender-1950's and
Gil Cadilli, world ranked featherweight contender 1950's.
Don Hotel "Galthering of Angels"....August 23, 1968

Davey Gallardo will be inducted into the california Boxing Hall of Fame on September 26, 2009.

[Rick Farris]

THE SWITCH

Heard this one today from my friend Pat who used to be real close to Moyer and Ronnie Wilson when those two were still trying to represent themselves as contenders in the ring.

Sid Flaherty was handling the two, along Johnny Rodriguez who was Sid's trainer. Flaherty opened up a camp in the foothills outside San Diego.Within the boxing camp was a kennel that housed Sid's malmutes. From what I saw and what my pal Pat has related,I think Sid was closer to man's best friend more than his stable of fighters. Just trying to deal with Moyer and Wilson was enough to make a guy eat dog food.

I'm going to have to bend Pat's ear more about those two Irishmen. Wilson was rooming with Pat when Ronnie was getting the "heave ho" out the door from his wife for various miscodes of conduct of being a proper husband.

Moyer was brought down to San Diego to help Ronnie out being a fighter,but they both liked drinking more than fighting by that time,so all they did was help each other buy drinks for the saloon patronizing.

Training at Flaherty's camp in the foothills were a group of Mexican fighters.Pat told me they never spoke English. With Rodriguez working them, the language stayed Spanish. Moyer and Wilson,according to Pat,would get sore about hearing words that were either "feminine" or "masculine." Sometimes they thought the Mexican boys were taliking about them and didn't want them to "comprende." After a night of drinking,the Irish gladiators were really on the defense about their talk.

Pat told me one day before an afternoon training session,Moyer had had enough about not understanding a word of what was going on. One of the Mexicans he was going to spar with that day was a "hombre" Moyer never took a liking to. Before going into the ring for a workout,Moyer told Pat that he was going to piss into the guy's water bottle. And he did.

Well the sparring was going on like usual and Moyer was grinnin' ear to ear every time the Mexican was slurpping down his water. After the sparring was done for the day,Moyer saw Pat in the locker room and was laughing about how the Mexican got more than H2O in his drink.

Just then Johnny Rodriguez walked in. Rodriguez walked over to Moyer and said the Mexican fighter wanted to switch water bottles before the sparring session. Rodriguez said he just shrugged his shoulders and switched the bottles.It was Denny who was drinking "lemonade".

From what Pat told me Moyer wanted to kill the Mexican. I guess one of the other Mexican fighters saw what Denny had done and the switch was made.

The Mexican fighter who had pulled the double cross never came back to camp. It was probably for the best. I don't think Denny would heve asked him to give him Spanish lessons.

Good story.

[Rick Farris]

Dado Marino, Flyweight Champion-1950-51, Davey Gallardo, world ranked featherweight contender-1950's and
Gil Cadilli, world ranked featherweight contender 1950's.
Don Hotel "Galthering of Angels"....August 23, 1968

Davey Gallardo will be inducted into the california Boxing Hall of Fame on September 26, 2009.

I speak a lot with "Gathering of Angels" founder, Ray Owens.
Ray was a Longshoreman's Union rep, and also managed the Don Hotel where the groups initial meeting would be held.
Shortly afterwards, The Guardian Angels changed their name to the Golden State Boxer's Association.
Today, Larry Mantalvo keeps the GSBA active, with Don Fraser and Frank Baltazar Sr. behind the California Boxing HOF.

Nice to know that Davey Gallardo is being inducted this year.


-Rick Farris

[Rick Farris]

Something good . . .

Sometimes you get a good feeling, something positive.
Once in awhile the energy is just there, so strong that simple challenges cannot break the stride, if you don't let it.
This post has no meaning, except to say that I truly feel that positive energy building within this thread.
Let's just carry on, it will only get better.


-Rick Farris

[kikibalt]

Paul V. Coates -- Confidential File, June 16, 1959

"A Huge Door Slowly Begins to Swing Open."

If Stomach's Strong, Visit Tijuana Prison

Robert Petersen, a slightly built 18-year old kid from Belmont, Cal., was released from Mexico's La Mesa State Prison, near Tijuana, this week.

He'd been there for nearly 14 months. His freedom came in the form of a conditional release after his parents, Mr. and Mrs. William Petersen, paid Mexican authorities 8,000 pesos ($640 U.S. currency) bail.

Last week, I detailed the strange circumstances surrounding the boy's arrest in April, 1958. He was charged with stealing an automobile.

In spite of strong evidence and other witnesses' statements to support his claim that he had rented the car from a Tijuana cabdriver to go to San Diego, and in spite of the fact that he himself returned the vehicle to the border city, he was found guilty (after spending a year in prison awaiting a trial which took place without his knowledge) and handed a four-year sentence.

Finally, last week, the Baja California Court of Appeals came up with a favorable ruling on his case.

But his actual release was made possible through donations -- mostly anonymous -- sent to his parents, who had already exhausted their funds in attorney's fees, after his plight was publicized here.

Yesterday, I listened to the kid's story of his stay at La Mesa.

It was a chiller -- real horror-story stuff.

That such a place could exist a few miles from the United States isn't possible.

But it does exist.

In fact, it's waiting just south of the border for any American -- juvenile or adult -- who wants to take his chances with Mexican justice.

These are some of Robert Petersen's observations after 14 months of enduring a living hell:

The prison, with a current population of approximately 700, is nearly completely prisoner-controlled.

Heroin, marijuana, tequila, beer and prostitutes all are readily available if you've got the money.

Stiletto-like knives, fashioned from steel bed frames, are practically a part of a prisoner's standard uniform.

Petersen got one in the back while he was sleeping one night. And, as was the case when he was slashed, variously, on both arms and on the side, he received no medical attention.

"I was the youngest guy there," he told me. "I was a little guy. They seemed to like to have fights with me."

The boy weighed 115 pounds and stands just over 5 feet tall.

When his parents sent him money, it was immediately requisitioned by the other prisoners. The same with his clothes. He couldn't even take them off for his allotted weekly cold shower.

"They even took the family pictures that my mother sent me," he said.

It was Petersen's estimate that 90 percent of the prisoners used marijuana regularly, and 70 percent used heroin.

One of the chief guards had the narcotics and liquor concession. He'd bring it in by the bagful.

Prostitutes lined up to get in on visitors' day. They charged from 50 cents up, and split their take with the guards.

The kid personally witnessed two murders in prison, and watched as another two men died from narcotics.

I won't bother to repeat his description of the jail menu. But, there again, those with money and the power to protect it could havefilet mignon.

Petersen got occasional scraps from some of the richer, more influential prisoners by washing their dishes, serving as their personal lackey.

He slept on the concrete floor the entire time he was there

Adventure in an Exotic Clime

Then, there was his seven-day confinement in a pitch-black hole called solitary. The floor, hosed out quarter-annually, was caked with excrement. The prisoners, not the guards, sentence you to solitary.

When they finally dragged Bob Petersen out, he was paralyzed from the waist down.

You want more details on the kid's extended excursion to Tijuana?

There's more. Lot's more. But I guess the above will give you an idea of what a pleasant outing it can turn into.

It doesn't read as poetically as the travel folders. But still, it might be an idea to let your own teen-agers browse over it before they cross the border for a little fun.

[dagosd2000]

BIGGER BUT NOT BETTER

Ali before the forced retirement was kind of a skinny kid. He would come in around 205. 210.212. Somewhere around there. He did everything wrong,but was so fast he could smother an opponent's attack that often the other guy would become exasperrated.

After the ban was lifted on Ali he was a different fighter. I saw him everyday training for the first Kenny Norton fight in San Diego. Now Ali was walking around weighing 240 trying to get down to 220. 225. His skin looked like it retained more water. His legs were more wide apart when he stood in the ring. His thighs were thicker. His butt was bigger.Ali was settling down in his stance.He was pulling more rope a dope stuff and holding behind the head.

During sparring sessions he'd lean against the ropes,go into a shell,and let his sparring partners wail away at him. I know the crowd that went to see Ali train was dissappointed.

I remember one day Ali had donned the plastic training suit. He was working hard that day. After his workout he peeled off the top of that plastic suit. I never saw so much sweat pour off a man's body. He could have filled a bucket.

During the fight with Norton Ali didn't look much different than how he looked in training. Sluggish. Not throwing many punches. Absorbing a lot of Norton's blows.

After seeing that performance,I knew the great Ali was not that great anymore. Later he'd take diuretics trying to get down to his pre retirement weight. He got down to that weight against Holmes. He almost got killed that night. Ali would probably survived better coming in with more fat on his frame.

They say the reflexes are the first to go. Or is it the legs? Ali at the end had neither.

[dagosd2000]

Paul V. Coates -- Confidential File, June 16, 1959

"A Huge Door Slowly Begins to Swing Open."

If Stomach's Strong, Visit Tijuana Prison

Robert Petersen, a slightly built 18-year old kid from Belmont, Cal., was released from Mexico's La Mesa State Prison, near Tijuana, this week.

He'd been there for nearly 14 months. His freedom came in the form of a conditional release after his parents, Mr. and Mrs. William Petersen, paid Mexican authorities 8,000 pesos ($640 U.S. currency) bail.

Last week, I detailed the strange circumstances surrounding the boy's arrest in April, 1958. He was charged with stealing an automobile.

In spite of strong evidence and other witnesses' statements to support his claim that he had rented the car from a Tijuana cabdriver to go to San Diego, and in spite of the fact that he himself returned the vehicle to the border city, he was found guilty (after spending a year in prison awaiting a trial which took place without his knowledge) and handed a four-year sentence.

Finally, last week, the Baja California Court of Appeals came up with a favorable ruling on his case.

But his actual release was made possible through donations -- mostly anonymous -- sent to his parents, who had already exhausted their funds in attorney's fees, after his plight was publicized here.

Yesterday, I listened to the kid's story of his stay at La Mesa.

It was a chiller -- real horror-story stuff.

That such a place could exist a few miles from the United States isn't possible.

But it does exist.

In fact, it's waiting just south of the border for any American -- juvenile or adult -- who wants to take his chances with Mexican justice.

These are some of Robert Petersen's observations after 14 months of enduring a living hell:

The prison, with a current population of approximately 700, is nearly completely prisoner-controlled.

Heroin, marijuana, tequila, beer and prostitutes all are readily available if you've got the money.

Stiletto-like knives, fashioned from steel bed frames, are practically a part of a prisoner's standard uniform.

Petersen got one in the back while he was sleeping one night. And, as was the case when he was slashed, variously, on both arms and on the side, he received no medical attention.

"I was the youngest guy there," he told me. "I was a little guy. They seemed to like to have fights with me."

The boy weighed 115 pounds and stands just over 5 feet tall.

When his parents sent him money, it was immediately requisitioned by the other prisoners. The same with his clothes. He couldn't even take them off for his allotted weekly cold shower.

"They even took the family pictures that my mother sent me," he said.

It was Petersen's estimate that 90 percent of the prisoners used marijuana regularly, and 70 percent used heroin.

One of the chief guards had the narcotics and liquor concession. He'd bring it in by the bagful.

Prostitutes lined up to get in on visitors' day. They charged from 50 cents up, and split their take with the guards.

The kid personally witnessed two murders in prison, and watched as another two men died from narcotics.

I won't bother to repeat his description of the jail menu. But, there again, those with money and the power to protect it could havefilet mignon.

Petersen got occasional scraps from some of the richer, more influential prisoners by washing their dishes, serving as their personal lackey.

He slept on the concrete floor the entire time he was there

Adventure in an Exotic Clime

Then, there was his seven-day confinement in a pitch-black hole called solitary. The floor, hosed out quarter-annually, was caked with excrement. The prisoners, not the guards, sentence you to solitary.

When they finally dragged Bob Petersen out, he was paralyzed from the waist down.

You want more details on the kid's extended excursion to Tijuana?

There's more. Lot's more. But I guess the above will give you an idea of what a pleasant outing it can turn into.

It doesn't read as poetically as the travel folders. But still, it might be an idea to let your own teen-agers browse over it before they cross the border for a little fun.

Had a friend who drove a Tijuana Taxi that was locked up in La Mesa for selling meth. He was in there for four years. Back in the thread I wrote some stories about La Mesa Pen. Used to visit the guy once a month.

The prisoners own and run everything inside. There's hardware stores ,barber shops,restaurants. When a prisoner leaves,he sells off his business. If you've got the dough the place ain't that bad. It's like a square block in town that's surrounded by a high wall.

Saw a lot of things in there. The was a boxing team. One day they fought the prisoners from Mexicali prison. A riot broke out about something. Just then Mother Teresa walked in from her mission that was up the hill from the prison. She came to visit the sick and poorest inmates.

Mother Teresa walked in and the riot stopped. She just walked by and out of respect for her the fighting stopped. There was woman who walked the walk.

[kikibalt]

Los Angeles vendor pushes a balky cart through a precarious world


Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times
Street vendor Amado Campos, 44, of Los Angeles, who built his own rickety vending cart that tends to tip over and spill all his food and drinks, crosses a busy offramp near downtown Los Angeles.

Amado Campos is his own boss, but he works long hours, seven days a week. His costs are up but sales are down as his customers cut back in a poor economy. And he needs a new cart.

By Hector Becerra
June 17, 2009

Amado Campos stands before a makeshift altar in his living room, crosses himself and prays to St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes.

"Help me, San Juditas. Bring good people in my path and keep the bad ones far away."

It is just after 10 a.m. as Campos, 44, loads his wooden cart with the essentials of his trade: a red cooler filled with boiled corn on the cob, a blue cooler with a 25-pound block of ice, flavored drinks in milk cartons, ketchup bottles filled with chili and lemon juice and melted butter, a large mayonnaise jar, and dozens of bags of Flaming Hot Cheetos.

He grabs the cart by the handles and wrestles it down his front stoop and onto the sidewalk.

He was up late the night before, preparing flavorings for shave ice and pouring them into quart and gallon jugs. He awoke at 4 a.m. and took a bus to downtown Los Angeles to buy corn and other supplies at a wholesale food center. Then he hurried home to Boyle Heights to load the cart.

He will walk miles today, up hills and across freeway overpasses, under bridges and past gangbangers.

Now, as he prepares to push off, money dominates his thoughts. His wife scolded him last night for spending too much on a party for their 13-year-old daughter, who had just celebrated her first Communion. She's a good girl and rarely asks for anything, so he borrowed money from a neighbor for a spread of carnitas and chicken for more than 80 family members, friends and neighbors.

Campos pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, as if overwhelmed by worry. What is there to do? Only this: Go out with his homemade cart with the temperamental front wheels, as he does every day, and earn as much as he can.

"I tell her, 'I'm going to pay what I owe,' " he says.

In the hierarchy of immigrant occupations, street vending is near the bottom. It is for those who can't find work at a factory or in construction or who think that maybe they'll do better working for themselves. It's a job from which you can't be laid off, but you have to work long hours every day to make a living.

Campos came to this country in 1990 from the Mexican state of Puebla. An illegal immigrant, he has been a gardener, a cook, a dishwasher and a carpenter, jobs that didn't work out or paid too little. He started pushing a cart two years ago and eventually settled on a route through a warehouse district in Boyle Heights.

It is arduous work in the best times, and these are not the best times. Campos used to clear $100 a day, enough to get by as long as he worked seven days a week. Then food prices went up and sales went down. Now, he's lucky to take in $70 a day, and about $30 of that goes to corn, milk and other ingredients.

Home is a one-bedroom duplex on Soto Street. He and his wife, Maria, sleep on a pullout sofa in the living room. Their daughter sleeps in the same room, on a metal-frame bed next to the television and a tower of potato-chip boxes. Two other relatives share the house with them: Maria's daughter from a previous relationship and the daughter's year-old son.

By 10:30 on this Wednesday morning, Campos is pushing his cart down 6th Street, near Hollenbeck Park. A jangly, accordion-filled Mexican version of Cheap Trick's "I Want You to Want Me" blares from his portable radio. At the corner of Whittier Boulevard and Boyle Avenue, he parks in front of a laundromat and honks his horn. Leticia Ulloa, an employee, laughingly tells Campos she's on a diet.

Refugio Gonzalez, 23, an out-of-work refinery worker, buys a tamarind-flavored shave ice. He needed to break a $20 bill and didn't want a bunch of quarters from the change machine inside, but that isn't his only reason for patronizing Campos.

"I see him walking up and down the street, and I can tell he's not always selling," Gonzalez says. "You want to help out."

Nearby, an elderly, sun-baked woman raises two bags of cherries.

"Cherries, las cherries!" she cries, and leaves without making a sale.

Campos sells a shave ice and a bag of chips at a tow yard on Boyle Avenue, then turns west on 7th Street, holding tight to his cart on the long downhill stretch over the 101 Freeway. In the distance, the downtown skyline looms through the haze.

About 11:30 a.m., the wheels of the cart get stuck on a crease in the sidewalk. The cart pitches to the left. Campos strains to keep it from tipping over but loses the battle. The two coolers -- holding three dozen ears of corn, a block of ice and some Cokes -- fly into the street, along with bags of chips.

This has happened before. On this very stretch. Crestfallen, Campos thinks about going home.

But the corncobs were in a bag, and Campos is relieved to see that only one has fallen out.

The ice has also stayed in its bag. A Coke can is punctured. The biggest problem is that the hot water has spilled from the cooler holding the corn. Keeping the corn hot could be a challenge.

Stepping into the street, with cars whizzing close by, Campos rights his cart and turns north into a warren of brick warehouses, barbed wire and lonely streets.

Just before noon, near the corner of Anderson and 7th streets, he greets Ruby Are- llano, a 22-year-old fruit vendor. Three weeks before, she was selling fruit in East L.A. near Atlantic Boulevard when city inspectors took her cart and merchandise. So she moved here. Business has been slow.

"Two years ago, it was pretty good," Arellano says. "Right now, there's not a lot of sales."

The two vendors commiserate. The streets are empty. Arellano gives Campos $1 for a cup of shave ice.

He walks a few blocks and pokes his head into an olive packaging company, where a receptionist picks up the phone and asks a co-worker whether anyone wants anything.

"Do you want an elote?" the receptionist asks, using the Spanish word for corn. "The elotero is here. . . . Entonces, no? You don't want me to get you one?"

The receptionist buys two corncobs. Campos jams sticks into them and slathers them with mayonnaise, granulated cheese, butter and chili. The midday heat has kept the corn hot, even without the water. Campos wipes his brow and pushes on.

This route used to yield more sales. Now, the warehouses seem to have fewer workers than before. Some businesses have closed or relocated.

About 12:20 p.m., he waits outside a garment shop for workers to take a break, near the peeling, beige pillars of the 4th Street bridge. A few of the workers owe him money, he says.

Tired of waiting, Campos walks inside. A handful of workers sit in front of sewing machines; bundles of clothing lie on a long table.

"Right now, there's no work," says one employee as he walks outside to buy a shave ice. "They pay good, about $8.50 an hour. But there's not a lot of work."

Nearby, two Mexican immigrants -- a middle-aged woman and an elderly man with a 10-gallon hat -- beg for money to catch a bus to Paso Robles. They say a smuggler who spirited them across the border left them in Fontana early this morning and a Christian group brought them downtown, with instructions to ask sympathetic Latinos for help.

Campos is suspicious. He says the pair has been here about a week, drinking beer under the bridge.

"Well, everyone struggles how they can," he says with a shrug. He skips lunch, as he does most days now, trying to lose weight and save money.

About 1 p.m., Campos runs into his brother, Guadalupe, 52, pushing his own cart from the opposite direction. The older brother tosses a large bag of baked snacks called churros or "duros" to Campos and takes a Coke to drink under the hot sun between barren-looking warehouses.

"My cart fell on the street," Campos tells his brother.

"Well, buy a new one!" he responds with a laugh. "Man, it's bad right now, brother. So much walking for $5. Phew!"

They part ways. Campos listens to Mexican music on his radio and struggles to keep a beach umbrella mounted on his cart from falling to the side as he walks between eerily quiet warehouses and abandoned railroad tracks.

He made the cart himself from discarded pieces of wood and painted it light blue. But the front wheels are too small and get caught in cracks.

Campos stops at a beer-truck repair shop and sells a few items. A few months ago, one of the mechanics, Tony Rodriguez, noticed that Campos was having trouble with his back wheels and replaced them with wheels from a dolly.

The vendor had offered Rodriguez a drink, something to eat, anything.

"He said, 'No, paisano. If we can, let's give each other a hand,' " Campos recalls.

Now, the mechanics vow to make him a new cart of metal.

There are other acts of generosity on this hot afternoon. A Salvadoran garment worker gives Campos two gallons of hot water for his corn container, and three women at a children's clothing warehouse, among his most loyal customers, buy chips and shave ice.

One of the women says Campos' arrival is a much-anticipated event. Sometimes, it is even announced over the public-address system.

"The raspado man is here!" says Christina Macias.

Around 3, Campos pushes his cart to Gless Street, near Dolores Mission School, and waits for the bell to ring. Beside him is vendor Daisy Vivar, 58, who has worked this corner for nearly 20 years. An ice cream truck is parked behind her. A man with a pushcart selling Popsicles thinks better of the scene and keeps going.

One of the vendors, Crescencio Bueno, 74, lectures Campos for selling his chips for $1 a bag instead of $1.25. Bueno says he won't make a profit that way. Campos nods politely, explaining later that if he raises the price, the chips won't sell.

Children stream from their classrooms. Many rush to the fence, holding out dollar bills, buying shave ice, chips, soft drinks and tamarind-flavored candy. A chorus of chirpy voices asks for Flaming Hot Cheetos with lime juice and other treats. A boy squirts lemon juice in his Cheetos and in one eye, staggering away with a squint.

A 9-year-old boy walks up to Campos to claim his prize: He'd bet the vendor on the outcome of a soccer match.

"He won," Campos says with a smile, explaining that the boy gets a free item of his choice for three straight days.

The boy chooses a vanilla shave ice.

Seven-year-old Juliana Ortega hovers nearby, waiting for her mother.

"My daughter, right away, even before I get here, she's already ordering," says Martha Ortega, 26. She says she appreciates that Campos lets her buy things for her daughter and pay later. "He trusts me to pay him back."

Before long, most of the children have left. Campos and Vivar stay behind for a softball game at a nearby park. Campos makes a few more sales.

Just after 7, he turns his cart and heads home. It wasn't such a bad day. He took in $78. But for the second day in a row, 12 ears of corn sit unsold in his cooler, destined for the trash.

At 8 p.m., Campos reaches his front stoop. In the dwindling light, he crosses himself again, thanking God for keeping him safe. In the living room, he is greeted by images of St. Jude, Jesus and the Virgin of Guadalupe. At the dinner table, he prepares the flavored concoctions for his shave ice; then he goes to the store to buy milk for tomorrow.

About 10 p.m., he sits in his kitchen, decorated with three different images of "The Last Supper," and eats a dinner of beans and eggs. Rent is due soon.

Tomorrow, he'll head out again, but not before praying to St. Jude.

"He knows my anxieties right now," Campos says. "He knows we need money."

"Life is a bitch and then you die"....

[dagosd2000]

Los Angeles vendor pushes a balky cart through a precarious world


Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times
Street vendor Amado Campos, 44, of Los Angeles, who built his own rickety vending cart that tends to tip over and spill all his food and drinks, crosses a busy offramp near downtown Los Angeles.

Amado Campos is his own boss, but he works long hours, seven days a week. His costs are up but sales are down as his customers cut back in a poor economy. And he needs a new cart.

By Hector Becerra
June 17, 2009

Amado Campos stands before a makeshift altar in his living room, crosses himself and prays to St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes.

"Help me, San Juditas. Bring good people in my path and keep the bad ones far away."

It is just after 10 a.m. as Campos, 44, loads his wooden cart with the essentials of his trade: a red cooler filled with boiled corn on the cob, a blue cooler with a 25-pound block of ice, flavored drinks in milk cartons, ketchup bottles filled with chili and lemon juice and melted butter, a large mayonnaise jar, and dozens of bags of Flaming Hot Cheetos.

He grabs the cart by the handles and wrestles it down his front stoop and onto the sidewalk.

He was up late the night before, preparing flavorings for shave ice and pouring them into quart and gallon jugs. He awoke at 4 a.m. and took a bus to downtown Los Angeles to buy corn and other supplies at a wholesale food center. Then he hurried home to Boyle Heights to load the cart.

He will walk miles today, up hills and across freeway overpasses, under bridges and past gangbangers.

Now, as he prepares to push off, money dominates his thoughts. His wife scolded him last night for spending too much on a party for their 13-year-old daughter, who had just celebrated her first Communion. She's a good girl and rarely asks for anything, so he borrowed money from a neighbor for a spread of carnitas and chicken for more than 80 family members, friends and neighbors.

Campos pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, as if overwhelmed by worry. What is there to do? Only this: Go out with his homemade cart with the temperamental front wheels, as he does every day, and earn as much as he can.

"I tell her, 'I'm going to pay what I owe,' " he says.

In the hierarchy of immigrant occupations, street vending is near the bottom. It is for those who can't find work at a factory or in construction or who think that maybe they'll do better working for themselves. It's a job from which you can't be laid off, but you have to work long hours every day to make a living.

Campos came to this country in 1990 from the Mexican state of Puebla. An illegal immigrant, he has been a gardener, a cook, a dishwasher and a carpenter, jobs that didn't work out or paid too little. He started pushing a cart two years ago and eventually settled on a route through a warehouse district in Boyle Heights.

It is arduous work in the best times, and these are not the best times. Campos used to clear $100 a day, enough to get by as long as he worked seven days a week. Then food prices went up and sales went down. Now, he's lucky to take in $70 a day, and about $30 of that goes to corn, milk and other ingredients.

Home is a one-bedroom duplex on Soto Street. He and his wife, Maria, sleep on a pullout sofa in the living room. Their daughter sleeps in the same room, on a metal-frame bed next to the television and a tower of potato-chip boxes. Two other relatives share the house with them: Maria's daughter from a previous relationship and the daughter's year-old son.

By 10:30 on this Wednesday morning, Campos is pushing his cart down 6th Street, near Hollenbeck Park. A jangly, accordion-filled Mexican version of Cheap Trick's "I Want You to Want Me" blares from his portable radio. At the corner of Whittier Boulevard and Boyle Avenue, he parks in front of a laundromat and honks his horn. Leticia Ulloa, an employee, laughingly tells Campos she's on a diet.

Refugio Gonzalez, 23, an out-of-work refinery worker, buys a tamarind-flavored shave ice. He needed to break a $20 bill and didn't want a bunch of quarters from the change machine inside, but that isn't his only reason for patronizing Campos.

"I see him walking up and down the street, and I can tell he's not always selling," Gonzalez says. "You want to help out."

Nearby, an elderly, sun-baked woman raises two bags of cherries.

"Cherries, las cherries!" she cries, and leaves without making a sale.

Campos sells a shave ice and a bag of chips at a tow yard on Boyle Avenue, then turns west on 7th Street, holding tight to his cart on the long downhill stretch over the 101 Freeway. In the distance, the downtown skyline looms through the haze.

About 11:30 a.m., the wheels of the cart get stuck on a crease in the sidewalk. The cart pitches to the left. Campos strains to keep it from tipping over but loses the battle. The two coolers -- holding three dozen ears of corn, a block of ice and some Cokes -- fly into the street, along with bags of chips.

This has happened before. On this very stretch. Crestfallen, Campos thinks about going home.

But the corncobs were in a bag, and Campos is relieved to see that only one has fallen out.

The ice has also stayed in its bag. A Coke can is punctured. The biggest problem is that the hot water has spilled from the cooler holding the corn. Keeping the corn hot could be a challenge.

Stepping into the street, with cars whizzing close by, Campos rights his cart and turns north into a warren of brick warehouses, barbed wire and lonely streets.

Just before noon, near the corner of Anderson and 7th streets, he greets Ruby Are- llano, a 22-year-old fruit vendor. Three weeks before, she was selling fruit in East L.A. near Atlantic Boulevard when city inspectors took her cart and merchandise. So she moved here. Business has been slow.

"Two years ago, it was pretty good," Arellano says. "Right now, there's not a lot of sales."

The two vendors commiserate. The streets are empty. Arellano gives Campos $1 for a cup of shave ice.

He walks a few blocks and pokes his head into an olive packaging company, where a receptionist picks up the phone and asks a co-worker whether anyone wants anything.

"Do you want an elote?" the receptionist asks, using the Spanish word for corn. "The elotero is here. . . . Entonces, no? You don't want me to get you one?"

The receptionist buys two corncobs. Campos jams sticks into them and slathers them with mayonnaise, granulated cheese, butter and chili. The midday heat has kept the corn hot, even without the water. Campos wipes his brow and pushes on.

This route used to yield more sales. Now, the warehouses seem to have fewer workers than before. Some businesses have closed or relocated.

About 12:20 p.m., he waits outside a garment shop for workers to take a break, near the peeling, beige pillars of the 4th Street bridge. A few of the workers owe him money, he says.

Tired of waiting, Campos walks inside. A handful of workers sit in front of sewing machines; bundles of clothing lie on a long table.

"Right now, there's no work," says one employee as he walks outside to buy a shave ice. "They pay good, about $8.50 an hour. But there's not a lot of work."

Nearby, two Mexican immigrants -- a middle-aged woman and an elderly man with a 10-gallon hat -- beg for money to catch a bus to Paso Robles. They say a smuggler who spirited them across the border left them in Fontana early this morning and a Christian group brought them downtown, with instructions to ask sympathetic Latinos for help.

Campos is suspicious. He says the pair has been here about a week, drinking beer under the bridge.

"Well, everyone struggles how they can," he says with a shrug. He skips lunch, as he does most days now, trying to lose weight and save money.

About 1 p.m., Campos runs into his brother, Guadalupe, 52, pushing his own cart from the opposite direction. The older brother tosses a large bag of baked snacks called churros or "duros" to Campos and takes a Coke to drink under the hot sun between barren-looking warehouses.

"My cart fell on the street," Campos tells his brother.

"Well, buy a new one!" he responds with a laugh. "Man, it's bad right now, brother. So much walking for $5. Phew!"

They part ways. Campos listens to Mexican music on his radio and struggles to keep a beach umbrella mounted on his cart from falling to the side as he walks between eerily quiet warehouses and abandoned railroad tracks.

He made the cart himself from discarded pieces of wood and painted it light blue. But the front wheels are too small and get caught in cracks.

Campos stops at a beer-truck repair shop and sells a few items. A few months ago, one of the mechanics, Tony Rodriguez, noticed that Campos was having trouble with his back wheels and replaced them with wheels from a dolly.

The vendor had offered Rodriguez a drink, something to eat, anything.

"He said, 'No, paisano. If we can, let's give each other a hand,' " Campos recalls.

Now, the mechanics vow to make him a new cart of metal.

There are other acts of generosity on this hot afternoon. A Salvadoran garment worker gives Campos two gallons of hot water for his corn container, and three women at a children's clothing warehouse, among his most loyal customers, buy chips and shave ice.

One of the women says Campos' arrival is a much-anticipated event. Sometimes, it is even announced over the public-address system.

"The raspado man is here!" says Christina Macias.

Around 3, Campos pushes his cart to Gless Street, near Dolores Mission School, and waits for the bell to ring. Beside him is vendor Daisy Vivar, 58, who has worked this corner for nearly 20 years. An ice cream truck is parked behind her. A man with a pushcart selling Popsicles thinks better of the scene and keeps going.

One of the vendors, Crescencio Bueno, 74, lectures Campos for selling his chips for $1 a bag instead of $1.25. Bueno says he won't make a profit that way. Campos nods politely, explaining later that if he raises the price, the chips won't sell.

Children stream from their classrooms. Many rush to the fence, holding out dollar bills, buying shave ice, chips, soft drinks and tamarind-flavored candy. A chorus of chirpy voices asks for Flaming Hot Cheetos with lime juice and other treats. A boy squirts lemon juice in his Cheetos and in one eye, staggering away with a squint.

A 9-year-old boy walks up to Campos to claim his prize: He'd bet the vendor on the outcome of a soccer match.

"He won," Campos says with a smile, explaining that the boy gets a free item of his choice for three straight days.

The boy chooses a vanilla shave ice.

Seven-year-old Juliana Ortega hovers nearby, waiting for her mother.

"My daughter, right away, even before I get here, she's already ordering," says Martha Ortega, 26. She says she appreciates that Campos lets her buy things for her daughter and pay later. "He trusts me to pay him back."

Before long, most of the children have left. Campos and Vivar stay behind for a softball game at a nearby park. Campos makes a few more sales.

Just after 7, he turns his cart and heads home. It wasn't such a bad day. He took in $78. But for the second day in a row, 12 ears of corn sit unsold in his cooler, destined for the trash.

At 8 p.m., Campos reaches his front stoop. In the dwindling light, he crosses himself again, thanking God for keeping him safe. In the living room, he is greeted by images of St. Jude, Jesus and the Virgin of Guadalupe. At the dinner table, he prepares the flavored concoctions for his shave ice; then he goes to the store to buy milk for tomorrow.

About 10 p.m., he sits in his kitchen, decorated with three different images of "The Last Supper," and eats a dinner of beans and eggs. Rent is due soon.

Tomorrow, he'll head out again, but not before praying to St. Jude.

"He knows my anxieties right now," Campos says. "He knows we need money."

"Life is a bitch and then you die"....

LIFE'S A BITCH AND THEN YOU DIE AND GO TO HEAVEN

I'm seeing more and more people in San Diego like Campos that push carts selling various food items. They're to themselves. Don't know if they're here legally or not. Sure,they struggle,but they've always struggled. They have their family and their faith. They also acquire a street smart that keeps them alive.

We look at them and it's almost unbearable to watch,but life has never been much better. I often wonder why they left Mexico to live in a foreign country in neighborhoods steeped in violence. I know many guys like Campos think it's going to be better here. They hear stories of their friends and relatives making 12 dollars an hour,but then discover that the cost of living is very high in the U.S. Not enough money to send home to Mexico in the end.

If you're thirsty and don't have enough money to buy a soda,he'll give you one for free. He spent too much money on his daughter's Communion. His wife was upset. No,Campos isn't going to put his money in the bank. He spends his money in the moment because that's where he lives.

The future? Like his fatalistic culture he knows he could be run over by a bus pushing his cart across the street. That's why he prays. It gives him hope. It makes him happy.

[dagosd2000]

Frank
That 2nd PM you sent was deleted.

[kikibalt]

[kikibalt]

Leo Alonzo vs Mickey Northup
June 25 1957, Post-Fight

[kikibalt]

Leo Alonzo & Danny Dagimpat
June 21, 1957, Training

[kikibalt]

Leo Alonzo-Circa 1956

[kikibalt]

Baby Arizmendi=Featherweight

[Rick Farris]

Dado Marino, Flyweight Champion-1950-51, Davey Gallardo, world ranked featherweight contender-1950's and
Gil Cadilli, world ranked featherweight contender 1950's.
Don Hotel "Galthering of Angels"....August 23, 1968

Davey Gallardo will be inducted into the california Boxing Hall of Fame on September 26, 2009.

I speak a lot with "Gathering of Angels" founder, Ray Owens.
Ray was a Longshoreman's Union rep, and also managed the Don Hotel where the groups initial meeting would be held.
Shortly afterwards, The Guardian Angels changed their name to the Golden State Boxer's Association.
Today, Larry Mantalvo keeps the GSBA active, with Don Fraser and Frank Baltazar Sr. behind the California Boxing HOF.

Nice to know that Davey Gallardo is being inducted this year.


-Rick Farris

Great Cadilli Documentary . . .

I finally had a chance to see the Gil Cadilli documentary that was well produced by his son, Gil Cadilli Jr.
This is one of the best movies to reveal L.A. boxing, and Johnny Forbes.
I saw it courtesy of Frank's blog, and it was one I'll watch over and over.
To Gil Jr. Great job! Classic stuff, catching some of the last footage we'll ever see of L.A. greats Aragon, Ramos, and others.

[kikibalt]

Rick...Didn't I give you a copy of The Cadilli Documentary?

Johnny Forbes was a top trainer in L.A. in the 1940s-50s with a big stable of fighters.

[dagosd2000]

My grandson Anthony graduating today from University High in Irvine



Anthony with his mother(my daughter)




Anthony's sister Kalina(my grand daughter) and Amanda

[Rick Farris]

Rick...Didn't I give you a copy of The Cadilli Documentary?

Johnny Forbes was a top trainer in L.A. in the 1940s-50s with a big stable of fighters.

I'm going to nominate Johnny Forbes for WBHOF induction next year.
Frank, I wasn't aware you sent it to me. I'll look over what I have.


-Rick