If there is one thing that I can claim to be an expert at, and I say this with all humility, it is the low blow. I wish I could say I knew nothing about it because it was one of the most physically painful experience of my life.
In December of 1975, at the Main Street Gym in Los Angeles, I was sparring with a fighter from Mexico. I don't recall his name but he was fighting main events at the Olympic and I believe he had a fight coming up at the time. I sparred with him frequently, on this particular day while we were sparring he landed a solid right uppercut to the huevos, not on purpose mind you, but never the less, he scrambled my eggs. I said nothing. The pain wasn't immediate, it took a few seconds and then it hit. Like a coil of pain emanating from the groin, the pain worked it's way up the stomach in both pain and in a wave of extreme nausea. I tried fighting it but when it really hits, you are no longer in complete control. There is no concern for histrionics or attention, there is no thought of embarrassment, the only thing on your mind is seeking comfort and relief, ASAP. Immediately, and to his credit, the guy that I was sparring with realized what had happened and stopped throwing punches. I just slid down right where I was standing, oblivious to everything else. I was holding my stomach where the pain eventually winds up. There was no yelling, no twisting, no crying out in pain, only me trying to keep from moving and just waiting for the pain to stop, which it did in a couple of minutes. When it stopped I was a little weak but I was ready to go but my trainer Mel Epstein said "that's enough for the day". The guy was apologetic but I knew it was an accident. There were no hard feelings.
However, as they say, the fun was just beginning. Later that night I went with some friends to the drive in theater to see "Dog Day Afternoon". We were in a van. I was sitting in the front. I started feeling pain in my groin, I tried to ignore it but second by second, it was getting worse. Waves of nausea were hitting me. I moved to the back to lie down but it kept getting worse until I just felt like someone was kicking me in the nuts over and over, and that is no exaggeration. I asked to be driven home but no one took me serious. In my desperation I threatened everyone with an ass kicking if I wasn't taken home now. I wasn't kidding, I was that desperate.
When I got to my parents home, they had company, my uncle Sal and aunt Bea. I didn't bother with any hellos, I went straight to the restroom to investigate the , uh "problem". To say that I was in agony doesn't even come close. I was in there for a while when my mother knocked on the door 'Randy, what are you doing in there? Everything all right? "No mom, I'm not sure what is going on." I mean, how do you tell your mother your f"cking nuts are hurting? I said to her "I think I ruptured myself" I didn't know what else to say. A half hour or so later, I walked out and said to my mother and father "I think I need to go to the hospital!" On top of everything else, they seemed to think I was making a big deal about this. I told my mother I was in pain and her response was "Pain! You don't know what pain is until you've given birth!" I couldn't believe I was dealing with this. I said "Mom, right now I really don't give a shit about how much pain it takes to have a baby, I'm not going to argue with you. If you can't take me, tell me right now and I'll take myself!" (I was bluffing, I wouldn't have been able to drive). My aunt and uncle left a minute or two before we did.
As we approached Rosemead Blvd and Washington Blvd, there was an accident. As we got closer, my father said "It's Sal and Bea!" I remember thinking, despite my misery "Oh fine, they'll probably blame me." They pulled over for what seemed like an eternity for me. Finally my father got back in his van and drove me to the Los Angeles General Hospital. They seemed irritated with me for some reason. When we got there they took me to the emergency room and left.
I was eventually given a bed in a small room with a curtain for a door. I didn't seem to be anyone's priority that night. As I was laying there, in walks a doctor that I would swear to this day was David Soul, Hutch of Starsky and Hutch. I looked right at him and said "Hutch?" He laughed and said "No, but I get that a lot" after a minute or two of telling him what happened to me during the day, including the low blow I took while sparring, he lifted my gown, grabbed my right testicle with an iron grip and started twisting it. Needless to say I let out a howl that was probably heard throughout the hospital. At this point, I figure I'm being punished by God for some unremembered sin but just like that my agony was over, as if it was never there. Hutch explained to me that when I was hit with the low blow, it detached my testicle and then it began twisting. To fully understand this, picture a double end bag, with the rubber cord or bungee cord on both ends of the bag, securely attached. That is a normal attached testicle. Now picture a speed bag, attached only at the top. That is a detached testicle. Now picture the speed bag without the swivel and it just keeps turning and turning anyways. That's a twisted testicle. So there I was with a twisted testicle as a result of a non intentional low blow given during a everyday sparring session. No hard feelings? I could have moidered da bum!
It took a while, questions asked and answered, forms filled out, prep for surgery and eventually the surgery itself, reattaching the testicle. I stayed one day and than I went home. I have no memory of how I got home from the hospital.
In 1974, while working out in a karate studio in Downey, a couple of years before the incident at the Main Street Gym, I was accidentally kicked square in the nuts by a crosseyed brown belt with no depth perception. We both stopped and looked at each other, then it came, the excruciating pain, the nausea, the complete helplessness and disbelief. I wobbled weakly to the nearest wall, slid down and sat and waited, holding the stomach, always holding the stomach.
In High school, when I was in my Sophomore year, I got in a little scuffle with a friend, not a regular pal but still a friend. We were ditching at a friends house, and this guy, Pete A. starts F*cking with me. Pete is a senior and 6' 6". At the time I'm about 5' 6". He really starts to get a bit to rough. I can take it but to my way of thinking if you want to play that rough than you better be able to take it. He threw a punch at me and missed, so I threw a right hand and it landed hard enough to knock him off his feet and on his arse next to a bed. He was fit to kill and I figure he's going to really come after me so I did what any red blooded American kid would have done. I kicked him square in the nuts as he was getting up. I've already describe what I went through, so there is no point repeating it just for Pete's sake. He never said a word about it and never tried to get even.
Now, these are the things that cannot be learned in a textbook or in school. You can read about it, talk about it til your blue in the face but to know it intimately you must experience it. Why am I telling you all this? Because I can spot an acting job as well as anyone in the world of boxing, maybe even a little better. It's an acquired skill, one not purposely sought out. This brings me to the Zab Judah - Amir Khan fight on Saturday. Judah deserves honorable mention when passing out some of boxings best acting job awards, but to tell you the truth, I've seen better. I know the real thing when I see it. When a man wants out he will grab at straws. Saturday Zab Judah wanted out and he grabbed at the nearest available straw.
