Chuck1052 wrote: ↑05 Dec 2017, 10:08
Albert Davila had an absolutely gorgeous boxing style. Despite the fact that he didn't have a crowd-pleasing boxing style, I loved to watch Albert fight, especially when his opponents were aggressive. I am pleased to find out that his kids have gone on to get a good education and apparently have done well afterwards.
Rog, did you or Chuck ever see Albert's fight with Rodolfo Martinez? It took place at the Olympic and that result surprised me at the time. Obviously we were seeing the turning point in Davila's career where his combos were really starting to smoke. Still, I would have loved to have seen that one.
scartissue wrote: ↑05 Dec 2017, 14:15
Rog, did you or Chuck ever see Albert's fight with Rodolfo Martinez? It took place at the Olympic and that result surprised me at the time. Obviously we were seeing the turning point in Davila's career where his combos were really starting to smoke. Still, I would have loved to have seen that one.
Dan,I remember seeing the replay,but that was many years ago. What I can remember was that Davila beat Martinez to the punch especially on the inside. Martinez was beginning to wear out when he fought Davila.Martinez had lost badly to Zarate.Albert was coming into his own.Again, it was the crowd behind Martinez ,the Mexican national.
There is a huge wildfire burning near my old condo in Ventura, California. In fact, the Thomas Fire destroyed two buildings of a private psychiatric facility called Vista Del Mar, which is only 1/4 to 1/2 of a mile from where my old condo is located. Fortunately, it doesn't appear that the fire destroyed any nearby residences. I sold the condo about two months after moving to Arizona City, Arizona last July.
Just off the top of my head:Watched again the movie ,Fat City.Directed by John Huston,starring Stacey Keach,Jeff Bridges, Susan Tyrrell,and Nicholas Colasanto.Ex pugs Art Aragon,Curtis Cokes,Sixto Rodriguez, Ruben Navarro,and trainer Al Silvani also had parts. My favorite boxing movie. It was one of John Huston's greatest efforts directing a picture. I saw him in 1982 inside the airport in Guadalajara,Mexico. He was sitting in a wheelchair with a young girl accompanying him who I presumed was his step daughter.Dark skinned,she was dressed modestly and was pretty. She showed no expression on her face.Huston had a home in Mexico. He was very fond of the country. He was in the throes of battling emphysema and heart disease, and carrying oxygen tanks. The two were by themselves,seemingly unnoticed. I was with my family waiting to go back to an Diego. I walked up to them.I wanted to say something,but didn't want to be a bother.
"Mr. Huston,"I said modestly."I've been a great fan of yours for years.I just want to say that I loved all your movies,but Fat City is my favorite."
The old director managed a smile and extended his hand.I shook it with appreciation. His step daughter remained impassive by his side.
"Thank you very much,"he said."I enjoyed making it. "I'm glad you liked it."
He began breathing a little deeper. I smiled at him and turned and walked back to where my wife and kids were sitting.As I was sitting with my family,I could see his step daughter putying a blanket over his shoulders. It was very hot in Guadalajara that day. The air conditioning was on full blast inside the airport.
After watching Fat City last night on Turner Classic movies,Ben Mankiewicz talked briefly about the film.He said that after the film was in the "can",Huston wanted to give Muhammad Ali a solo premier showing. Ali said that the movie was the best depiction of the seemier side of fighting that he ever saw. Mankiewicz said the fight scene between Sixto Rodriguez and Stacey Keach was not choreographed. Huston just told them to fight.The folk singer Judy Collins, who was Keach's girlfriend, was horrified when she saw the two men go at it. Huston then went up to her,put his arm around her shoulder and said,"Remember sweetheart,it's only a movie."
Another fighter I remember seeing in a lot of old movies was Canada Lee. He was part of Duke Mantee's gang in The Petrified Forest. He was also in that boat in Alfred Hitchcock's movie,Lifeboat.
Another great ring movie,but this time concerning the world of wrestling, was the 1950 movie,Night and The City,directed by Jules Dassen. In another impromptu scene of ring action is the when The Strangler(played by Mike Mazurki )challenges Gregorious The Great(played by Stanislaus Zybysko)to a fight inside the gym. The wrestling action is compelling.Both men were once real wrestlers. Mazurki was one of the many paramours of Mae West. I heard Mazurki on a talk show once say that if you had a broken nose,Mae West would invite you to "wrestle" under her covers.She had an obsession for men(and maybe women)sporting busted beaks.
It's been talked about on the Forum a lot:of all the hundreds of fights in Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom's record,there's no film of any of them.But that doesn't mean we can't find him on celluloid. He was in over a dozen movies,usually playing the punch drunk fighter.'He was type cast in that role so many times,I believed that he was really a stumble bum. But one time I was watching that TV show,Stump The Stars, where the celebrities would have to spontaneously pantomime gestures to try to get the other celebs to guess what the secret phrase was. One night Slapsie Maxie was one of the pantomimers. The guy was sharp as a tack. I guess like John Huston told Judy Collins."It's only a movie."
When we read about the list of trainers that have worked with renown fighters,it seems like there a handful of boxing teachers that have had a corner on the market.The Dundees,Duvas,Stewards,Arcels...to mention some. They are approached to the point that they can almost cherry pick their aspirants.But most men who take on the profession of training young men who think they can become the champ, live in that world of silent desperation. Some trainers have been fighters.Some have even worn title belts.Then there are trainers who never stepped into a ring . Ray Arcel was an example. Some wait around wanting to find that kid who walks through the door and has the goods:the desire,the work ethic,the physical attributes,the toughness,and no bad habits.That's a lot to ask,but for a sport that is unforgiving,these qualities are difficult to find wrapped in one package. Jack Blackburn waited for years before he finally got Joe Louis.Blackburn said he'd been waiting all his life for a fighter to come around who had that promise. When Julian Black came around to ask Blackburn if he'd work with Joe Louis,the old trainer had finally found the fighter he was looking for. Manny Pacquiao worked the same magic with Freddie Roach.But for every Blackburn and Roach, there are thousands of trainers who come to the gym everyday hoping that diamond in the rough will come up to him and ask,"Will you teach me to be a fighter?"
That question is always asked at first. Maybe it's the trainer who offers first his knowledge. But often ,after the hysteria wears off,the prospect understands that he must commit himself body and soul if he is ever to just creep into the contender rankings.One day the prospect just stops coming to the gym.His trainer can't find him.It could be that it was a woman,a drug or alcohol habit,or the kid wasn't as tough as he thought he was. Without good trainers,there aren't going to be a lot of good fighters. But then there are the so called guys who "train" a kid without having the scantest idea of what the skills entail,not to mention how to breed a kid into becoming fighter of any worth. I see a lot of fights today were the combatants lack proper footwork,balance,leverage in their punches,and defensive skills, that unlearned,will impede their quest on a journey that's the toughest in sports. If his trainer doesn't know,how is the fighter going to be any good? It's one thing to say I'm a boxing trainer ,or I'm a fighter,but do you know what you're doing?Bottom line:Are you any good?
When I ran down Jose Napoles a few years ago in Ciudad Juarez,he mentioned that he had a "hot" prospect that was coming to his run down gym in a run down section of the city.Napoles said that he had a future champ in in the making,so he thought.
"He could box very beautiful.His style was fluid. He cold see everything in front of him.He learned fast.Then one day he was gone.I never saw him again."
The old champ took a long drag on his Cuban puro as he sat on his chair in front of his modest house watching the people walk by.
Earlier this year I was having lunch with Rodolfo Gonzalez. He's been looking also for that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow ever since he hung up his gloves. He lives in Oceanside,California near Camp Pendleton Marine Base. While we ate, he told me of a young Marine who sought him out and asked Rodolfo to make him into a fighter.Rodolfo said the kid trained hard and came to the gym everyday. He had no bad habits to go along with everything else.The time was ready for the kid's first amateur fight.
"When the bell rang for the first round,"said Rodolfo sadly,"the kid covered up. The other fighter hit him on the shoulder and he went down.He didn't fight back.He didn't want to get up. He was chicken.Chicken all the time and I didn't know it."
" I guess he knew when he was licked,"I said half heartedly.
Rodolfo poked at his food and smiled.
"You know.I guess I know when I'm licked too".
Sometimes I think I've been cursed.If there's a silver lining in that gray cloud,I refute it as a mirage.I'm a walking metaphor for Murphy's Law.It's a crippling feeling.People say to me that I shouldn't think that way.Easier said than done.
When I first saw Jose Napoles fight a journeyman fighter by the name of Herbie Lee in Tijuana,I thought Jose was the second coming of Ray Robinson. After Napoles won the title,Robinson even said that Napoles was the best fighter out there.I'd seen a few of Napoles's fights on Mexican television.He was good. No doubt about that,but he bounced around a lot like his fellow Cuban compadre, Luis Rodriguez. Jose Legra,another Cuban boy and a great fighter, was also a "bouncer."But when I saw Napoles in 1968 fighting Herbie Lee in the bullring in Tijuana,Jose had tumed it down a notch. He picked his spots.Instead of going at that frenetic pace,He had settled into that easy fluid style he was noted for, thus the aficianados endeared him with his naickname,"Mantequilla." The man was smooth as butter when he worked. That big chato tomcat impassive face with the big handlebar mustache.He was beautiful to watch in the ring. Even when he climbed through the ropes he impressed.You couldn't take your eyes off him.He never wasted a movement.Even if he didn't connect,it wasn't a wild swing that upset his balance. He never broke stride. Never lost his head. He told me in Ciudad Juarez when I scoured around the city finally tracking him down,that he saw everything in front of him. His anticipation was near perfect.With all that said,my inner self was telling me something was going to go wrong when he finally got his shot at Curtis Cokes in Los Angeles.
Curtis Cokes was a damn good fighter. He had beaten Luis Rodriguez two out of three and stopped him in one of the bouts. This was when Rodriguez was in his prime. Cokes gave Rodriguez fits,a lot more problems than the great Emile Griffith had imposed on The Nose.Besides,Cokes was the champ. He'd been that way for some time. He'd fought all over the world and in the big venues in States like Madison Square Garden.George Parnassus had brought Napoles to the Forum,his first steps on U.S. soil,to show him off to the Southland in a couple of tune up fights against soft opposition..Cokes was tall and crafty.He'd lure guys into positions. Sometimes he'd miss a punch to get a guy to move one way so he could work his right hand.Cokes did a lot with that right hand of his. It was a sneaky little devil:little uppercuts,chops,and counters. He knew what he was doing in there.And another thing:Curtis was a legitimate welterweight. Jose,when I saw him in 1968 , weighed in at 138 pounds.Most of his career ,prior to the Cokes fight,Jose weighed in at the lightweight or junior welter limit.Cokes had always tipped the scales at welter.Murohy's Law was beginning to overwhelm me.
But the word on the street in LA was that Jose was gonna' get him,After so many years of being blown off by the likes of Carlos Ortiz, Ismael Laguna,and that Italian dude who was a Junior Welter champ,Napoles was now ,finally, going to fight for a championship. The fight was never close. Jose,always a fast starter,was in control from the beginning. Cokes looked flustered. By the middle rounds,deperation had taken over. At the end, he was finished.His corner wouldn't push him out there for more of a beating..Napoles was the champ. He dedicated his victory to his new home, Mexico. The president,Ordaz,,stepped in for the fist time in Mexican history and declared Jose a ciudano..There was a rematch in Mexico City and it was deja vu all over again. Through bleeding and swollen eyes,Cokes relented sadly and proclaimed,"Jose Napoles is a better fighter than me." After the two losses,Cokes moved up to middleweight.
So now I could breathe easier again.Jose had made it look like a walk in the park. I'm sure he no conception of what Murphy's Law was all about.When I saw him in Ciudad Mexico,,the championship, the fame,and all the glory residing in the past,all the wives and all the money gone,Jose still had that big smile on his face.. I don't think he ever took it off, unless he was in the ring.
Jose Napoles sitting in front of his house enjoying a Cuban cigar.Ciudad Juarez,Mexico
Curtis Cokes today.He lives in his home town,Dallas,Texas
When my wife and I were dining with Rick and Monica Farris,and Dan Hanley in the restaurant at the Garland Hotel after The West Coast Hall of Fame Banquet,Rick said something that surprised me. He said Michael Buffer is the richest man in boxing.I didn't ask for an explanation,but I kept that comment in the back of my mind.Later,I began looking around the internet for some validity of Rick's remark. First,I looked up Buffer's net worth:400 million dollars. You know this guy gets 5 million to get up in the ring and say,"Let's get ready to rumble." He's got some sort of copy write on the phrase and he can let other sources use his trademark for a price. To think a ring announcer makes more money than the two fighters in the ring is amazing. Now I know if it's Mayweather and Pacquiao in there,it's not that way,but c'mon man,who pays to go to a fight to listen to Michael Buffer say,"Let's get ready to rumble"? He's got more in the bank than Mayweather,Pac Man,,Arum,King,and Oscar.Maybe there's someone else out there I missed who's got more stashed away,but unless it's a fighter the list is a travesty.
I remember a number of years back I was watching the Howard Stern show. His guest was Buster Douglas.He was in the beginnings of trying to get back into the ring.He had issues with diabetes,a tremendous weight gain,and he was hurtin' for dough.Accompanting Mr. Douglas was his current lawyer. Stern got curious and asked Douglas what he cleared for the Tyson fight.
"I made 600 dollars,"answered Douglas very matter of factly.
That was enough to make Stern roll his eyes,smirk,and go on with the questioning.
"You mean to tell me all you wound up with was 6oo dollars?,Howard pushed on.
"Well,"said Mr. Douglas very calmly,"the promoter(Don King)had to get his share.Then there was my manager and my trainer.And there were other expenses like my hotel and air fare.In the end I got 600 dollars."
All said with a straight face.
Now when it comes to wheeling and dealing Howard Stern is no baby, Stern pointed out to Doglass that he got a worse beating than what he handed out to Iron Mike. Stern went on to warn him about what company he should keep if he wanted to survive in the world of boxing.Now Douglas's lawyer began to shift in his seat.Douglas was taking this all in and for the first time he began thinking that maybe he got a screwin' in Japan. He began feeling like a kamikaze co pilot.Douglas looked at his lawyer and gave him a quick hard study. The ambulance chaser couldn't look him in the eye.
With all said,I watched that Lomachenko fight the other night,if you could call that a fight. The better exchange was between Max Kellerman and Steven A. Smith afterwards expressing their thoughts.They should put those two in the ring.They were arguing about something and it got to the point that both were trying to shout over the other. With all the hype and fireworks with promoting,the public will buy anything.If they will pay a hundrd dollars to watch Maywether and McGregor on TV,why not Max and Steven A. I mean for a little 'ol 5 million they can always get Michael Buffer to say."Let's get ready to rumble."
Mike Tyson
You don't figure for any fighters coming out of beach community in San Diego.Kids growing up at the beach usually get involved playing in the water-surfing,body womping,skin diving,fishing,anything that involves getting wet.The ocean and its swells and rhythm and briny air has a pull on people, and once they become immersed in its aura,a symbiosis that happens naturally.The sea becomes a lifelong mantra.You never want to get away from it. The ocean is a personification for natures womb-a place we don't remember,but a place that was the closet thing to heaven.At least, I think so.But I once knew a kid who played in the water and who also was a fighter. Let's say he pretended to be a fighter. His name was Jerry Lockwood.
I went to school with Jerry. He was always a fat kid.That was his nickname,"Fats."We all called him that except his wife.He had that blubbery shiny skin.But even though his frame might connote a slovenly carriage,he displayed a graceful dexterity in the water. However,with all the time he spent moving in and out of the waves,he stayed a fat guy.Even at the end ,he was a fat guy. He had a full head of curly blond hair . His face was full and round with a glop of a double chin hanging under an always cat got the canary grin.His eyes were a clear blue that cast that trickery that was his personae. Jerry was mostly a beach kid through and through.Oh,he tried out for the local Little League Baseball team. He quit after a few days. Because of his heft, they wanted to make a catcher out of him,but he didn't like having to squat down all the time,so he quit. He tried football at the high school,but couldn't take all the running. Football lasted one day. In the mean time Jerry found himself back at the ocean.
Jerry never took school seriously. Jerry,I don't think took anything on with a honest motivation.He was always trying to con or scam some rich kid at school out of his money,and most of the time it worked because Jerry possesed that Nathan Detroit charm that could talk the Pope into becoming a pagan.I don't remember how many times Jerry would get the rich kid to come down to Tijuana with us having the poor mark bankroll our hedonistic pleasures,all the while making the sucker think he was having the time of his life.
Jerry also liked to steal. Tourists and sailors would drive into the sand parking lot to enjoy a nice stay at the beach..After watching them put their valuables in the trunks of their cars and then carry their umbrellas and picnic baskets to the sand,Jerry would extract his crowbar and pry open the trunks and grab with two hands everything that he could fit in his chubby palms. He'd heisted a check book once and wrote bogus checks and then tried to cash them in. He get caught and always denied his guilt. His parents were in tight with the local Catholic church. I don't know how many times the monsignor would accompany Jerry's parents down to the jail to bail out a sobbing Jerry from Juvenile Hall.It was never his fault.
"But Ma,"wailed Jerry from his lockup,"it was my friends who put me up to it." Or,"I didn't do it" (so and so did it),always dropping a dime on one of his pals.
One time Jerry found this old gay guy that lived in a shack in the alley and Jerry would want us to go with him because if we let the old man perform oral sex on us,the guy would buy us beer. I balked on that offer,but Jerry thought nothing of it.There was a gay bar near the pier and Jerry would go inside and fool one of the gays to walk with him to the bathroom that was outside under the pier convincing the mark that he was going to pleasure him.But low and behold, waiting for the now apparent victim was Jerry's crew with clubs more than willing to make the guy relinquish his wallet.If he didn't hand it over,a good beating would ensue. Sometimes, even after the robbery the victim would get cracked on the head anyway. Another scheme I didn't have the stomach for. But it was all a big joke to Jerry. He didn't even want to keep it a secret.The next day Jerry would be blabbing around the beach about his conduct.Of course, as is often the case with young people,Jerry became a celebrity.Jerry kept people on the edge waiting to see what idea would vomit from his warped brain next.But then,very unexpectedly,Jerry got married.
The girl's name was Linda. She was very shy and unassuming. Linda had little freckles on her rosy cheeks,a turned up little nose, and a dainty shape.Soft dishwater blond bangs covered her forehead and, in the back, she wore her hair in a ponytail.LInda's clothes looked like hand me downs.She lived with her parents,who were both alcoholics,in a trailer park just outside of town. I think they settled in from somewhere in the Midwest like Kansas or Nebraska. When Jerry first introduced me to Linda,I remember,she could hardly talk.She always looked down to the floor.She seemed very insecure and frightened.But with all that,Linda was very pretty.She was diminutive and projected an innocence that was subtly alluring.Jerry had found anotherscore,but this time he invested himself all the way. He took Linda under his wing. He bought he clothes and presents from the money he stole. He took her to eat.We couldn't believe that he was going to marry the girl.But Linda wanted out of that trailer and her living with her dysfunctional parents.So she traded places and wound up with another social misfit,Jerry.
Right away Linda got pregnant. Now the onus is on Jerry. His petty thievery wasn't going to be enough for a married couple with a kid to get by on. Back during the Vietnam days,it was a cinch to get on with one of the defense plants. But the normal work schedule was to exacting for the Jerry. He began taking meth on Mondays to jump start the week. Then he added Fridays to his ritual because he was exhausted from performing honest labor for five days straight.Before you knew it,the habit was an everyday one. Jerry quickly washed out making parts for fighter jets.
Jerry tried delivering pizzas,hooking on with a custodial crew,washing cars at the car wash.Jerry never lasted very long at any of it.Then he got this hair brained idea of being a fighter. Maybe al the nose candy he put up his nostrils was catching up with him. There was a gym at the beach next to the amusement park.The gym was run by a character named Andy. The gym had a boxing ring inside. I never saw many fighters in there.The only one that comes to mind was a local heavyweight named Ski Goldstein. Goldstein(whose real name was Stepanowski)wanted everyone to think he was Jewish.He thought that would make him a big draw.In San Diego.A Jewish fighter? Ski was more of curiosity piece. Like Andy's gym,Goldstein was a novelty.Anyway that was about the only gym in town that would let Jerry pretend to be a fighter. But this was Jerry's goofy plan.He wasn't serious about boxing.He figured he would get in there and get knocked out(or just flop to the mat)and collect his money. He never trained. Again,it was all a ruse. He really thought he could pull it off. Fake it for less than a round,then cash in. I think this ploy lasted for two fights. The commission yanked his license. Now it was back to square one.But after living the con's life ,he couldn't wean himself off the wind and smoke. Hitting dead end,Jerry went back to the sordid world of drugs. Now a user with a habit and trying to deal enough on the side,Jerry crashed into oblivion. After getting pinched for selling to a narc and going to jail.Linda took the kid and walked out.She moved back to the Midwest to live with a relative.
Before long I tied the knot.I had to change my ways too and it wasn't easy. My wife put up with a lot.But today,I guess you could say,I landed on my feet,though I might have cracked a few bones. A few years back I was cruising my old stomping grounds by the ocean ,when I ran into one the old surfers.He told me that Jerry had died. it was his liver that got him in the end. Along with the drugs,booze fit the pattern.The old surfer told me that Jerry wanted to be cremated,The ceremony would take place at the beach. The old surfer said that he would then paddle out on his board with Jerry's ashes and cast them to the sea.I thought that would be pretty cool.
On the day of the spreading of Jerry's remains,I was taken by all the beach crowd that had amassed on the shore.Standing at the back,I saw a petite old lady with gray hair pulled back into a ponytail.It was Linda. I moved through the crowd to talk to her.
"Linda,"I said a little short of breath,"It's been so long.I'm glad to see you here."
"When they said Jerry had died,I said I didn't want to come,but I decided to anyway. Jerry was the father of our daughter."
"Is she with you?"
"No.She's married and I have a grand daughter now."
"That's great",I said.
"You know Roger I never wanted Jerry to see her. After a few tries he gave up."
I didn't know what to say.
"This is the first time I've been back."
"Well ,it's good to see you again."
"I remarried to a very nice man. He passed away a few years ago. But I'm fine. I live in a small town in Oklahoma.My daughter grew up there.That's where I met my husband. Life has been good."
"Do you ever think back?"
"Of course. I can't help it.I shouldn't have married Fats "
I had never heard her call him that before..Then Linda paused for awhile.
"Roger,I was so young back then."
"We all were."
Belmont Park by the ocean.Andy's gym was next to it.
I don't know whether everyone wants to find fault with everything,but if there's an achilles heal,the skeleton in the closet,a past misdead,this critical world wants to grab by the neck and not let go. The neck grabbers are as vulnerable as the grabbed.Oh,that's for sure.Didn't Jesus say something about throwing a stone if you're free of sin? The neck chokers are as culpable as the ones who have messed up in front of the whole world and now have to deal with having their throats strangled. The really tough guys are the ones who fight back. They don't succumb.Their necks are bulled and ,more impotantly, their minds don't don't come apart. But scew up today or think you're going to let a past faux pas go undetected,you better have the resiliency of hardened steel. Perfection is an unattainable goal. Stumble on that path, and bear the consequences of an all out assault. Today especially,people gloat when others are in free fall. But it all comes around in the end.Mortality brings everyone to their knees.
The sport of boxing is a very tenuous profession. The fan gets caught up in the whirlwind of the fighter who is undefeated,especially if that win streak is chock full of KO's. The unbeaten fighter who pummels his foe into a state of unconsciousness is revered as a god,someone who might not be just the run of the mill mortal.Often this string of carnage gives the executioner a false impression. He reads in the papers,watches the commentaries on TV,and hears the talk about how he's invincible,the greatest of all time. Sometimes this dispatcher of bad intentions feels he needs to bolster this invincible image with threatening rhetoric,mean talk. If he can make his next fight's opponent quiver in his shoes,all the bully has to do is throw his glove out there. How many times did we see Iron Mike glance a blow on the other guy's shoulder only to see a reaction like the frightened rabbit? Michael Spinks,wearing his knee brace, that symbolized a chink in his confidence,prone on the ring apron, maybe glad it was over finally,,but now dismissing any chance of letting the neck grabbers not go for his throat. But Iron Mike got his wake up call. He thought he could sacrifice training for big talk and a scowl. Buster Douglas put Mike back with the mortals. Mike was never the same fighter after that. I wonder what Michael Spinks was thinking when saw the replay of that one?
Big George Foreman was another scary dude. How many times did he say he wanted to kill someone in the ring? He told Ali that he was going to kill him.Just about everyone bought into that rage except Muhammad.When watching the replay of the moments after it came to an end,I focus on Foreman. He's not scaring anybody anymore.He's a pretty lonely dude. The rats have abandoned the ship. Later on a tricky, light punching Jimmy Young had the guy ,who wanted to kill someone in the ring, gasping for air at the end.
I feel I can throw in Sonny Liston into the mix. He had a loss on his record before he started hewing down the likes of all the contenders,but that loss was early on when no one knew that he was a big bad bear.Besides, that fight with Marshall,the bear cub finished on his feet with a broken jaw. But who could have shocked the world but Cassius(later Ali) ?Leotis Martin might not have shocked the world like Muhammad,but he did cause a tremor when he countered Sonny's jab with an overhand right of his own. There was the bear flat on his stomach. I liked when he turned his head to rest his face more comfortably on the canvas.
I could go on. Chavez wasn't the same fighter after Sweet Pea boxed J.C's tail off only to get robbed with that draw. Frankie Randall followed with some pretty impressive work on Mexico's most popular fighter..Out here on the coast there was a bomber named Battling Torres. He was knocking them out right and left. They brought the champ Carlos Ortiz out to LA thinking Torres would make the aficianados happy with a world championship,but Ortiz wasn't about to hand his belt over. He had his way with Raymundo. Torres,after that fight,struggled along. I saw the Mexican Rock of Gibralter Vicente Saldivar tire badly against the underrated Shibata in the auditorium in Tijuana. They wanted to put the fight in the bullring,but figured Shibata's name wouldn't warrant a sellout. Vicente not only lost his title,but that win streak(he was DQ'd against Baby Luis) along with his suit of armor evaporated and left him exposed.
But the previous paragraph doesn't have any of the bullies like the aforementioned,however after that bitter taste of first failure,the consequences of Adam and Eve eating the forbidden fruit became a reality.Fighters are as human as anyone else.There are, and have been fighters,who have pulled themselves off the mat and reared the ship:Ali after his loss to Joltin' Joe in The fight of The Century,Louis after Schmeling put him to sleep,and Sugar Ray losing his first ever fight to the Raging Bull.
I think what would have been said if Marciano had lost a fight? Or now that Mayweather is retired, with no goose eggs in the loss column,how would he be judged if he had stubbed his toe? But in this day and age even the undefeated are held up to doubt: If these guys would have fought so and so,or they fought a bunch of nobodies. No matter how good you do,there's always someone out there who wants to choke you out.
Yes,I had a fight in Tijuana.The fight was in front of the Virgin of Guadalupe Church on the corner of 2nd Avenue and Constitution Street. This was more than 35 years ago.It was a spontaneous match. You might say it was a tag team match because my wife got involved in the melee also. I would say the unpaid gate was easily several hundred enthusiastic Tijuaneros. It happened on a Saturday afternoon,like I said, right in front of the church. tongue in my cheek. This is how it came into fold.
I was working as a football coach at Clairemont High School in San Diego. The school was hosting 14 female foreign exchange students from France. They were a feisty bunch. The parents and students of the host residences told me that the "filles" were kind of snotty and disrespectful batch. I recall when the school gave the girls a party. They stayed to themselves mostly speaking French.A big three tiered cake was constructed in their honor. On top of the cake were two flags-one, the flag of the United States,the other was the red white and blue French banner.When the party finished,I happened to see the U.S. flag in the trash can.The French flag was still on top of the cake.
The French gal who chaperoned her entourage asked me if I would take her to a jazz club. She said she was beginning to find San Diego "boring."She had a bratty attitude,but I have to admit,I think she wanted to find something more exciting than walking lockstep with her mademoiselles.But I thought about my tenure at the school and how,after a few drinks,I'd probably try something inappropriate, so I backed out on her invitation. Then she went on and asked if it was possible for the school to charter a bus for everyone to go to Tijuana. I was up for that idea. I went to the principal and made arrangements. The principal and his wife ,and me and my better half, would be the escorts for the day trip. Since I had worked and lived in Tijuana,and my wife was Mexican,it wasn't hard to convince the administration that my expertise on the layout of the city would be valuable. So on a sunny Saturday morning we all piled into the bus.
The girls were very noisy and running inside the bus. I think they wanted to fray the nerves of the bus driver,and when they saw that their bad behavior was having an affect,they turned it up a notch. The poor bus driver was craning his neck looking into the rear view mirror trying to get the French chaperone to quiet her kids down,,but he might as well been talking to a lamp post on the Champ Elysees. We finally crossed into Tijuana and parked the bus in the parking lot in back of the old Woolworth Store on Revolution Street. Right away the Frenchies stormed out of the bus. I looked at the principal and his wife. By the consternation on their faces,I could tell they were having second thoughts. I rushed out of the bus and got in front of this female French Foreign Legion.
"Look,"I told them sternly,"don't be screwing around here. Stay together. They make up their laws here and if you do something stupid you'll all go to the Tijuana jail and you know what happens there."
They toned it down after that little brow beat. Then their chaperone chimed in.
"We don't want to go where the tourists go. We want to see were the local people go."
That sounded fine to me. Besides,there wasn't much to do with them on Revolution Street. I decided to take them west a couple of blocks to see the open air market and the Guadalupe Church. As usual ,that intersection was very crowded. We walked through the market. My wife bought some chiles and cheese. Then she went to "her" carnicieria to buy meat to make carne asada.Ramon,the owner ,was there behind the meat counter. His son and nephew were assisting him. Ramon is still there in that mercado. He wears that same butcher's hat. It's more than doing business. Ramon is a friend we've known for a long time. My wife knew him before I met her.
"Dona Maria,"he said as he spotted my wife. "por favor, adelante."
Ramon let my wife get to the front of the line. His nephew came from the back. My wife,as usual, took her time with her order.As the nephew carefully sliced strips of meat from the shank and slowly wrapped the meat in wax paper,my wife carried on a jovial conversation with Ramon. I'd seen this a hundred times before.
In the meantime I lost track of my group. Then the principal's wife rushed up to me.
"Roger,"she said frantically,"you better get across the street. Something happened to one of the girls in front of the church."
"Now what?"I thought.
I briskly walked across the street. There was the principal standing in front of one of the girls in a heated discussion with appeared to be two American men. The volume was still intense as I stepped between the verbal combatants.
"This pig grabbed my ass,"shouted the girl pointing her finger at the molester.
I could tell by the stench in the air,that the two men had been drinking. They appeared to be servicemen in "civvies."
"Look pal,"said to idiot in front of me,"you can't be doing that stuff down here. You want to go to jail?"
The guy was tall and teetering.His face was beet red face from all the booze. His buddy was feeling no pain either.
"Don't talk to me that way or I'll kick your ass,"He stammered back at me.
"If we get in a fight here it doesn't matter who's right or wrong or who starts it,we're both going to go to jail,"I said.
Now the guy starts to poke his finger on my chest.in the meantime,a curious crowd was gathering.
"I don't care.I'll kick your ass,"he shouted,his breath vaporizing off my face. Then he raised his fist. My impulse took over. I let him have it with a left hook. He stumbled back and fell on his rear end. I stood over him fists clenched. I had hoped it was over,but he got up and bum rushed me. I knocked him down again.This time I piled on him to keep him on the pavement. I was punching his side with everything I could muster. I knew I had him.Then I looked up and saw his buddy making a move towards us. Then to the rescue,I saw my wife dart from the crowd and leap on the second attacker's back.She was like a frenzied tiger. She was flailing on him riding him piggy back style with both of her fists. He seemed totally flabbergasted.All the while my wife was looking at me through crazed eyes telling me to kill the guy that I had on the ground.
"Matelo! Matelo!"
I let my guy go to assist my wife,but it was unnecessary. Both gringos knew when they had had enough. I looked myself over. My shirt was torn and my guy's blood was all over it. Both of the sots were licking their wounds on the sidewalk. The crowd was so big the traffic couldn't get through. it was then when I saw the cops. They had their clubs drawn.There must have been five or six of them. There was no use trying to make a run for it. I waited to get a beating. My body went limp.They started running at me. Then everything went silent. With all those people around,I couldn't hear anything. My body felt warm.I looked at the cops still running towards me,but all of a sudden they stopped on a dime ,all in unison,like it was choreographed. They then turned on the fallen drunks who were trying to gather themselves on the curb. The cops pounced on these guys beating them with their clubs. It was a slaughter.
I'm still standing there now all alone in front of the church.I still can't hear a thing. I thought it was a dream,one of those surrealistic things. I looked down at my clothes with all the blood. I saw my wife approaching.
"Meet me in the Hotel Nelson Bar,"I told her.
I walked away like nothing happened. I could have cared less about the students.Eventually we found our way back to the bus. I don't remember much after that.
To this day,I don't understand why I didn't get that beating from those cops and gone to jail. All I can think is that mybe the Virgin of Guadalupe might have had my back that day when I was standing in front of the church after all the dust had cleared.You know,it's enough to give you religion.
Virgin of Guadalupe Church
"We'll meet on the second floor of the concourse in the "Small Appliance" section. They'll have a little makeshift stage set up for us. Now make sure Amanda has a red flower in her hair."
My grand daughter's flamenco teacher was going to bring her little girls to perform at the "Housewares Convention" that was going to run through the weekend. Her teacher wanted to be sure that each girl had her fan,castanets,and red flower in her hair.
The San Diego Convention Center,more commonly know as "The Concourse" is located on San Diego's waterfront ot the harbor.Across from The Concourse on Harbor Drive is Petco Park,home for the San Diego Padres baseball club.If you're familiar with the annual San Diego Comic Con Convention,it is held for the three day weekend at the Concourse. All the trekkies and cult followers of the super heroes dress up and attend. It's a maddening three days. I stay away from it,but there are a lot big name Hollywood stars that come down from LA and make an appearance,usually to promote their next fantasy flick.Vendors rent booths to sell comic books,collectibles,toys,video games,and costumes,and anything else that pertains to make believe. It's a circus atmosphere and the cash flow going through the hotels,restaurants,and the Convention Center brings big bucks to San Diego. They often call San Diego a tourist town,Comic Con validates that statement.
But this was some crummy housewares convention. It sounded kind of boring. There would be no way I'd go to it if wasn't for the fact that Amanda was going to be part of her flamenco school's little show to try to perk things up. For me,to see Amanda dance at a housewares convention was as important as if she was debuting at Lincoln Center.
Parking was no problem that day.I didn't have to go any higher than the bottom floor of the parking facility to park my car. We took the elevator to the second floor. As the elevator doors opened,I could see that there wasn't much activity. There were plenty of booths,The room was spacious filled with vendors wanting to "hawk' their goods,but because of a sparse crowd,the sellers looked deflated. It might as well been a Valium convention.
I saw Amanda' s teacher at the back of the room. Her and her students really stood out in their bright patterned dresses.The teacher was gathering them together on the wooden platform that was erected for the various acts that were going to perform that day. It was a ;pleasure to see those girls rehearsing their steps for their upcoming dance. The place needed a spark.
As the girls were getting ready,I looked over the hall to see what products and gizmos were on display. I began to feel sorry for the vendors. The atmosphere was foreboding. These poor souls who had every household gadget imaginable to pawn off on the public were going to get the tables turned on them, and wind up boxing up all that stuff back in their boxes and take it back home. But over in the corner,aside from the rest of the hustlers,there was a big crowd standing in front of a big guy who was doing his best to make himself look and sound like P.T Barnum. He had everyone going. They were captivated by his pitch. You couldn't take your eyes off him. I had a little time before Amanda's group began their performance so I got up and walked over to the growing assemblage. As my eyes honed in on this frenetic gathering,my perception told me that this big huckster was the one and only George Foreman,the former heavyweight champion of the world.He was transacting his "George Foreman Grill."His line was like hot butter on a skillet. He had on a big chef's apron.His big bald shiny head complimented his wide enthusiastic smile. He really had everyone mesmerized.His grill could cook anything better, according to the way Big George told it. He had three or four of his grills goin' in front of him. Sausages were sizzilin' in one,another had some very thick steaks cookin' away.Juicy pork chops were cracklin' inside another. The aromas were sensuous.A tall stack of boxed grills were on the floor next to his booth. He didn't have to point them out to anyone. People wee grabbing away with gusto.
I hung back to watch all this pandemonium. I shook my head. I was really impressed. I liked what I was seeing.It wasn't that Big George was making a big score that day. I was looking at a man that I once disliked. When he was that indestructible, mean,and threatening Big George Foreman,I was always hoping someone would stand up to him in the ring. A fighter that was an Olympic champ,but wanted to follow the pattern of his idol,The Big Bear,Sonny Liston,another meany who had most of his opponents defeated before they left the locker room. Sonny looked like he was pissed off most of the time. They say he wasn't really that way.He had a sense of humor,liked kids.Floyd Patterson couldn't buy that. A couple of swings from Sonny and in a couple of rounds we witnessed two of the most pathetic performances in heavyweight championship lore. The Bear carried on that way until a man came along and upset the world(with a little help from his trainer making him continue after The Bear got ointment in the other guy's eyes).The Bear decided to rob a picnic basket at the start of the seventh round.He was exhausted and wanted to eat so spit out his mouthpiece so he could chew better. The rematch was just as peculiar. This time The Bear rolled around from an "anchor punch" like a real life anchor from a battleship had dropped on his head. Four years later Leotis Martin put The Bear into hibernation with one punch. Two years after that fight Liston injected himself with a hot shot of smack that put him into eternal dreamland. And this is who Big George wanted to emulate.
George would say he wanted to "kill" someone in the ring. I was afraid he might do it. But then he fought this guy Peralta who tried to stay away from Big George's lunges.The two fights with Big George were not a couple of two round massacres. Who saw the flaw in Big George but Muhammad Ali. But by this time he wasn't the young float like a butterfly Ali. His wings had been clipped. Big George thought he'd feint in front of him like all the rest,but it was Big George who passed out to the canvas in the end. A light hitting Jimmy Young punctuated George's demise in Puerto Rico. Now it was life and death with Foreman. He thought he had lost more than a championship. He thought he was going to die.
I don't think I've ever seen someone reinvent himself like what I saw happen to George Foreman. He didn't act the same. He didn't look the same. He was the nicest man on the face of the earth. You know how hard it is to make a transformation like that.? When I was watching George Foreman showing how great his grill was in that culinary setting to those nice people who he had spellbound,I wanted to go over and give him a big hug.He was happy,but what was more important, he was giving pleasure to others. Too bad Sonny Liston couldn't have made the switch.
There's that old quote from Sonny Liston:"Someday they're gonna' write a blues for fighters.It'll just be for slow guitar,soft trumpet,and a bell." Sonny had somethin' there. Call it an analogy,a metaphor:Sonny saw it.I think a lot of fighters see it eventually.Running the gamut of the perpetual prelim fighter with more losses than wins on his record through to the greatest fighters who have attained the pinnacles of success,they see it.Eventually they see it. Whether it's the invisible journeyman or the champion with the world as his entourage,they too often don't know when to put an end to it. Maybe they think they can still reach the top,or they can remain atop of Mount Olympus just a little bit longer. But once they fall from that height,they realize they can't climb back up that slope anymore. .The climb gets tougher each time, and more often than not, they never can soar to that altitude again.There's no more soaring.They climb on hands and knees.The wear and tear,the body's gradual disintegration, accompanied by Father Time,is like watching how Mother nature deals with mortality.
I remember when Denny Moyer signed to fight the great Monzon for the championship in Italy. it was in the twilight of Moyer's career.He fought everybody,but he was a very tired and old fighter by then. He was in the gym everyday,but he was no stranger to the local watering holes around town either. He needed the money for sure,but he thought he had enough quile left in his play book to pull off an upset. He showed his old self for a few rounds,but the first time his knees buckled from one of Carlos's swings, the referee abruptly halted the show. Denny never had a chance.
Armando Muniz told me by the time he fought Ray Leonard,he couldn't throw his jab without experiencing excruciating pain in his shoulder.Armando didn't come out his corner against Leonard. He had finally come to grips with it. He was losing ,and he didn't want to wind up having to go to the emergency room. He had a wife and kids. For the rabid fan that believes that a fighter should never concede,go out on a steretcher....well you go out there pal. While you're stuffing hot dogs and beer down your gullet,you're a smug SOB.
Art Hafey said that he had so much nerve damage in his body that by the time Danny Lopez got him,Art thought he would wind up a cripple. He didn't know if he was going to wind up in a wheelchair after that final fight.. That scared him enough to tell his manager ,Burke Emery,to find another boy. Art doesn't sound bitter.In fact he says he owes a lot to Burke,but when the pain would keep him up at nights and he couldn't move naturally,he got panicky.
Archie Moore said old fighters get lazy. They think they can still win drawing on the past,what they've learned in the ring that the young fighter isn't ready for.never seen. Moore certainly had seen everything when he stepped into the ring against a young Cassius Clay. Years later ,Clay turned Muhammad Ali,who had seen a lot, couldn't make his reflexes obey him against Larry Holmes.
Marciano said he saw the handwriting on the wall when he couldn't stand smelling the stench of the gym anymore. He didn't want to put through the effort anymore. Later,he had some second thoughts about taking off his pants to fight Ingemar,but he wisely reconsidered. He saw it. A fighter can't turn the switch on and off again like a light bulb. Even Mayweather said that training, after his retirement, for his fight with McGregor was very strenuous,physically and mentally. Waking up at dawn to do road work,starving to get down to weight, sparring,going to bed early,staying away from women,eating right,hardening the body,and most of all,getting the mind right....a fighter has to see it before it's too late. Most of them see it ,but they've waited too long before it comes into focus.
Bob Johnston's Sport Palace on Market Street in San Diego
I've talked about this place a lot.Bob Johnston's Hollywood Burlesque Theater was located next door, to the left ,of The Sports Palace. Charley Johnston(Bob's brother)along with Doc Kearns,handled Archie Moore in the 50's. I've told the story about how my dad took me in The Sports Palace when I was a kid. Charley and Bob Johnston, along with Doc Kearns, were spinnin' yarns in the back room. Later when I was all grown up,I frequented the bar quite often,but Moore had retired from boxing by then and they had tolled a ten count for Doc Kearns . I stumbled upon this photo. Had to post it.
Cartolandia isn't there anymore,neither is the old cement bridge that used to span over it. When the lines at the border began to get longer and the cars would get backed up into downtown waiting to cross the to the United States,people sitting in their cars,that moved along at a snail's pace, worried that the old structure would collapse under all the weight. I don't know if those people gave a damn about what happened to all those souls that lived under the bridge,the people, most of them squatters and the poorest of Tijuana,The anxious ones in their vehicles were afraid of the bridge collapsing and extinguishing their lives on earth. The bridge showed the cracks and looked feeble trying to hold up all that traffic on top of it.Tijuana didn't need a catastrophe on its hands. When it came to fixing things and making it safe,Tijuana had a bad rep. Since that was the main artery into the city,if the old relic decided to give way,I'm sure a lot of American tourists' names could be found in the obituary pages the next day. It wasn't a big brainer for the founding fathers of TJ to rectify the problem:tear the old bridge down and build a new one. In the process, something would have to be done about Cartolandia.
By now you've probably figured close enough how that slum got its name. The structures under that bridge were made out of anything that someone could get a little shelter from the elements. Rotted slats of wood,discarded aluminum siding,torn sheets of plastic,broken garage doors(garage doors were a premium),tree branches,and of course cardboard;anything that could hold the corners of the shacks standing upright. Sometimes someone had a door in front.Most of the shacks' entrances though were covered by a worn blanket. The floors were dirt.There was no running water nor electricity,no ;paved streets.Cartolandia was in a wide gulley directly in the path of massive torrents of water when the rains would come.The shacks would get wiped out and washed away.. The people would lose what little they had,but they had nowhere else to go so they'd try again in the same spot:that ravine under the old cement bridge.
The indigenous people that lived in Cartolandia were mostly Indians from the south.Indians from states like Oaxaca,Michoacan,Guerrero,and Yucatan.They migrated north from pueblos with Indian names like Naulcalpan,Coatzacoalcos,Oxkulzcab,and Tzintzuntan.Names that many Mexicans couldn't pronounce. They were short people, with very dark complexions,without mixed blood from the Spanish side.They had the Indian nose,the high cheek bones,and the jet black thick hair on top of their heads.. Their skin was smooth and soft lacking the genetics to produce any more hair except on their privates. They spoke their Indian dialects with the clucking sounds they made with their tongues. It is hard to understand them when they talk.Again,. many Mexicans can't piece together what they are saying.
The Indians lived on the bottom rung of the social ladder. The Indians of the north in Sonora,the Yaquis, fought courageously to remain free and keep their land. Some instead of succumbing to the Mexican army committed suicide.rather to become slaves. During the Mexican Revolution of 1910 many of the Yaquis fought for whatever side promised them that they would stay free and keep their land.After the revolution ended, Mexico reneged on all promises.
But the Indians that lived under the cement bridge were not combative anymore. That would have been senseless.It wasn't until 1954 that the Mexican government legally permitted the Indians to buy store liquor. The Indians weren't going to go on the warpath again. During the days you'd see the "Marias"(the Indian women)roaming through the streets of Tijuana selling Chiclets,candy,nuts,shawls,paper machete figures,beads and bracelets made of plastic;any trinket that could bring in a few pesos. You'd see the "Marias" carrying a baby inside a blanket on their bright flower patterned dresses. They'd have a kid in one hand,two or three following behind,and whatever they were selling in the other hand.Usually you'd see the bulging stomach hanging over their midsections.For the life of me,I never saw their husbands with them.The "Marias" did the work and took care of the kids.The men were probably consuming a bottle of 190 proof cane alcohol. somewhere.
One day someone told me that they were going to get rid of Cartolandia when they tore down the bridge. The government was going to relocate those people into tenement housing.After a very late night on the town I was working my way back to the border. I was on the old cement bridge.Since it was very late at night there weren't but a few cars in line.I decided to pull over to the side of the bridge. I got out of the car and looked over the railing down below. There was no moon. I couldn't see anything,not a person,a dog, a dwelling-nothing. I was looking into a black sea. I could hear noises:a baby crying,a conversation,somone laughing,a dog yipping.. I could smell the manteca sizzling..Then there was the smell of burning wood: fire to provide some warmth. A gust of wind swirled everything up to me. :the sounds,the smells,everything I couldn't see in the dark came to life.. Though I was blind,I could feel the life below me.It was an ocean.Like an ocean,you can't see what's underneath unless you swim below the surface. It was wonderful.
As my mind began to wander off with my imagining what the world was like below ,a motorcycle cop pulled up behind my car.
"You have car problems?",asked the big fellow.
"No officer.I'm just looking over the side of the bridge."
"Well you can't park your car here. Get moving or you go to jail,"he said sternly.
"Yes officer.I'll move right now."
Driving the rest of the way to the border,I was thinking maybe I should have taken a dip in that ocean.
According to various news reports, Dick Enberg, a world-famous and highly versatile sportscaster, has died at the age of 82 at his home in San Diego. Before going on to becoming a sportscaster in baseball games for the California Angels and on the national stage, Enberg had a stint on the weekly televised boxing shows from the Olympic Auditorium during the 1960s.
Chuck1052 wrote: ↑22 Dec 2017, 10:15
According to various news reports, Dick Enberg, a world-famous and highly versatile sportscaster, has died at the age of 82 at his home in San Diego. Before going on to becoming a sportscaster in baseball games for the California Angels and on the national stage, Enberg had a stint on the weekly televised boxing shows from the Olympic Auditorium during the 1960s.
- Chuck Johnston
Chuck
Just read about Dick Enberg's passing.I commented awhile back about his acceptance speech at the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame. I think he might have had something prepared,but then spoke off the cuff about how Joe Louis did more for the cause of integration than Jackie Robinson. A great presentation. Enberg finished his last year of broadcasting with the San Diego Padres in 2016. I remember him saying that he was in his 80's and that he didn't think he had that much time left. I think his last year broadcasting Wimbledon was in 2015. I think Enberg thought,perhaps,that without working,he would lose his purpose in life. He looked fit at the West Coast Boxing event in October. Too bad.He left his mark.
Chuck1052 wrote: ↑22 Dec 2017, 10:15
According to various news reports, Dick Enberg, a world-famous and highly versatile sportscaster, has died at the age of 82 at his home in San Diego. Before going on to becoming a sportscaster in baseball games for the California Angels and on the national stage, Enberg had a stint on the weekly televised boxing shows from the Olympic Auditorium during the 1960s.
- Chuck Johnston
Chuck
Just read about Dick Enberg's passing.I commented awhile back about his acceptance speech at the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame. I think he might have had something prepared,but then spoke off the cuff about how Joe Louis did more for the cause of integration than Jackie Robinson. A great presentation. Enberg finished his last year of broadcasting with the San Diego Padres in 2016. I remember him saying that he was in his 80's and that he didn't think he had that much time left. I think his last year broadcasting Wimbledon was in 2015. I think Enberg thought,perhaps,that without working,he would lose his purpose in life. He looked fit at the West Coast Boxing event in October. Too bad.He left his mark.
Amazed when I woke up this morning, went online and saw the story on Enberg. Really shocked because it has really amounted to a number of weeks ago that the was there at the dais accepting his award. I agree with you, he looked fit and sharp. I really liked one story he told - which really demonstrated the power wielded by Aileen Eaton - when she would simply walk up to him at ringside, pull the big headphones from his ear and tersely say, "Push the Roller Derby event for next week!". Wow! Can you imagine that today? Would have loved to seen her do that to Lampley. I should mention that Dick did exactly as he was instructed. A real class act was Dick Enberg. Would have loved to haves seen him stay in boxing, but he went where the money was which is what we all do. RIP Dick Enberg.
Chuck1052 wrote: ↑22 Dec 2017, 10:15
According to various news reports, Dick Enberg, a world-famous and highly versatile sportscaster, has died at the age of 82 at his home in San Diego. Before going on to becoming a sportscaster in baseball games for the California Angels and on the national stage, Enberg had a stint on the weekly televised boxing shows from the Olympic Auditorium during the 1960s.
- Chuck Johnston
Chuck
Just read about Dick Enberg's passing.I commented awhile back about his acceptance speech at the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame. I think he might have had something prepared,but then spoke off the cuff about how Joe Louis did more for the cause of integration than Jackie Robinson. A great presentation. Enberg finished his last year of broadcasting with the San Diego Padres in 2016. I remember him saying that he was in his 80's and that he didn't think he had that much time left. I think his last year broadcasting Wimbledon was in 2015. I think Enberg thought,perhaps,that without working,he would lose his purpose in life. He looked fit at the West Coast Boxing event in October. Too bad.He left his mark.
Amazed when I woke up this morning, went online and saw the story on Enberg. Really shocked because it has really amounted to a number of weeks ago that the was there at the dais accepting his award. I agree with you, he looked fit and sharp. I really liked one story he told - which really demonstrated the power wielded by Aileen Eaton - when she would simply walk up to him at ringside, pull the big headphones from his ear and tersely say, "Push the Roller Derby event for next week!". Wow! Can you imagine that today? Would have loved to seen her do that to Lampley. I should mention that Dick did exactly as he was instructed. A real class act was Dick Enberg. Would have loved to haves seen him stay in boxing, but he went where the money was which is what we all do. RIP Dick Enberg.
Dan
I remember watching Enberg on TV with the fights from the Olympic.Enberg's color commentaror was Mickey Davies. It was one of Enberg's first gigs. I honestly don't think he ever felt comfortable doing the fights especially from that venue.An arena,in a rough neighborhood,with a bunch of rowdy Mexicans screaming either pro or con for two guys bashing each other's brains out.Also, I don't think boxing was his cup of tea. Enberg liked to play golf with presidents and work more "civilized" and prestigeous sporting events like Major League Baseball,NCAA basketball,and Super Bowls. The weekly boxing shows at the Olympic were not nationally broadcast on major networks. Enberg,I think, fights at the Olympic (and Roller Derby)was small potatoes. I remember his last broadcast.Mickey Davies asked him what fighter, over the course of the year ,impressed him the most. His answer:Manny Lugo! You could have knocked Mickey Davies over with a feather.After watching the Mando Ramoses,Jerry Quarrys,and the Joe Fraziers,Enberg says Manny Lugo. No offense to Manny,but here was a prelim guy when he fought that put on an act sometimes.He'd throw punches simultaneously with both hands! He'd have the crowd in stitches.Yeah,Enberg went for the big dough.Can't blame him,but he wasn't very good doing those fights from the Olympic.He wanted out.
The Kansas City Chiefs were in San Diego to take on the Chargers in a Moday Night Football Game. Prior to that game,Mathew Saad Muhammad was going to put his light heavyweight title on the line against Lottie Mwale,the undefeated fighter from Zambia,at the San Diego Sports Arena. As usual,it was hard to scrounge up anyone that wanted to go with me so I went by myself. I had a little dough on me so I bought a ringside seat. Saad Muhammad always put on a good fight.He was a slow starter and blocked a lot of punches with his face. Just when it seemed that he'd cave in to all the punishment he was taking,he'd draw on something deep down inside and struggle back to earn a thrilling victory. Despite all the drama Saad Muhammad brought to a fight and Mwale's undefeated record,I knew a sellout crowd was very improbable. The only time I saw San Diego's largest indoor sports venue,the Sports Arena,pack 'em to the doors was the Ali/Norton upset.
So now I'm up close to all the action sitting with the high rollers,I think. I look side to side to see if i can pick out someone like a big sports star or a a Hollywood celebrity. I was drawing a blank. The under card wasn't very interesting. I wanted everything to hurry up and get to the main event. After the first warm up,three sporty looking dudes plopped into the three empty seats beside me. They were wearing natty sport jackets and showed off some big rings on their fingers.One had on a Super Bowl ring.Right away i made these three:Frank Gifford,Don Meredith,and Hank Stram the ex coach of the Kansa City Chiefs.They were hoarsing around having a good 'ol time. After I settled down watching them be boys will be boys,i was glad to see that Howard Cosell wasn't in their party. I'm sure they felt the same way. Jocks,especially famous ones,don't like to get upstaged by a loud mouth know it all sports announcer. Howard Cosell was the mold personified for being an obnoxious jerk.
The prelims didn't hold my interest any so I cast most of my gaze on the trio beside to me. As usual there was a little time between the semi main and the main event. I thought about saying something to one of them,but i couldn't come up with anything original. I thought I'd pick up somrthing more interesting just eavesdropping..But with all my radar focused on hearing something that i might write home about,their banter consisted of the usual stuff that's bounced around at your local watering hole. Then I overheard something that warranted to keep filed away in the back of my mind. As Lottie Mwale was walking down the aisle with his handlers to get into the ring,Dandy Don asked Hank Stram who he thought was going to win the fight.
"Hell,"shrugged Stram with a chuckle,"I don't know. I've never seen any of these two fight.They say this Muhammad puts on a good show.The other guy I know nothing about."
Meredith wasn't looking at Stram.
"You know, you have to be crazy to be a fighter,"said Meredith looking at Mwale stepping through the ropes..
"It's a tougher sport than football,"chimed in Gifford..
"This Too Tall Jones for the Cowboys thought he could make the switch" commented Meredith."He was the biggest, scariest thing i ever saw."
"I saw one of his fights on TV,"said Stram."He didn't show anything. The guy he was fighting was a nobody. Jones had him outweighed by fifty pounds."
"He came back to the Cowboys," said Meredith."He told me that boxing scared him to death.More than playing in a Super Bowl."
After Mwale got into the ring,Saad Muhammad came striding towards the ring with his men..There wasn't much of a commotion being made even though he was the champ.
"Yeah,you have to be crazy to be a fighter," said Meredith again."Half these guys wind up broke and the other half wind up with scrambled brains."
"I like to watch a good fight once in a while,but that's about it,"said Stram shaking his head.
I was looking on ebay and I see where the San Diego Hall of Champions is auctioning off Manuel Ortiz's scrapbook.The description said the scrapbook was put together by Ortiz's manager,Noel Johnson. The Hall of Champions closed its doors in Balboa park a few months ago to make way for a new parking structure. The Hall of Champions was the home for memorabilia of local noteworthy athletes.Big names like Ted Williams and Archie Moore had donated a lot of their awards to put on display for the fans to appreciate. The baseball Padres and the football Chargers made a lot of contributions. The local stars in the high school and college area also helped fill the shelves. But with all the tourists that visit the park,many from foreign countries,they weren't interested seeing old baseball bats and worn boxing gloves. The Hall decided to give back what they had to the families or close associates of the sports figures who had their personal treasures on display before the bulldozers were called in. What memorabilia they couldn't find a recipient for,the Hall of Champions decided they would try to sell. So I'm looking around the ebay offers in the boxing category and to my surprise there's Manuel Ortiz's old scrapbook. It looked pretty thick. It should be.The old battler was around a long time. They had some pictures of what was inside:mostly copper colored frayed press clippings from the 40's and 50's. The cover and the binding had a battered pan,maybe a metaphor for all the shots Ortiz took in the ring. It shouldn't be any other way. I'm not sure who the seller is,but it looks like one of these memorabilia sharks that gets this stuff for pennies on the dollar and then wants to make a killing. He's asking a grand. He'll never get it,but I think he knows that. But someone will hold out a couple C notes and they'll shake hands. The shark might not have filled his belly like he wanted,but he knows there are more fish in the sea he can devour.
I met Manuel Ortiz once. I mentioned it on the thread way back when. I'll retell the story with a little different slant. Seeing that scrapbook on the internet made me decide to shift paradigms. I bumped into him, so to speak, in 1970.That was the year he died. I was in this bar called The Rio.It was on the corner of 4th and G Street.It was a time when the Vietnam War was still going strong and that whole area, from the Broadway Pier east to 16th Street, was tailored for all the servicemen. You couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a sailor bar (with all them Oriental gals slinging drinks and hustling some swabby's last dollar),a cardroom,massage parlor,pawn shop,or Chinese restaurant. The Hollywood theater was still entertaining the horny sailors who missed the female companionship of their wives,girlfriends,and the B girls in Subic Bay.Flea bag hotels was were the down and out resided. It was a time when the cash flowed and so did the liquor. No one respectable would be seen there,that's why I liked it.
I had just taken in a card at the old Coliseum ,and decided to scrounge around downtown to find out if I had enough money left in my wallet so I could by enough vodka and orange juices for one of those Oriental chicks who had names like Brandy and Ginger in one of those sailor bars so I could take her up to her place that was around the corner somewhere and hope I wouldn't need to get a shot of penicillin later. I made a beeline to The Rio.
The Rio had a good crowd that night. The pinball machines were singing.The pool tables were full.Cigar and cigarette smoke filled the air. There was only one empty stool at the bar so I squeezed my way in between to get it. The Dragon Ladies ,with the heavy mascara and sequined dresses with the slits up the sides, were making every sailor feel like he had just won a Congressional Medal. The girls were blowing smoke rings at their sailor boys and laughing at every line that spewed from their liquored mouths. I had a beer in font of me.i was gazing at the big mirror behind the bar.It had a beautiful etching of that Sugarloaf Mountain in Brazil with some female tango dancer next to it. I guess that's how the bar got its name. I'm looking around to see if there's any of them Oriental chicks that's free,but they all had an Audie Murphy on their arm to bamboozle. Besides,they all knew who I was.I'd been with a few of them ,and I think they put out the word,that I liked to go home with some money left in my pocket. So I'm kind of waitnig and looking when at the end of the bar by the door,I see this old guy bent over wearing a torn coat at the sleeve. He needs a shave and a haircut. I could tell he was Mexican.He was smoking a cigarette and had a shot glass in front of him.Joyce,one of the veteran pitch girls, was making goo goo eyes at him. But then something made me not look away from those two. That tipsy Mexican guy:he looked familiar. I knew I had seen him before or a picture of him when he didn't have all that rust on him. The old guy broke out some bills and put them on the counter.Joyce went to the well to grab a whiskey bottle. As she passed by me,I caught her attention.
"Joyce sweetheart.Who's that old guy you're talking to?"
"That's' Chivo.' He used to be a fighter. He comes in here sometimes. He's a regular in the area. Everybody knows his name."
I watched Joyce walk back to the old guy.I could see the bags under his eyes,yellowed eyes, and the purple spots on the tops of his hands and arms. I waited for some room so I could wedge in and make an inquiry. A space opened.I took my beer with me. I stood next to him .His gaze was still on Joyce. I knew what my next move would be.
"Say can I buy you a drink?"I said with a stupid grin on my face.
"The old guy looked me up and down.
"Sure you can,but you have to buy the lady one too."
"Sure.No problem."
Joyce went to the well again.
"Joyce told me you used to be a fighter?"I asked the tired looking man.
"Yeah. I used to fight.That as a long time ago."
"You look familar."
"Everbody calls me 'Chivo'.That means goat in Spanish,"he said with a crooked smile.
Then it struck me. Maybe it was the crooked smile.
"Aren't you Manuel Ortiz?"
"Yeah,"he said straightening out that smile.
"You were the champ."
"So you followed my career?"
"I was a little young,but I read a lot about you."
"I fought 'em all.I fought Willie Pep. I fought Salas,Harold Dade,Maxie Docusen. I once fought in Paris."
"You must have some great memories and stories."
"That's all that's left. I come in here.No one knows me. I don't want anyone to know who I am."
"I know,but I won't say anything."
"That's OK.It doesn't make much difference anymore."
Joyce came back with the bottle and a vodka and orange juice. Manuel Ortiz was back to her again.I had been sent to my corner. I drank my beer and left,but not before sponsoring Manuel Ortiz and Joyce to another round.
I would sure like to peek inside that Manuel Ortiz scrapbook. I bet there ain't a word in there about The Rio Bar.
One afternoon when I was driving on Imperial Avenue in Southeast San Diego,I couldn't help but stop at Huffman's Barbeque. I'm addicted to hot links and Ray Huffman,the proprietor,made sure he put out the best Cajun sausages in town. This was the time I saw Archie Moore ,with his back to me sitting at a table, chomping down on a chicken dinner. Archie was by himself. He was attacking a wing like he was in the 11th round of the Durelle fight. Except for Moore enjoying his lunch , me at the counter ordering the hot link dinner,and the cooks in the back ,there was ample room for seating. Moore came up for air and caught me out of the corner of his eye. I'd helped him out years ago at his Any Boys Can center for kids that wanted to learn the sweet science and also listen to heaping doses of the Mongoose's philosophy on life. He asked me to join him. If he new my name he never said it. I don't think he was being impolite,I think he just had a poor memory for short term acqaintances.We talked about jazz and how he thought the music wasn't appreciated. Boxing wasn't brought up.My conversation with The Mongoose(I never heard anyone call him that to his face)has been told by me before,but the other day I got to thinking about something;something about the jazz great alto saxophonist Charlie Parker playing a concert at the San Diego Coliseum.I went back and read everything I had about Parker.I searched the internet.I found nothing on the topic. Then it dawned on me. It was Archie Moore that told me,inside Huffman's Barbeque,that in the early 50's Charlie Parker performed inside the ring at the old boxing arena. Archie said that he missed that gig.He was out of town fighting.He didn't say if he was the champ then.
You think of all the times you've heard someone being called a "genius." I don't think a "genius" takes much stock with that evaluation. You could say Charlie Parker was a "genius." Archie Moore perhaps.Hard work and a passion are the bedrocks for genius.Charlie Parker said that he had the ideas in his head about how he wanted to sound,but couldn't translate it through his horn ,so he packed up his sax,went to the Ozarks and holed himself up, and practiced 11 hours a day.When he got what he wanted,they called him a "genius." Like Archie Moore,Charlie Parker performed just about anywhere, for pay of course. Moore globetrotted all around the world in every tank town and the venues of the biggest and most famous arenas and stadiums.Charlie Parker played in honkytonks ,blew riffs on stage at Carnegie Hall,and and was the toast of jazz fans when he toured Europe.
So now that the wrecking balls are slamming the old San Diego Coliseum to the ground resembling Archie finishing off Yvon Durelle,or Charlie Parker choking on his last breath at the Hotel Stanhope inside the Baroness Koenigswarter's suite,and Huffman's Barbeque shutting its doors giving way to a place that sells mobile phones,I've come to grips with the inevitable. All good things come to an end. I sure would have liked to have listened to Charlie Parker play his alto.I never saw Archie Moore fight in person.But I did eat my lunch with him.
I think of all the memories that echo within that stucco building.The San Diego Coliseum was ready and willing to provide the stage.To bad that scribbler guy Shakespeare never came to San Diego. Imagine Romeo and Juliet acted out on the ring mat?
