Classic American West Coast Boxing

[El Gallo]

Crown For A Day

Fighters are a curious breed when asked about what was their toughest fight. They'll always snswer about a fight where they beat the other guy.A tough fight.A close fight,but they won it. They never answer about a fight they lost,expecially one where the defeat was devastating.Roberto Duran never said Hearns was his toughest fight even though when Tommy connected with his big right hand Roberto hit the canvas face first. I've heard Roberto say DeJesus was his toughest opponent,but Roberto won those encounters.Maybe getting knocked out by a single punch doesn't exact that much struggle. You get hit flush on the chin,fall face first,and you're put to sleep.

When I asked Jose Napoles in Ciudad Juarez who was his toughest opponent,I didn't expect him to say Carlos Monzon. He didn't disappoint me. That fight will go down in the annals in the category of "a fight that shouldn't have been made"-ala Max Schmeling/Mickey Walker.For three frames Jose was ahead trying to take it to Carlos,but carrying 153 pounds made Mantequilla morph into lard.He looked like he was moving in a swimming pool.After Monzon opened up his cuts and was finding his chin,jose sat on his stool after the 6th round,Monzon the toast of gay Paree.

So when I posed the "who was your toughest opponent?" question,loquacious Jose dummied up.He put his head down inhaling on what was left of his cigar.I offered Indian Red Lopez.Jose turned his head up looking at me with that Tom Cat poker face he always expressed in the ring and scowled,"I beat him."
So it wasn't Indian Red.The second name I came up with was Armando Muniz.The guy who got robbed bigger than any hold up ever committed by Pancho Villa.This time Napoles didn't respond. He put his head down,took one last puff on the Cuban puro,and then jerked his head around with a big smile and said,"My wife went shopping.She'll be back any minute. Please stay for dinner."

Fighters have a funny way of telling the truth.


Mando Muniz


Armando Muniz browsing through my art portfolio

Esteban Dejesus handed Roberto Duran his first loss. Non-title fight.
I believe Roberto is telling the truth when he says Dejesus was his toughest fight.
They fought three times, and DeJese floored Roberto twice, once in the first round in each of the first two fights.
Hearns landed one punch that put Duran to sleep. He didn't suffer through a tough fight with Tommy.

[El Gallo]

I Can See Clearly Now

I decided to walk across the old bridge into Ciudad ,Juarez from El Paso. I was looking for my favorite fighter Jose Napoles. In my hand was the portrait I made of him some years ago. I get these impulse and need to follow through with them. I had read various articles recently that he lived in Juarez and had a gym. He was struggling financially and physically. He had a wife who looked after him. Friends,and even a figure like Carlos Slim the billionare,made sure he wasn't put out in the street.There was enough money there to make ,in my vision,life tolerable for the greatest fighter I ever saw do combat in the ring. But I wanted to see for myself.

I attempted to look for him on Saturday afternoon. I walked across the bridge with my painting noticing that there weren't many people crossing the bridge into Juarez.Unlike the heavy foot traffic that crosses into Tijuana from San Diego,there was only an old Mexican couple holding hands slowly walking up the sidewalk of the bridge ahead of me. The sun was bearing down and the heat made me sweat profusely.After turning the curve on the downslope,I saw a female Mexican immigration officer searching a man's backpack. There was no anxiety in her motions nor with his reaction. She was working alone. Her efforts were probably an excuse for her to show that she was doing something. After reaching the otherside I became aware of the quietness. The heat.The glare. The slow movements of the few people in the area made me think that this city couldn't be the murder capital of the world. It would take too much energy to kill somebody.

At the bottom of the ramp I asked a soldier where I could find a taxi. He politely motioned for me to walk to the traffic light and cross the street.The light was red ,but there were no cars at the intersection. I saw three taxi cabs parked at the corner. I didn't see anyone sitting inside the cabs.As I neared the taxis and old gray haired man wearing a crumpled fedora limped out from behind a tree and asked if I wanted to go somewhere. I asked him if he knew where I could find Jose Napoles.I showed him the painting. He shrugged his shoulders.
"No, I do not know,but if you walk to the corner on the next block,he has friends there that know him.They are also taxistas."
I continued my walk. I was sweating and my hip was giving me trouble again. I thought that afternoon my efforts were going to wash out. At the corner I saw a man taking something out of the trunk of his taxi.Holding out the painting ,I tried again.
"Por favor amigo. Estoy buscando for Mantequiila Napoles."
The taxi driver looked at me and then the painting.
"I know him. He has a gym,but he doesn't go there on the weekends."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"We can go to the gym.Maybe someone there knows where he lives."
As we drove around a maze of streets,the cab driver asked me where I was from. I told him that I lived in San Diego.The taxista told me his name was Javier.He had a friendly face and was relaxed.I asked him if he knew who Jose Napoles was and he said that he knew of him,but was too young to recall any of his fights.

After turning many corners,the cab driver pulled in front of a big white building. The front of the building was dirty and there was graffiti on the front wall. A hand painted sign near the top of the wall said"Salon de Belleza y Gimnasio Roma."The neighborhood was rundown and empty.I couldn't see anyone around.Some cars were parked along the street.

We walked inside a spacious front room with a concrete floor. A young woman sitting behind an old wooden desk smiled at us.She was a little overweight and very pretty.
"Donde esta Mantequilla? Este senor tiene un regalo para el,"asked Javier
The young woman looked at my painting. She asked me if I had painted it.
"Yes,I want to give this to Mantequilla. Will he be here today?"
"No,"she replied." He doesn't come here anymore."
I had read that he had some physical issues.
"Is he sick?"I asked as my hopes for seeing my idol were dwindling.
"He gets confused,"she said. "His wife takes care of him."
"Where is his gym?"
"It's upstairs,but it is locked."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"He used to live around the corner.You can ask in the street if anyone knows where he lives."
Javier took my painting and put it on the back seat of the cab.I got inside the passenger side. I had a hard time swinging my sore leg inside the cab. Javier quickly got out of his seat to help me.
"No,no. I can do it ,"I said.
I finally managed to get my leg in and we proceeded around the corner. There were three men working under the hood of an old car.Javier pulled the taxi next to the men working on the car.The three men looked at us. I could tell from their expressions that they knew Javier.
"Mantecas vive in la colonia todavia?"asked Javier with a laugh.
"No," answered a voice. "He used to live on that house at the corner,but he moved. You could always see him walking around the street smoking his cigar."
"Ask if any of them know his phone number,"I tried another option.
Javier asked the three men.None of them knew the phone number.
"His wife has a phone," said one of them."But it is a Nextel. Nobody around here has a phone like that."

Javier drove back to the gym.I didn't want to give him the impression that there was desperation in my quest,but now I was hoping for some luck to break my way. The young woman at the desk said that maybe the janitor that was cleaning in the backroom might be of assistance. As she was motioning us to the backroom,a young fellow holding a mop walked out.
"I know where Mantequilla lives. I can give you directions."
I felt a rush and a sense of some relief. Javier and the janitor where talking ,but I couldn't pick up on their conversation,Javier told me to get inside of the cab. He put my painting on the back seat. We drove off.
"I can find him,but I'll need to ask for some directions."

After turning more corners,Javier stopped the taxi at a corner across from a church.
"Wait here,"he said. "I need to ask someone."
I didn't see were Javier went,but when he got back inside the cab he was looking straight ahead.
"I know where he lives. We need to go around the block."

Javier steered the taxi around the corner onto a small back street.The small stucco houses all looked the same. Rectangular with flat roofs.The only thing that distinguished them was that they were painted in different pastel colors. The street was narrow. So narrow that two cars could not navigate in opposite directions.In order for cars to get through the street the parked vehicles had their driver's side wheels parked on top of the curb. When the taxi cleared the corner,we could see Jose Napoles sitting on a chair under the shade of a tree. There was no one else in the street. He stood out as big as life. There was no doubt. Javier sped up the taxi and stopped quickly in front of him. Mantequiila puffed on a cigar and smiled.
"Campeon,"I said to him.
Still smiling he held up his fist. Javier parked the taxi up on the curb.He took my painting from ther back seat and handed it to me.
"Mantequilla,"I said excitedly."Este cuadro es para ti. Yo pinte."
Mantequilla didn't reach out for the painting. I held it out in front of him to see.Javier walked to the side and leaned against a wall. Mantequilla stared at the painting studying it. Then he extended his hand to me.
"This is where I live,"he said. "This is my wife's house."
Mantequilla never got off his chair. I asked him if I could take some pictures. He puffed on his cigar again,but it had gone out. Javier quickly took a lighter out of his shirt pocket and relit the cigar.
"How are you feeling?"I asked the ex champion.
"I feel very good. My wife is not here. She went shopping.She will be back soon."
"I was your number one fan,"I said. "I saw many of your fights."
Mantequilla was down to the end of his cigar. I put the painting against the wall of the house.
"You see this truck?"asked Mantequilla pointing.
There was a big four wheel drive truck parked with the wheels on the curb in front of the house next door.The truck was caked with mud.
"This is my wife's truck. She went shopping."
"They say you don't go to the gym anymore,"I said."We looked for you there."
"Oh no.I go.If I want to go my wife drives me."
Mantequilla looked at the corner of the street. A little boy walked out of the abarrotes holding a bottle of soda. Mantequilla waved and smiled at the boy,but the boy didn't notice him nor did he look his way.
"Many people see me everyday,"he said. "I have many fans.My wife went shopping with my mother in law."
"How did you meet your wife?"
"I was sitting here smoking my cigar and she waked by with her mother."
"Isn't she you third wife?"
Mantequilla burst out laughing.
"Oooo,I had many wives. Many wives."
"You're like Pancho Villa."
Mantequilla continued laughing. It was a subject I could tell he like to relish in.
"Then you have many ninos tambien."
"Muchos."
"And many mother in laws."
"No,no.I have only one mother in law."
"Dime Mantequilla.Puedes coher todavia?"
Now he was laughing so hard he almost fell out of his chair.
"But at our age screwing isn't that important,"he remarked. He tried to inhale on what was left of his cigar.
"Having a wife that cooks is more important,"I said.
"Seguro. Hay muchas que le gustan a coher. Pero una mujar que puede a cocinar? Es magica."
I told him my wife was Mexican born in Michoacán and that she was back in California.
"When my wife gets home from shopping I invite you and your wife to eat dinner with us."
Mantequilla then turned to Javier who was still leaning against the wall.
"Why don't you talk?"asked Mantequilla.
"I enjoy listening to the two of you."
'Mantequilla,didn't you know Ciro Morisan?"I asked.
"Ciro?The most beautiful boxer who ever lived."
"Didn't he commit suicide when he couldn't leave Cuba?"
Mantequilla didn't say anything. Then he started up again.
"My wife went shopping.She will be back soon."
"Campeon,did you know that you are going to be inducted into the California Boxing Hall of Fame in October?"
"I am?Then I will go with you."
"Give me your phone number.We can make arrangements"
"My wife knows it.She went shopping."
I gave him my card with my personal information .He took it and studied it. He then played with the card with his hands.
"A few years ago I talked with Emile Griffith,"I said.
"He comes by to see me all the time."
"He passed away last year."
Mantequilla tried to puff on his dead cigar.
"My wife is with her mother. They will be right back."
"I never saw a fighter who was as smart as you,"I said.
"I was always in tremendous physical condition. I ran through out the whole city up in the hills."
"You always knew what you were doing in the ring."
"I would look shoulder to shoulder,"he said pointing at my shoulders."My left foot was always in front."
"How many fights did you have in Cuba?"
"Thousands,"he said laughing. "My uncles would throw me in the street with the older boys and then bet that I would win."
"Did you win?"
"I had to or I had to fight my uncles."
"You had a good trainer with Kid Rapidez. Tell me. Do you ever hear from Angelo Dundee anymore."
"He comes by almost everyday to see me."
"Have you ever been back to Cuba?"
" I went one time. You see this truck? It belongs to my wife."
"Who is the best fighter in Mexico today?"I went on.
"There is this kid who lives near by. He used to come to the gym,but I don't see him anymore."
"I saw you after you retired with your band at the Rancho Grande Bar in Tijuana. Your wife sang and you played the trumpet."
"Musica tropical."
"Didn't you have a few bars? Didn't the police try to shake you down in your place in the Zona Rosa in Mexico City?
"We beat them up and threw them out into the street with no clothes."
As we talked that day,I couldn't help see the old scars crisscrossed on Mantequilla's eyelids.That fragile tissue around his eyes. He even tried plastic surgery to correct the problem.Visiting the track more than trying to sweat off the late nights in the gym.Age and some brutal fights at the end. By the time he lost to Stracey he wasn't running through the hills in the city.

I waited around. Mrs. Napoles never showed up .In a way I was glad she didn't I didn't want to hear the truth. Mantequilla Napoles is happy.He sits outside his wife's house smoking his cigars and waves and smiles to anyone who wants to stop by and listen to his stories.Maybe he stretches the truth,but the truth is nothing more than what it is at the moment.


Mantequilla holding an image of his youth



Me and my favorite fighter


Mantequilla enjoying a Cuban puro

This is one of the best boxing stories I've read. Great job, Roger. The painting, your finding Mantequilla, and the words you exchanged. You not only painted a great portrait on canvas, but your words painted a perfect visual, put me below the border. I felt I was standing right there and listening to you two talk. Hope you don't mind, but I posted this on the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame Facebook Page, and it's already getting a lot of attention. One who loved it is actor Ryan O'Neal, who is a friend of the WCBHOF.

[El Gallo]

I Can See Clearly Now

I decided to walk across the old bridge into Ciudad ,Juarez from El Paso. I was looking for my favorite fighter Jose Napoles. In my hand was the portrait I made of him some years ago. I get these impulse and need to follow through with them. I had read various articles recently that he lived in Juarez and had a gym. He was struggling financially and physically. He had a wife who looked after him. Friends,and even a figure like Carlos Slim the billionare,made sure he wasn't put out in the street.There was enough money there to make ,in my vision,life tolerable for the greatest fighter I ever saw do combat in the ring. But I wanted to see for myself.

I attempted to look for him on Saturday afternoon. I walked across the bridge with my painting noticing that there weren't many people crossing the bridge into Juarez.Unlike the heavy foot traffic that crosses into Tijuana from San Diego,there was only an old Mexican couple holding hands slowly walking up the sidewalk of the bridge ahead of me. The sun was bearing down and the heat made me sweat profusely.After turning the curve on the downslope,I saw a female Mexican immigration officer searching a man's backpack. There was no anxiety in her motions nor with his reaction. She was working alone. Her efforts were probably an excuse for her to show that she was doing something. After reaching the otherside I became aware of the quietness. The heat.The glare. The slow movements of the few people in the area made me think that this city couldn't be the murder capital of the world. It would take too much energy to kill somebody.

At the bottom of the ramp I asked a soldier where I could find a taxi. He politely motioned for me to walk to the traffic light and cross the street.The light was red ,but there were no cars at the intersection. I saw three taxi cabs parked at the corner. I didn't see anyone sitting inside the cabs.As I neared the taxis and old gray haired man wearing a crumpled fedora limped out from behind a tree and asked if I wanted to go somewhere. I asked him if he knew where I could find Jose Napoles.I showed him the painting. He shrugged his shoulders.
"No, I do not know,but if you walk to the corner on the next block,he has friends there that know him.They are also taxistas."
I continued my walk. I was sweating and my hip was giving me trouble again. I thought that afternoon my efforts were going to wash out. At the corner I saw a man taking something out of the trunk of his taxi.Holding out the painting ,I tried again.
"Por favor amigo. Estoy buscando for Mantequiila Napoles."
The taxi driver looked at me and then the painting.
"I know him. He has a gym,but he doesn't go there on the weekends."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"We can go to the gym.Maybe someone there knows where he lives."
As we drove around a maze of streets,the cab driver asked me where I was from. I told him that I lived in San Diego.The taxista told me his name was Javier.He had a friendly face and was relaxed.I asked him if he knew who Jose Napoles was and he said that he knew of him,but was too young to recall any of his fights.

After turning many corners,the cab driver pulled in front of a big white building. The front of the building was dirty and there was graffiti on the front wall. A hand painted sign near the top of the wall said"Salon de Belleza y Gimnasio Roma."The neighborhood was rundown and empty.I couldn't see anyone around.Some cars were parked along the street.

We walked inside a spacious front room with a concrete floor. A young woman sitting behind an old wooden desk smiled at us.She was a little overweight and very pretty.
"Donde esta Mantequilla? Este senor tiene un regalo para el,"asked Javier
The young woman looked at my painting. She asked me if I had painted it.
"Yes,I want to give this to Mantequilla. Will he be here today?"
"No,"she replied." He doesn't come here anymore."
I had read that he had some physical issues.
"Is he sick?"I asked as my hopes for seeing my idol were dwindling.
"He gets confused,"she said. "His wife takes care of him."
"Where is his gym?"
"It's upstairs,but it is locked."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"He used to live around the corner.You can ask in the street if anyone knows where he lives."
Javier took my painting and put it on the back seat of the cab.I got inside the passenger side. I had a hard time swinging my sore leg inside the cab. Javier quickly got out of his seat to help me.
"No,no. I can do it ,"I said.
I finally managed to get my leg in and we proceeded around the corner. There were three men working under the hood of an old car.Javier pulled the taxi next to the men working on the car.The three men looked at us. I could tell from their expressions that they knew Javier.
"Mantecas vive in la colonia todavia?"asked Javier with a laugh.
"No," answered a voice. "He used to live on that house at the corner,but he moved. You could always see him walking around the street smoking his cigar."
"Ask if any of them know his phone number,"I tried another option.
Javier asked the three men.None of them knew the phone number.
"His wife has a phone," said one of them."But it is a Nextel. Nobody around here has a phone like that."

Javier drove back to the gym.I didn't want to give him the impression that there was desperation in my quest,but now I was hoping for some luck to break my way. The young woman at the desk said that maybe the janitor that was cleaning in the backroom might be of assistance. As she was motioning us to the backroom,a young fellow holding a mop walked out.
"I know where Mantequilla lives. I can give you directions."
I felt a rush and a sense of some relief. Javier and the janitor where talking ,but I couldn't pick up on their conversation,Javier told me to get inside of the cab. He put my painting on the back seat. We drove off.
"I can find him,but I'll need to ask for some directions."

After turning more corners,Javier stopped the taxi at a corner across from a church.
"Wait here,"he said. "I need to ask someone."
I didn't see were Javier went,but when he got back inside the cab he was looking straight ahead.
"I know where he lives. We need to go around the block."

Javier steered the taxi around the corner onto a small back street.The small stucco houses all looked the same. Rectangular with flat roofs.The only thing that distinguished them was that they were painted in different pastel colors. The street was narrow. So narrow that two cars could not navigate in opposite directions.In order for cars to get through the street the parked vehicles had their driver's side wheels parked on top of the curb. When the taxi cleared the corner,we could see Jose Napoles sitting on a chair under the shade of a tree. There was no one else in the street. He stood out as big as life. There was no doubt. Javier sped up the taxi and stopped quickly in front of him. Mantequiila puffed on a cigar and smiled.
"Campeon,"I said to him.
Still smiling he held up his fist. Javier parked the taxi up on the curb.He took my painting from ther back seat and handed it to me.
"Mantequilla,"I said excitedly."Este cuadro es para ti. Yo pinte."
Mantequilla didn't reach out for the painting. I held it out in front of him to see.Javier walked to the side and leaned against a wall. Mantequilla stared at the painting studying it. Then he extended his hand to me.
"This is where I live,"he said. "This is my wife's house."
Mantequilla never got off his chair. I asked him if I could take some pictures. He puffed on his cigar again,but it had gone out. Javier quickly took a lighter out of his shirt pocket and relit the cigar.
"How are you feeling?"I asked the ex champion.
"I feel very good. My wife is not here. She went shopping.She will be back soon."
"I was your number one fan,"I said. "I saw many of your fights."
Mantequilla was down to the end of his cigar. I put the painting against the wall of the house.
"You see this truck?"asked Mantequilla pointing.
There was a big four wheel drive truck parked with the wheels on the curb in front of the house next door.The truck was caked with mud.
"This is my wife's truck. She went shopping."
"They say you don't go to the gym anymore,"I said."We looked for you there."
"Oh no.I go.If I want to go my wife drives me."
Mantequilla looked at the corner of the street. A little boy walked out of the abarrotes holding a bottle of soda. Mantequilla waved and smiled at the boy,but the boy didn't notice him nor did he look his way.
"Many people see me everyday,"he said. "I have many fans.My wife went shopping with my mother in law."
"How did you meet your wife?"
"I was sitting here smoking my cigar and she waked by with her mother."
"Isn't she you third wife?"
Mantequilla burst out laughing.
"Oooo,I had many wives. Many wives."
"You're like Pancho Villa."
Mantequilla continued laughing. It was a subject I could tell he like to relish in.
"Then you have many ninos tambien."
"Muchos."
"And many mother in laws."
"No,no.I have only one mother in law."
"Dime Mantequilla.Puedes coher todavia?"
Now he was laughing so hard he almost fell out of his chair.
"But at our age screwing isn't that important,"he remarked. He tried to inhale on what was left of his cigar.
"Having a wife that cooks is more important,"I said.
"Seguro. Hay muchas que le gustan a coher. Pero una mujar que puede a cocinar? Es magica."
I told him my wife was Mexican born in Michoacán and that she was back in California.
"When my wife gets home from shopping I invite you and your wife to eat dinner with us."
Mantequilla then turned to Javier who was still leaning against the wall.
"Why don't you talk?"asked Mantequilla.
"I enjoy listening to the two of you."
'Mantequilla,didn't you know Ciro Morisan?"I asked.
"Ciro?The most beautiful boxer who ever lived."
"Didn't he commit suicide when he couldn't leave Cuba?"
Mantequilla didn't say anything. Then he started up again.
"My wife went shopping.She will be back soon."
"Campeon,did you know that you are going to be inducted into the California Boxing Hall of Fame in October?"
"I am?Then I will go with you."
"Give me your phone number.We can make arrangements"
"My wife knows it.She went shopping."
I gave him my card with my personal information .He took it and studied it. He then played with the card with his hands.
"A few years ago I talked with Emile Griffith,"I said.
"He comes by to see me all the time."
"He passed away last year."
Mantequilla tried to puff on his dead cigar.
"My wife is with her mother. They will be right back."
"I never saw a fighter who was as smart as you,"I said.
"I was always in tremendous physical condition. I ran through out the whole city up in the hills."
"You always knew what you were doing in the ring."
"I would look shoulder to shoulder,"he said pointing at my shoulders."My left foot was always in front."
"How many fights did you have in Cuba?"
"Thousands,"he said laughing. "My uncles would throw me in the street with the older boys and then bet that I would win."
"Did you win?"
"I had to or I had to fight my uncles."
"You had a good trainer with Kid Rapidez. Tell me. Do you ever hear from Angelo Dundee anymore."
"He comes by almost everyday to see me."
"Have you ever been back to Cuba?"
" I went one time. You see this truck? It belongs to my wife."
"Who is the best fighter in Mexico today?"I went on.
"There is this kid who lives near by. He used to come to the gym,but I don't see him anymore."
"I saw you after you retired with your band at the Rancho Grande Bar in Tijuana. Your wife sang and you played the trumpet."
"Musica tropical."
"Didn't you have a few bars? Didn't the police try to shake you down in your place in the Zona Rosa in Mexico City?
"We beat them up and threw them out into the street with no clothes."
As we talked that day,I couldn't help see the old scars crisscrossed on Mantequilla's eyelids.That fragile tissue around his eyes. He even tried plastic surgery to correct the problem.Visiting the track more than trying to sweat off the late nights in the gym.Age and some brutal fights at the end. By the time he lost to Stracey he wasn't running through the hills in the city.

I waited around. Mrs. Napoles never showed up .In a way I was glad she didn't I didn't want to hear the truth. Mantequilla Napoles is happy.He sits outside his wife's house smoking his cigars and waves and smiles to anyone who wants to stop by and listen to his stories.Maybe he stretches the truth,but the truth is nothing more than what it is at the moment.


Mantequilla holding an image of his youth



Me and my favorite fighter


Mantequilla enjoying a Cuban puro

This is one of the best boxing stories I've read. Great job, Roger. The painting, your finding Mantequilla, and the words you exchanged. You not only painted a great portrait on canvas, but your words painted a perfect visual, put me below the border. I felt I was standing right there and listening to you two talk. Hope you don't mind, but I posted this on the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame Facebook Page, and it's already getting a lot of attention. One who loved it is actor Ryan O'Neal, who is a friend of the WCBHOF. A couple have asked, "Who is Roger Esty"? El Pintor De Los Campeones!

[El Gallo]

I Can See Clearly Now

I decided to walk across the old bridge into Ciudad ,Juarez from El Paso. I was looking for my favorite fighter Jose Napoles. In my hand was the portrait I made of him some years ago. I get these impulse and need to follow through with them. I had read various articles recently that he lived in Juarez and had a gym. He was struggling financially and physically. He had a wife who looked after him. Friends,and even a figure like Carlos Slim the billionare,made sure he wasn't put out in the street.There was enough money there to make ,in my vision,life tolerable for the greatest fighter I ever saw do combat in the ring. But I wanted to see for myself.

I attempted to look for him on Saturday afternoon. I walked across the bridge with my painting noticing that there weren't many people crossing the bridge into Juarez.Unlike the heavy foot traffic that crosses into Tijuana from San Diego,there was only an old Mexican couple holding hands slowly walking up the sidewalk of the bridge ahead of me. The sun was bearing down and the heat made me sweat profusely.After turning the curve on the downslope,I saw a female Mexican immigration officer searching a man's backpack. There was no anxiety in her motions nor with his reaction. She was working alone. Her efforts were probably an excuse for her to show that she was doing something. After reaching the otherside I became aware of the quietness. The heat.The glare. The slow movements of the few people in the area made me think that this city couldn't be the murder capital of the world. It would take too much energy to kill somebody.

At the bottom of the ramp I asked a soldier where I could find a taxi. He politely motioned for me to walk to the traffic light and cross the street.The light was red ,but there were no cars at the intersection. I saw three taxi cabs parked at the corner. I didn't see anyone sitting inside the cabs.As I neared the taxis and old gray haired man wearing a crumpled fedora limped out from behind a tree and asked if I wanted to go somewhere. I asked him if he knew where I could find Jose Napoles.I showed him the painting. He shrugged his shoulders.
"No, I do not know,but if you walk to the corner on the next block,he has friends there that know him.They are also taxistas."
I continued my walk. I was sweating and my hip was giving me trouble again. I thought that afternoon my efforts were going to wash out. At the corner I saw a man taking something out of the trunk of his taxi.Holding out the painting ,I tried again.
"Por favor amigo. Estoy buscando for Mantequiila Napoles."
The taxi driver looked at me and then the painting.
"I know him. He has a gym,but he doesn't go there on the weekends."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"We can go to the gym.Maybe someone there knows where he lives."
As we drove around a maze of streets,the cab driver asked me where I was from. I told him that I lived in San Diego.The taxista told me his name was Javier.He had a friendly face and was relaxed.I asked him if he knew who Jose Napoles was and he said that he knew of him,but was too young to recall any of his fights.

After turning many corners,the cab driver pulled in front of a big white building. The front of the building was dirty and there was graffiti on the front wall. A hand painted sign near the top of the wall said"Salon de Belleza y Gimnasio Roma."The neighborhood was rundown and empty.I couldn't see anyone around.Some cars were parked along the street.

We walked inside a spacious front room with a concrete floor. A young woman sitting behind an old wooden desk smiled at us.She was a little overweight and very pretty.
"Donde esta Mantequilla? Este senor tiene un regalo para el,"asked Javier
The young woman looked at my painting. She asked me if I had painted it.
"Yes,I want to give this to Mantequilla. Will he be here today?"
"No,"she replied." He doesn't come here anymore."
I had read that he had some physical issues.
"Is he sick?"I asked as my hopes for seeing my idol were dwindling.
"He gets confused,"she said. "His wife takes care of him."
"Where is his gym?"
"It's upstairs,but it is locked."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"He used to live around the corner.You can ask in the street if anyone knows where he lives."
Javier took my painting and put it on the back seat of the cab.I got inside the passenger side. I had a hard time swinging my sore leg inside the cab. Javier quickly got out of his seat to help me.
"No,no. I can do it ,"I said.
I finally managed to get my leg in and we proceeded around the corner. There were three men working under the hood of an old car.Javier pulled the taxi next to the men working on the car.The three men looked at us. I could tell from their expressions that they knew Javier.
"Mantecas vive in la colonia todavia?"asked Javier with a laugh.
"No," answered a voice. "He used to live on that house at the corner,but he moved. You could always see him walking around the street smoking his cigar."
"Ask if any of them know his phone number,"I tried another option.
Javier asked the three men.None of them knew the phone number.
"His wife has a phone," said one of them."But it is a Nextel. Nobody around here has a phone like that."

Javier drove back to the gym.I didn't want to give him the impression that there was desperation in my quest,but now I was hoping for some luck to break my way. The young woman at the desk said that maybe the janitor that was cleaning in the backroom might be of assistance. As she was motioning us to the backroom,a young fellow holding a mop walked out.
"I know where Mantequilla lives. I can give you directions."
I felt a rush and a sense of some relief. Javier and the janitor where talking ,but I couldn't pick up on their conversation,Javier told me to get inside of the cab. He put my painting on the back seat. We drove off.
"I can find him,but I'll need to ask for some directions."

After turning more corners,Javier stopped the taxi at a corner across from a church.
"Wait here,"he said. "I need to ask someone."
I didn't see were Javier went,but when he got back inside the cab he was looking straight ahead.
"I know where he lives. We need to go around the block."

Javier steered the taxi around the corner onto a small back street.The small stucco houses all looked the same. Rectangular with flat roofs.The only thing that distinguished them was that they were painted in different pastel colors. The street was narrow. So narrow that two cars could not navigate in opposite directions.In order for cars to get through the street the parked vehicles had their driver's side wheels parked on top of the curb. When the taxi cleared the corner,we could see Jose Napoles sitting on a chair under the shade of a tree. There was no one else in the street. He stood out as big as life. There was no doubt. Javier sped up the taxi and stopped quickly in front of him. Mantequiila puffed on a cigar and smiled.
"Campeon,"I said to him.
Still smiling he held up his fist. Javier parked the taxi up on the curb.He took my painting from ther back seat and handed it to me.
"Mantequilla,"I said excitedly."Este cuadro es para ti. Yo pinte."
Mantequilla didn't reach out for the painting. I held it out in front of him to see.Javier walked to the side and leaned against a wall. Mantequilla stared at the painting studying it. Then he extended his hand to me.
"This is where I live,"he said. "This is my wife's house."
Mantequilla never got off his chair. I asked him if I could take some pictures. He puffed on his cigar again,but it had gone out. Javier quickly took a lighter out of his shirt pocket and relit the cigar.
"How are you feeling?"I asked the ex champion.
"I feel very good. My wife is not here. She went shopping.She will be back soon."
"I was your number one fan,"I said. "I saw many of your fights."
Mantequilla was down to the end of his cigar. I put the painting against the wall of the house.
"You see this truck?"asked Mantequilla pointing.
There was a big four wheel drive truck parked with the wheels on the curb in front of the house next door.The truck was caked with mud.
"This is my wife's truck. She went shopping."
"They say you don't go to the gym anymore,"I said."We looked for you there."
"Oh no.I go.If I want to go my wife drives me."
Mantequilla looked at the corner of the street. A little boy walked out of the abarrotes holding a bottle of soda. Mantequilla waved and smiled at the boy,but the boy didn't notice him nor did he look his way.
"Many people see me everyday,"he said. "I have many fans.My wife went shopping with my mother in law."
"How did you meet your wife?"
"I was sitting here smoking my cigar and she waked by with her mother."
"Isn't she you third wife?"
Mantequilla burst out laughing.
"Oooo,I had many wives. Many wives."
"You're like Pancho Villa."
Mantequilla continued laughing. It was a subject I could tell he like to relish in.
"Then you have many ninos tambien."
"Muchos."
"And many mother in laws."
"No,no.I have only one mother in law."
"Dime Mantequilla.Puedes coher todavia?"
Now he was laughing so hard he almost fell out of his chair.
"But at our age screwing isn't that important,"he remarked. He tried to inhale on what was left of his cigar.
"Having a wife that cooks is more important,"I said.
"Seguro. Hay muchas que le gustan a coher. Pero una mujar que puede a cocinar? Es magica."
I told him my wife was Mexican born in Michoacán and that she was back in California.
"When my wife gets home from shopping I invite you and your wife to eat dinner with us."
Mantequilla then turned to Javier who was still leaning against the wall.
"Why don't you talk?"asked Mantequilla.
"I enjoy listening to the two of you."
'Mantequilla,didn't you know Ciro Morisan?"I asked.
"Ciro?The most beautiful boxer who ever lived."
"Didn't he commit suicide when he couldn't leave Cuba?"
Mantequilla didn't say anything. Then he started up again.
"My wife went shopping.She will be back soon."
"Campeon,did you know that you are going to be inducted into the California Boxing Hall of Fame in October?"
"I am?Then I will go with you."
"Give me your phone number.We can make arrangements"
"My wife knows it.She went shopping."
I gave him my card with my personal information .He took it and studied it. He then played with the card with his hands.
"A few years ago I talked with Emile Griffith,"I said.
"He comes by to see me all the time."
"He passed away last year."
Mantequilla tried to puff on his dead cigar.
"My wife is with her mother. They will be right back."
"I never saw a fighter who was as smart as you,"I said.
"I was always in tremendous physical condition. I ran through out the whole city up in the hills."
"You always knew what you were doing in the ring."
"I would look shoulder to shoulder,"he said pointing at my shoulders."My left foot was always in front."
"How many fights did you have in Cuba?"
"Thousands,"he said laughing. "My uncles would throw me in the street with the older boys and then bet that I would win."
"Did you win?"
"I had to or I had to fight my uncles."
"You had a good trainer with Kid Rapidez. Tell me. Do you ever hear from Angelo Dundee anymore."
"He comes by almost everyday to see me."
"Have you ever been back to Cuba?"
" I went one time. You see this truck? It belongs to my wife."
"Who is the best fighter in Mexico today?"I went on.
"There is this kid who lives near by. He used to come to the gym,but I don't see him anymore."
"I saw you after you retired with your band at the Rancho Grande Bar in Tijuana. Your wife sang and you played the trumpet."
"Musica tropical."
"Didn't you have a few bars? Didn't the police try to shake you down in your place in the Zona Rosa in Mexico City?
"We beat them up and threw them out into the street with no clothes."
As we talked that day,I couldn't help see the old scars crisscrossed on Mantequilla's eyelids.That fragile tissue around his eyes. He even tried plastic surgery to correct the problem.Visiting the track more than trying to sweat off the late nights in the gym.Age and some brutal fights at the end. By the time he lost to Stracey he wasn't running through the hills in the city.

I waited around. Mrs. Napoles never showed up .In a way I was glad she didn't I didn't want to hear the truth. Mantequilla Napoles is happy.He sits outside his wife's house smoking his cigars and waves and smiles to anyone who wants to stop by and listen to his stories.Maybe he stretches the truth,but the truth is nothing more than what it is at the moment.


Mantequilla holding an image of his youth



Me and my favorite fighter


Mantequilla enjoying a Cuban puro

This is one of the best boxing stories I've read. Great job, Roger. The painting, your finding Mantequilla, and the words you exchanged. You not only painted a great portrait on canvas, but your words painted a perfect visual, put me below the border. I felt I was standing right there and listening to you two talk. Hope you don't mind, but I posted this on the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame Facebook Page, and it's already getting a lot of attention. One who loved it is actor Ryan O'Neal, who is a friend of the WCBHOF. A couple have asked, "Who is Roger Esty"? El Pintor De Los Campeones!

Another who just commented on your story was Lance Lopez, son of the late Ernie "Indian Red" Lopez. He loved this story on the WCBHOF Facebook Page.

[dagosd2000]

Small Fix

There's an interesting documentary that just came out on this 30 for 30 series about the Boston College basketball fix in the 1980's. It involves the characters that were depicted in Martin Scorsese's movie, Goodfellas.Like I've said before with the Godfather movies parts 1 and 2 and Goodfellas,these films sent the wrong message to wanna be gangster types and made a lot of Italians think that because they had a distant uncle who was a bookie in New Jersey that they were made men.This documentary on the fixing of three basketball games, with perhaps the mob reaching three of the players, comes across like a great tale of American folklore. The producer was smart enough to use Ray Liotta as the storyteller. Liotta in the movie Goodfellas played the part of Henry Hill a real life earner for the Lucchesi crime family. Hill ,a protégé of Jimmy"The Gent" Burke,who in the movie was called Jimmy Conway played by Robert DeNiro,put this fix thing together with the blessing of his mob connections from downtown. To make long story short,with a few threats and a few palms greased,some of the wiseguys made some money.A whole lot?A few thousand,maybe. Hill said he cashed in on 400 thousand.YAWN.

But Hill will be remembered as the" rat " who "ratted" out his pals in Queens. Thinking that he was going to be rubbed out by Jimmy "the Gent" because "the Gent"wasn't going to show any manners and split his take from the biggest heist in U.S. history,The Lufthansa robbery Hill ,went to the feds. Everyone involved with that robbery was winding up in the morgue and Hill didn'twant to sleep with the fishes. So he rolled over,again and again and again.He sang so much he made Pavoratti sound like Harpo Marx.

Who the government really wanted was Burke though.He was the cold blooded killer and the mastermind behind the withdrawl at the airport. But it was hard for the feds ro connect him with robbery. When the G Men were grilling Hill,he brought up the basketball fix. All the coppers had raised eyebrows. With questioning the ball players involved, it was like shooting fish in a barrel instead of finding them sleeping in at the bottom of the East River.

So instead of prosecuting Burke on the Lufthansa beef he went to jail for putting together three basketball players going into the tank.After Burke wound up in the Gray Bar Hotel a grand jury had enough on him to keep him a resident there for the rest of his life.He died in prison.

So you have Henry Hill the "rat" putting all his buddies away and then being protected by the feds in their witness protection program. For awhile he's scared,doesn't set foot in Queens anymore, and tries to get used to living as a "stunad."

But time marches on.Let bygones be bygones. And let all those goodfellas pass the way of the grim reaper.And if that doesn't happen soon enough those guys that Hill pointed a finger at in the courtroom served their sentences and didn't have it in them anymore for revenge. Henry Hill creeps out of the shadows,tip toes through the old neighborhood,sick and unimportant. He gets busted on a few minor beefs,but is too shot and pathetic to waste tax payers money on building a case.He drops dead of a heart attack .

So how about you wanna be Italian godfathers?Think that life is glamorous?Sure, you'll go back to all those mafia movies and live your life through the celluloid images of actors who in real life are even less of a gangster types than your distant uncle in New Jersey.


Burano,Italy

[dagosd2000]

I Can See Clearly Now

I decided to walk across the old bridge into Ciudad ,Juarez from El Paso. I was looking for my favorite fighter Jose Napoles. In my hand was the portrait I made of him some years ago. I get these impulse and need to follow through with them. I had read various articles recently that he lived in Juarez and had a gym. He was struggling financially and physically. He had a wife who looked after him. Friends,and even a figure like Carlos Slim the billionare,made sure he wasn't put out in the street.There was enough money there to make ,in my vision,life tolerable for the greatest fighter I ever saw do combat in the ring. But I wanted to see for myself.

I attempted to look for him on Saturday afternoon. I walked across the bridge with my painting noticing that there weren't many people crossing the bridge into Juarez.Unlike the heavy foot traffic that crosses into Tijuana from San Diego,there was only an old Mexican couple holding hands slowly walking up the sidewalk of the bridge ahead of me. The sun was bearing down and the heat made me sweat profusely.After turning the curve on the downslope,I saw a female Mexican immigration officer searching a man's backpack. There was no anxiety in her motions nor with his reaction. She was working alone. Her efforts were probably an excuse for her to show that she was doing something. After reaching the otherside I became aware of the quietness. The heat.The glare. The slow movements of the few people in the area made me think that this city couldn't be the murder capital of the world. It would take too much energy to kill somebody.

At the bottom of the ramp I asked a soldier where I could find a taxi. He politely motioned for me to walk to the traffic light and cross the street.The light was red ,but there were no cars at the intersection. I saw three taxi cabs parked at the corner. I didn't see anyone sitting inside the cabs.As I neared the taxis and old gray haired man wearing a crumpled fedora limped out from behind a tree and asked if I wanted to go somewhere. I asked him if he knew where I could find Jose Napoles.I showed him the painting. He shrugged his shoulders.
"No, I do not know,but if you walk to the corner on the next block,he has friends there that know him.They are also taxistas."
I continued my walk. I was sweating and my hip was giving me trouble again. I thought that afternoon my efforts were going to wash out. At the corner I saw a man taking something out of the trunk of his taxi.Holding out the painting ,I tried again.
"Por favor amigo. Estoy buscando for Mantequiila Napoles."
The taxi driver looked at me and then the painting.
"I know him. He has a gym,but he doesn't go there on the weekends."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"We can go to the gym.Maybe someone there knows where he lives."
As we drove around a maze of streets,the cab driver asked me where I was from. I told him that I lived in San Diego.The taxista told me his name was Javier.He had a friendly face and was relaxed.I asked him if he knew who Jose Napoles was and he said that he knew of him,but was too young to recall any of his fights.

After turning many corners,the cab driver pulled in front of a big white building. The front of the building was dirty and there was graffiti on the front wall. A hand painted sign near the top of the wall said"Salon de Belleza y Gimnasio Roma."The neighborhood was rundown and empty.I couldn't see anyone around.Some cars were parked along the street.

We walked inside a spacious front room with a concrete floor. A young woman sitting behind an old wooden desk smiled at us.She was a little overweight and very pretty.
"Donde esta Mantequilla? Este senor tiene un regalo para el,"asked Javier
The young woman looked at my painting. She asked me if I had painted it.
"Yes,I want to give this to Mantequilla. Will he be here today?"
"No,"she replied." He doesn't come here anymore."
I had read that he had some physical issues.
"Is he sick?"I asked as my hopes for seeing my idol were dwindling.
"He gets confused,"she said. "His wife takes care of him."
"Where is his gym?"
"It's upstairs,but it is locked."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"He used to live around the corner.You can ask in the street if anyone knows where he lives."
Javier took my painting and put it on the back seat of the cab.I got inside the passenger side. I had a hard time swinging my sore leg inside the cab. Javier quickly got out of his seat to help me.
"No,no. I can do it ,"I said.
I finally managed to get my leg in and we proceeded around the corner. There were three men working under the hood of an old car.Javier pulled the taxi next to the men working on the car.The three men looked at us. I could tell from their expressions that they knew Javier.
"Mantecas vive in la colonia todavia?"asked Javier with a laugh.
"No," answered a voice. "He used to live on that house at the corner,but he moved. You could always see him walking around the street smoking his cigar."
"Ask if any of them know his phone number,"I tried another option.
Javier asked the three men.None of them knew the phone number.
"His wife has a phone," said one of them."But it is a Nextel. Nobody around here has a phone like that."

Javier drove back to the gym.I didn't want to give him the impression that there was desperation in my quest,but now I was hoping for some luck to break my way. The young woman at the desk said that maybe the janitor that was cleaning in the backroom might be of assistance. As she was motioning us to the backroom,a young fellow holding a mop walked out.
"I know where Mantequilla lives. I can give you directions."
I felt a rush and a sense of some relief. Javier and the janitor where talking ,but I couldn't pick up on their conversation,Javier told me to get inside of the cab. He put my painting on the back seat. We drove off.
"I can find him,but I'll need to ask for some directions."

After turning more corners,Javier stopped the taxi at a corner across from a church.
"Wait here,"he said. "I need to ask someone."
I didn't see were Javier went,but when he got back inside the cab he was looking straight ahead.
"I know where he lives. We need to go around the block."

Javier steered the taxi around the corner onto a small back street.The small stucco houses all looked the same. Rectangular with flat roofs.The only thing that distinguished them was that they were painted in different pastel colors. The street was narrow. So narrow that two cars could not navigate in opposite directions.In order for cars to get through the street the parked vehicles had their driver's side wheels parked on top of the curb. When the taxi cleared the corner,we could see Jose Napoles sitting on a chair under the shade of a tree. There was no one else in the street. He stood out as big as life. There was no doubt. Javier sped up the taxi and stopped quickly in front of him. Mantequiila puffed on a cigar and smiled.
"Campeon,"I said to him.
Still smiling he held up his fist. Javier parked the taxi up on the curb.He took my painting from ther back seat and handed it to me.
"Mantequilla,"I said excitedly."Este cuadro es para ti. Yo pinte."
Mantequilla didn't reach out for the painting. I held it out in front of him to see.Javier walked to the side and leaned against a wall. Mantequilla stared at the painting studying it. Then he extended his hand to me.
"This is where I live,"he said. "This is my wife's house."
Mantequilla never got off his chair. I asked him if I could take some pictures. He puffed on his cigar again,but it had gone out. Javier quickly took a lighter out of his shirt pocket and relit the cigar.
"How are you feeling?"I asked the ex champion.
"I feel very good. My wife is not here. She went shopping.She will be back soon."
"I was your number one fan,"I said. "I saw many of your fights."
Mantequilla was down to the end of his cigar. I put the painting against the wall of the house.
"You see this truck?"asked Mantequilla pointing.
There was a big four wheel drive truck parked with the wheels on the curb in front of the house next door.The truck was caked with mud.
"This is my wife's truck. She went shopping."
"They say you don't go to the gym anymore,"I said."We looked for you there."
"Oh no.I go.If I want to go my wife drives me."
Mantequilla looked at the corner of the street. A little boy walked out of the abarrotes holding a bottle of soda. Mantequilla waved and smiled at the boy,but the boy didn't notice him nor did he look his way.
"Many people see me everyday,"he said. "I have many fans.My wife went shopping with my mother in law."
"How did you meet your wife?"
"I was sitting here smoking my cigar and she waked by with her mother."
"Isn't she you third wife?"
Mantequilla burst out laughing.
"Oooo,I had many wives. Many wives."
"You're like Pancho Villa."
Mantequilla continued laughing. It was a subject I could tell he like to relish in.
"Then you have many ninos tambien."
"Muchos."
"And many mother in laws."
"No,no.I have only one mother in law."
"Dime Mantequilla.Puedes coher todavia?"
Now he was laughing so hard he almost fell out of his chair.
"But at our age screwing isn't that important,"he remarked. He tried to inhale on what was left of his cigar.
"Having a wife that cooks is more important,"I said.
"Seguro. Hay muchas que le gustan a coher. Pero una mujar que puede a cocinar? Es magica."
I told him my wife was Mexican born in Michoacán and that she was back in California.
"When my wife gets home from shopping I invite you and your wife to eat dinner with us."
Mantequilla then turned to Javier who was still leaning against the wall.
"Why don't you talk?"asked Mantequilla.
"I enjoy listening to the two of you."
'Mantequilla,didn't you know Ciro Morisan?"I asked.
"Ciro?The most beautiful boxer who ever lived."
"Didn't he commit suicide when he couldn't leave Cuba?"
Mantequilla didn't say anything. Then he started up again.
"My wife went shopping.She will be back soon."
"Campeon,did you know that you are going to be inducted into the California Boxing Hall of Fame in October?"
"I am?Then I will go with you."
"Give me your phone number.We can make arrangements"
"My wife knows it.She went shopping."
I gave him my card with my personal information .He took it and studied it. He then played with the card with his hands.
"A few years ago I talked with Emile Griffith,"I said.
"He comes by to see me all the time."
"He passed away last year."
Mantequilla tried to puff on his dead cigar.
"My wife is with her mother. They will be right back."
"I never saw a fighter who was as smart as you,"I said.
"I was always in tremendous physical condition. I ran through out the whole city up in the hills."
"You always knew what you were doing in the ring."
"I would look shoulder to shoulder,"he said pointing at my shoulders."My left foot was always in front."
"How many fights did you have in Cuba?"
"Thousands,"he said laughing. "My uncles would throw me in the street with the older boys and then bet that I would win."
"Did you win?"
"I had to or I had to fight my uncles."
"You had a good trainer with Kid Rapidez. Tell me. Do you ever hear from Angelo Dundee anymore."
"He comes by almost everyday to see me."
"Have you ever been back to Cuba?"
" I went one time. You see this truck? It belongs to my wife."
"Who is the best fighter in Mexico today?"I went on.
"There is this kid who lives near by. He used to come to the gym,but I don't see him anymore."
"I saw you after you retired with your band at the Rancho Grande Bar in Tijuana. Your wife sang and you played the trumpet."
"Musica tropical."
"Didn't you have a few bars? Didn't the police try to shake you down in your place in the Zona Rosa in Mexico City?
"We beat them up and threw them out into the street with no clothes."
As we talked that day,I couldn't help see the old scars crisscrossed on Mantequilla's eyelids.That fragile tissue around his eyes. He even tried plastic surgery to correct the problem.Visiting the track more than trying to sweat off the late nights in the gym.Age and some brutal fights at the end. By the time he lost to Stracey he wasn't running through the hills in the city.

I waited around. Mrs. Napoles never showed up .In a way I was glad she didn't I didn't want to hear the truth. Mantequilla Napoles is happy.He sits outside his wife's house smoking his cigars and waves and smiles to anyone who wants to stop by and listen to his stories.Maybe he stretches the truth,but the truth is nothing more than what it is at the moment.


Mantequilla holding an image of his youth



Me and my favorite fighter


Mantequilla enjoying a Cuban puro

This is one of the best boxing stories I've read. Great job, Roger. The painting, your finding Mantequilla, and the words you exchanged. You not only painted a great portrait on canvas, but your words painted a perfect visual, put me below the border. I felt I was standing right there and listening to you two talk. Hope you don't mind, but I posted this on the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame Facebook Page, and it's already getting a lot of attention. One who loved it is actor Ryan O'Neal, who is a friend of the WCBHOF. A couple have asked, "Who is Roger Esty"? El Pintor De Los Campeones!

Another who just commented on your story was Lance Lopez, son of the late Ernie "Indian Red" Lopez. He loved this story on the WCBHOF Facebook Page.

Thanks Rick. My dream was to try to locate my favorite fighter,Jose Napoles. With some luck(and the help of Javier),I did. But you know what?I'm going to go back every year to Juarez to keep in touch with Mantequilla. I really felt at ease with him.Besides Mrs. Napoles wants me over for dinner.

[dagosd2000]

Goodfella

Lately I've been on my soapbox about all the Italian mafia movies that send the wrong message out not only to the Italian community,but to kids that think being a gangster is something glamorous.I think Ray Liotta said something like that at the beginning of that movie Goodfellas when Joe Pesci was stabbing and shooting that guy in the trunk of the car.I don't see what's so glamorous about shooting and stabbing some guy tied up in the back of a car.I know when I was a kid they wouldn't allow that kind philosophy to be put on the public. But then a lot of males live their life through other males that partake in violence whether it's with sports or organized crime. Sports is much more innocent. Killing people isn't.

I like to watch Turner Classic movies on television hosted by Robert Osbourne. Sometimes he has a guest on the show who picks out his favorite movies and Robert Osbourne and the audience watch them together. The guest and Osbourne will then go over the movies with opinions about why they were selected highlighting the strong points.

If I was selected to co host with Robert Osbourne my selection of films would have an Italian genre,but none of these gangster movies would be on my list. All the Godfathers and Goodfellas would stay in the vault. One film I'd put right up there is one of my all time favorites,Marty,starring Ernest Borgnine who won an Oscar for portraying Marty Piletti.Marty is a bachelor who is a butcher and lives with his mother. She's always nagging him about settling down with a nice Italian girl,but Marty isn't what I'd call high on the list of self esteemers.

When Borgnine auditioned for the part in front of writer Paddy Chayefsky he asked him to read a scene from the script. Marty is with his mother at the dinner table. She's prodding him to go to a dance to meet some "tomatas'". Borgnine was doubtful that a relatively inexperienced actor like himself would get approval for the role,but he gave it his all. After reading his lines,Borgnine looked up at Chayefsky . He was so moved that he was crying.Borgnine knew he cinched it.It was this scene that convinced the Academy Award group to throw their weight at Borgnine.This is the Italian way of life that best represents my race.A hell of a performance about a neighborhood guy and the way Italians lived their lives.Reminds me a lot of Polk and Oakley Boulevard in Chicago when I was a kid.

And that scene at the dinner table with Marty and his mother. If Chayefsky was still around I'd be crying right along with you pal.

http://youtu.be/oGPWgCWaN3M

Mart Piletti,a real Goodfella

[dagosd2000]

This Old House

As I was saying before,fighters are a pretty spiritual breed of cat. Though what they do inside a prize ring is brutal and comes off as having a frame of reference closer to what's below the ground than up above it,fighters,when they take the gloves off,are believers in a higher being.

It's not uncommon to go inside a boxing gym and see a fighter wearing a shirt that praises the Lord. When I was starting to become a boxing gym rat frequenting the 32nd Naval Street gym,I remember running into a fellow" rat" named Benny Silva.He was an amateur fighter boxing with the feathers and the lightweight boys. I'd always see him wearing a white T shirt that read "Fighting For The Lord." Always happy.Always smiling and never having a bad word to say for anyone,Benny and I became friends.I wish I could say I had Benny's demeanor,but I guess the dago blood in me was prone towards fits of,let's say,over emotion.Speaking before thinking.

One day while stowing our gear in the locker room,I asked Benny about what his shirt was all about.Benny explained to me that he was living his life going the wrong way on a one way street.Then he found the Lord while walking inside a evangelical church in the barrio. He began devoting his life to the Lord. I said if there was ever a living example of someone who was on the straight and narrow it was him.Benny went on to tell me that his church was involved in helping the less fortunate. I asked him in what way.

"One weekend a month we go to Tijuana and build a new house for a needy family,"he answered.
"That's interesting,"I said wanting to hear more.
"We randomly go to a poor neighborhood and pick out the most run down house and then tell who's living there who we are and that we will build you a new house."
"That's a great idea,"I said.
"We're going to Tijuana this weekend,"he said."Would you like to help our group?"
"Sure.Count me in."
So that weekend I joined Benny and his church group to build a new house for a needy family in the barrio.

The old house had already been razed when I got there.There was a crew of about a dozen of us that caravanned down there in a couple of vans. We laid out the materials and began working.I'm not much of a construction person when it comes to the craftsmanship end,so my duties were mostly grunt work. The new structure was going to be a one room place,but from what was described as the former dwelling,the new house was going to be a castle.We laid the concrete slab and put up the frame.Later,the outside paneling would be completed. Everything went along smoothly. The only thing that stuck in the back of my mind was I never saw the people who lived in the old house and now were anticipating a new home.After working that weekend,I felt a sense of pride.I had done the right thing. I had worked for the Lord.

But after that weekend I didn't see Benny back at the 32nd street Gym for several months.When I finally ran into him again ,I asked him where he had been'
"My brother got real sick in Las Cruces,"he answered."I had to go there for awhile and watch his family."
"That's too bad.Is he OK now?"
"Yes.He's doing fine. They don't need me anymore."
We sat on the bench inside the gym waiting to jump into the ring and work out with some of the fighters in our weight categories.You know,"I got nexts.".As we were waiting ,I asked Benny about how that house in TJ turned out.
"We never finished the job."
This was a surprise.
"The neighbors gave us too much flack.They harassed us all the time.They were very angry."
I still was confused.
"The neighbors were upset that we were building a house for a family they considered to be not worth the trouble. They said the husband was lazy and a drug user and that his wife was a gossipper.A "metiche".Their kids didn't go to school and just wanted to steal everything in the neighborhood."

So that was that.You think you're doing the Lord's work,but not getting permission from the neighbors first takes priority of what the Lord might have in mind.

[dagosd2000]

Ismael Laguna

[dagosd2000]

Just Like Old Times

I still like to lift weights.I've been doing it since I was in high school and that began 50 years ago.I was pretty persistent at it and at one time became a competitive power lifter. But I was also compulsive and my drive made me want to lift heavy through injuries, thus eventually tearing my body down to the point where I now go inside the gym and can only go through the minimal motions. I've got torn rotator cuffs in my shoulders,labrium tears in my hip,torn Achilles tendon in my right ankle,and my right knee is bone on bone. No matter how hard I can push it,there's nothing I can do anymore but work with the machines and try to get the blood flowing through the muscles. But I think about it and those injuries were probably a blessing.I don't know if my heart could of lasted out, and furthermore I must of had a fragile ego to equate my self esteem to an amount of weight I could bench press. Right now I don't care.Just so I can still lift something is fine with me.

About six months ago I switched gyms.The owner's son ,who was running the gym in the morning, was getting on my nerves.An arrogant prick from New York who never lifted weights and never played sports,but knew everything about everything from sports to politics and because he was Jewish believed the whole world was anti semitic.The final straw with the guy was when I told him my wife collected bottles and cans to take to the recycling center. He responded with his contemptuous laugh and called her "a garbage picker." I immediately arose and stood over him and told him he's lucky I don't drag him outside and kick his ass right then. Now he gets nervous and starts with the nervous giggle.I leave vowing never to set foot in the place again. About two weeks later he calls me up and asks where I've been.I slammed the phone diown. Arrogant pricks like that don't get it.They think they can say anything they want and it's kosher.

So now I need to find a new gym. I remember back in the day they built a weight room run by the city out by the beach. I went in there a few times when I lived near by.It was a pretty crude and basic set up. Some speed and heavy bags and plenty of free weights.Lots of Olympic bars and heavy dumb bells.When I went back to acquire about joining,they had expanded the gym,but kept the same motif.Nothing frilly.More of the same type of equipment. An old style gym for the guys who just cared about lifting. The difference was that I was shot and past my prime,but it is what it is. I just wanted to keep on doing something.

When I went to the office to look into things,I saw an old face.Sitting behind the desk was a fighter that I used to work out with back in the early 70's. Gary Young is the guy's name. He was a good amateur heavyweight fighter who fought a lot in the Southland. Originally from Oregon,he was pals with Boone Kirkman. Gary and I sparred frequently at the 32nd Street Naval Gym and the old San Diego Coliseum. He knew what was doing in there and after going three or five rounds with him my head would be ringing for the rest of the day.

Gary was older than most of the amateur heavyweights who laced them up against him. Gary also had an edge with experience. That's why road work was not high on his training regimen. I don't think I ever saw him get pushed.

One day he asked me if I'd like to go up with him to Long Beach and watch him in a Golden Gloves tournament. Sure,why not? Gary ,as usual ,was having his way with his opposition and easily made it to the finals.I hadn't seen his opponent fight,but I'd never seen Gary lose a fight,let alone anyone giving him much of a problem.

Well that night Gary faced off with a young fighter by the name of Mike Weaver. Gary was a big man. He always had a weight advantage over every opponent I saw him square off with. When Gary touched gloves with Weaver that night I saw two men of equal size.After the opening bell it became soon apparent that this Weaver kid not only could match Gary with skills,he was in much better condition. Gary was gassed after the end of the first frame. It was a test to his heart that Weaver didn't make him fold. When it was over Gary told me there had to be a safer diversion than fighting for free.

When Gary saw me at the gym that day he broke out into a big smile and we embraced.It was good seeing him again. We had spent a lot of time together lifting weights and boxing . Real male bondage,so the reencounter was very heart warming.Before signing up to join ,we talked about old times.It brought back a flood of good memories.I didn't want to,but eventually he brought up his fight with Mike Weaver. He said it was the best thing that could have happened. I guess I knew what he meant,but seeing his face after that fight I couldn't see how he could have concluded anything positive about what had just transpired.But I guess time heals old wounds.

[dagosd2000]

Teddy Atlas

[L.A. kidd]

hi, guys im new to this site, didn't even know it was here, im 72 years old, born and raised in long beach
calif, always loved boxing, I remember the oylmpic from the 50s and 6os. Gilmore stadium before that
boy do these threads bring back memories. I saw aragon -basilio in wrigley field. I saw roy harris and Floyd Patterson,
was a regular at the oylmpic in the 60s. used to watch the fights at the Moulin rouge when joe Louis was there.
im going tol love this site. does anyone know of anyone who used to work out at the 4th st. gym in santa ana
calif, in the early 60s I worked out there, at the same time as curtis cokes, who had a fight with johnny neuman
at the Moulin rouge in 1963. cokes kayoed him in the 2nd. saw ernie red ko hedgeman at the Olympic. ive
got a lot of reading here to do on this west coast boxing thread. thanks for the memories guys.

[dagosd2000]

hi, guys im new to this site, didn't even know it was here, im 72 years old, born and raised in long beach
calif, always loved boxing, I remember the oylmpic from the 50s and 6os. Gilmore stadium before that
boy do these threads bring back memories. I saw aragon -basilio in wrigley field. I saw roy harris and Floyd Patterson,
was a regular at the oylmpic in the 60s. used to watch the fights at the Moulin rouge when joe Louis was there.
im going tol love this site. does anyone know of anyone who used to work out at the 4th st. gym in santa ana
calif, in the early 60s I worked out there, at the same time as curtis cokes, who had a fight with johnny neuman
at the Moulin rouge in 1963. cokes kayoed him in the 2nd. saw ernie red ko hedgeman at the Olympic. ive
got a lot of reading here to do on this west coast boxing thread. thanks for the memories guys.

Welcome aboard

[L.A. kidd]

dagosd2000, thank you.

[Chuck1052]

I also welcome you aboard, L.A. kidd!

- Chuck Johnston

[L.A. kidd]

thank you chuck 1052.

[L.A. kidd]

wow im on page 80 of all the posts, the posters are talking about the death of art aragon.
I saw him many times in 1961 when he had his bail bond business on vignes ave, we called it the new county.
art had a radio show in L.A. and I used to listen to it all the time. he saw great things in mando ramos.
and he was right.

[dagosd2000]

Jab

I never picked up much about the finer points of boxing.Mostly I was cannon fodder for either a fighter on the way up or a veteran who had passed the point of no return.In a nutshell I made just about everybody I worked out with look like the champ.

I remember one afternoon at the old San Diego Coliseum ,I had just finished up failing a course in the art of self defense with a local heavyweight by the name of Kenyatta Huckenhall.He was a big muscled guy. Looked like bodybuilder more than a fighter. After such sessions ,I always felt frustrated because I couldn't see what was being thrown at me,and with that dilemma,I couldn't think about mounting much offense. After feeling hurt and helpless,I pulled off my gloves and decided I'd had enough of boosting the other guy's ego for the day. As I was preparing to make my exit,one of the fighters in the gym came up to me.
"You know you throw your jab wrong,"he said
I recognized him after a few squints. He was Roy DiFillipas,a local lightweight fighter.A journeyman fighter who always gave the fans their money's worth.
"What am a doing wrong?"I asked with a bit of humility in my voice.
"You flick your jab out. You aren't getting any power behind it."
I didn't want to express my ignorance,but I had thought that "flicking" a jab out there was proper because that was the way Ali executed his.
"Here,"said DiFillipas."Start your left next to your chin and then turn your back with the punch. Get the shoulder and back muscles into the punch. They are the bigger and stronger muscles."
He sounded like he made sense.

Well the little lightweight took time off from his workout to spend a half hour with big ol' me practicing to throw the proper jab. I thought my arm was going to fall off. He was never satisfied.
"Harder!,"he yelled."Put more into it!Do it again!"
I was sorry I asked.

Well after that day,I knew I got an education on how to throw a jab the right way.And I'll never forget Roy DiFillipas. When I'd see him at the gym,he'd always ask me how my jab was.I said I was practicing it everyday(which sometimes I did and sometimes I didn't). I remember watching DiFillipas's last fight at the Coliseum.He won a decision.He could say that he gave it his best shot.(BTW,is he in the CBHOF?)

By that time I knew I didn't have the drive to take boxing anymore seriously than to pretend to be a punching bag for the guys who had greater aspirations for the sport. I think if I had it to do all over again,I would have put more effort in it like Roy DiFillipas. He didn't throw his jab like Ali,but he taught me more about boxing than I ever did watching The Greatest.

[dagosd2000]

The late Art Aragon

[Chuck1052]

I am not going to attend the California Boxing Hall of Fame ceremony and luncheon this year.

- Chuck Johnston

[L.A. kidd]

how many years have you gone to it chuck.

[Chuck1052]

I think I missed California Boxing Hall of Fame ceremony and luncheon in about ten years, L.A. kidd.

- Chuck Johnston

[scartissue]

L.A. Kidd, welcome aboard. Would love to hear some more of the fights and fighters you encountered over the years in sunny Cal.

Scartissue

[L.A. kidd]

o.k. scar, 1962, 1963. at the Moulin rouge. Louis was hosting they were televised. wilhelm von homburg was fighting.
I saw him fight bobby sand [ real name Wendell townsend, a light heavy out of L.A. ] von homburg koed him in 9.
he knocked him out again weeks later again in the 9th. manny snow was a fight fan that came to the Moulin rouge a lot.

he was a bail bondsman. aragon came a few times, jimmy carter took in homburgs fights. I think carter had lightweight
ray walk, not a bad lightweight. im talking mostly local boys. I worked out with some guys in the 4th st gym in santa ana.
they were from dallas, texas. middleweight teddy shores, lightweight freddy burrris. both stable mates of curtiss cokes.

they were managed by doug lord of texas, as was cokes at that time. I think it was jackie mccoy that had a middleweight named tony valenti out of
long beach, who was touted as a fine prospect, I believe he was undefeated when he and shores hooked up at the Moulin rouge
in
the spring of 1962. I believe anyway, shores pounding him pretty good, but all he could get was a split draw.

[L.A. kidd]

eddie [cyo] davis mananged the gym in santa ana, tony Tafoya was a manager there. he had a featherweight [ bobby Cisneros]
it was never as populated as L.A.s main street, but, we had a lot of fun there. curtiss cokes worked out there for his bout with
johnny neuman in 1962. cokes stretched him in 2. there was a heavyweight that was from el toro marine base, that would

spar from time to time, his name was amos Johnson, [ later to fight sonny listen in 1966 in Sweden.] and baron von stame
alwas had to know what was going on. saw eilen eaton once talking to a manager in the office, did she have a husband named cal?
and then there was the night that Freddie and i wished had never happened. I remember it like it was yesterday. we had just

sparred about 3 rounds after running 7 miles that morning. ran around the track at s.a. jc, went to breakfast he had a meal ticket. [ youre not a fighter til you have a meal ticket ] eddie came out of his office and told Freddie. " you fight at the Olympic tomorrow night, its only the kids 2nd pro fight, you 'll win easy. " well freddys all jacked, a payday. sometimes scarce for prelim boys, so the next night I drove him down to 18th and grand, we called it the 'butcher house " then. and im helping tommy wrap

his hands, I go sit ringside, I think its the second bout a 6 rounder if I recall. and they start to get it on, eddie said its only the
kids second pro fight so Freddie goes right at him throwing combos, well, the kid comes back throwing bombs. freddies backing
off a little, but, hes game. well the second ,third freddys getting bombed pretty good, but, hes still throwing punches.

well, about the 4th im asking myself wtf, who is this kid, the kid keeps coming, and coming, well. freddys really showing heart
but the kid is stalking him in the 6th, freddys had 9 or 10 pro fights I think. I know he had a few in texas. but, hes getting butchered
finally the ref stops it. I drive freddy home hes a mess, I don't have to tell you what he looked like. you guys are fighters. its ugly.

so I ask freddy what was that guys name again? freddy looks at me through closed black eyes, raul rojas. yup, the same.