Classic American West Coast Boxing

[dagosd2000]

Cut Out Of The Same Mold

I read somewhere that one of the young Clark Gable's allures with the studios was his resemblance to Jack Dempsey. When Gable was briefly seen in his first movie,a silent,his role was uncredited. The name of the picture was "Fighting Blood",the year,1923.That was the year Jack Dempsey was the champ and got saved by the scribes when they shoved him back into the ring after The Wild Bull had slugged him through the ropes at the Polo Grounds. Dempsey got right back to work tearing into the big lug from Argentina and had him rolling around on the canvas like a gored bull. Jack hovered over the game Argentinian.Jack was scowling,unshaven,a one man wrecking machine. The pandemonium was a reflection of the day,The Roaring 20's,when life and the stock market was lived on margin. Risk?There was no risk. Risk was for wimps. You couldn't lose if you had the guts to risk it all.

And Clark Gable?Well,he'd reach those Manassa Mauler heights in due time. When movies began to talk and we could see him and now hear him("I don't give a damn"Yeah,that was Clark Gable)they gave him the name,"The King".But Jack Dempsey, by that time, had retried.Tunney in two fights won 19 out of the 20 rounds. The Manassa Mauler didn't want to try it a third time.He had enough dough.He was married to a big movie star. He was also thinking about his physical well being. But in his prime he was the equal of The Babe,The Galloping Ghost,Big Bill,Bobby the Golfer,and Man O War Maybe he was bigger. Dempsey plied his trade with his gloved fists(even though Doc Kearns said he constructed some dry wall inside those hands).

Was Dempsey as good as they wrote him up in the papers and all the biographies? He fit the part.But as destructive as he behaved inside the ring,he was the man's man outside the ropes and conducted himself very manly in front of the public..My father knew him indirectly ,kind of. It was said that before the fight with Tunney in Soldiers Field,Al Capone sat with Jack and Doc inside my grandfather's Bella Napoli Cafe trying to work a deal to fix the fight so Dempsey wins,then there's a third fight on the level.Dempsey was thinking about not winding up with scrambled eggs for brains so he balked on the proposal. He needed the money is all.I don't think Tunney would have eaten a bowl of spaghetti with the two Jacks and Diamond Joe at the Bella Napoli so the offer never materialized.

In a few years Gable is kissing Jean Harlow,Myrna Loy,Claudette Colbert,and Vivian Leigh.He's a no brainer for the the Rhett Butler part in the biggest movie block buster of the first half of the century. Remember, he was "The King".Tracy was probably more versatile. Cagney was tough,but he wasn't no "King."(and too short) Jimmy Stewart was too nice. Bogart was too scary.Cary Grant too sophisticated.And Charlie Chaplin was practically inaudible when sound came out. Dempsey got out of serving in the War to End All Wars and took a lot of heat,but after the Firpo fight,he became a sensation. Gable was pining over the loss of Carole Lombard and joined the Army Air Corps, He was no glorious fly boy. He shot a machine gun from a B-17..After six missions and the war in the bag,the State Department called him back.We didn't want to see Rhett go down in flames from an attack by a Nazi Messerschmitt. When Schmeling got trounced by Louis in the second fight,he found himself jumping out of Henkels into Greece. Dempsey who never went "Over There" in 1917,was employed by the Coast Guard as a physical ed teacher in the States during the second big one.He was too old then to be jumping out of airplanes or shooting at Messerschmitts.

Dempsey,Gable. it was a plus that Gable looked a little like Jack Dempsey. Anyone who looked like Dempsey wasn't going to be cast as Andy Hardy. But I wonder what would have happened if Jack Dempsey would have gotten lost in those early years fighting in arenas in Cripple Creek and Tonopah? I'm sure they would have said later that Clark Gable looked like someone else.Maybe Stanley Ketchel..It sure wouldn't have been Man O War.






Now you tell me.Who's who?

[dagosd2000]

Crossing The Line

I crossed the border yesterday into Mexico. The chip to my car key quit on me. I knew what was wrong. Underneath the pressers on the chip the buttons had unattached from the sensors. Wear and tear. So I go to the dealer to the parts department. The guy behind the counter opens the chip with a pen knife
"Yep.Here it is. The buttons have worn off. You need a new chip."
"Can't you just solder them back on?"
"Nope.You need a new chip."
"What will that run me?"
"Let me look that up. A 2007 Hyundai.....a hundred and thirty seven for the part.Another thirty to program it."
Without making a stink,I motioned to him to give me back the chip.He didn't say nothin'.He looked as about interested as the man in the moon.I get in the car. I know if I go to Tijuana,the key repair guy on the street who's got a little place ain't gonna' give me a "No" for an answer. Then I'd visit Cheto's Gym in Plaza Santa Cecilia a few doors from the key shop.

I parked the car in the Soriana parking lot that used to be the parking lot for the Woolworths that used to be the lot for the Long Bar. I walked the two blocks to the Plaza Santa Cecilia where the key shop is.. There's no one at the coiunter of the key shop. A teenage kid ,I'd say,was working at a table behind the counter.
"Amigo. The car chip to my car doesn't work anymore. The buttons need soldering."
I wanted to make it clear to him that that was the problem.He took the chip from me and looked inside. He didn't say anything.
"You think you can solder them back on?"
"I'll try,"he answered."Come back in 30 minutes,"he said impassively.
I let him keep the keys and walked a few doors down to Cheto's Boxing Gym. Cheto wasn't there ,but his wife was sitting behind the desk.
"Buenos dias senora.Where's Cheto?"
"Oh,he comes in the afternoon to train the fighters."
Cheto's wife was one of those Mexican ladies that had grown gracefully with age. There were no face lifts or tight fitting jeans. She sat behind the desk very calmly. Her face was still full and beautiful.She was matronly looking that was fitting for her age.Her mouth was large and when she smiled,I could see that her teeth were white and healthy. She had put on some light pink lipstick ,but didn't wear any eye makeup. Her hair was graying at the forehead.She let it hang down her back. Her tan flesh wasn't lined much. Her brown eyes glistened when she spoke.
"Any good fighters working out?"I asked her.
"Only the ones you see here. If you ask them ,they'll tell you they will be the next champions,"she said with a cat that swallowed the canary grin.
I looked on the wall behind the desk. There was a photograph of Julio Caesar Chavez signed by him. Originally,it was Chavez's gym. I can't remember when he sold it to Cheto
I don't see many fights happening in Tijuana anymore,"I said.
"Fighting is very hard. The kids today would rather try being with the 'narcos'."
"That's too bad."
"At first it's easy. Then they get too involved. Then their friends sell them out. They should come to the gym,"she said.
"Remember all the good fights they had down here in Mexico?"
"They had good fights and fights that weren't so good,but the fighters wanted to show their best. If they didn't have the 'ganas' the fans wouldn't want them back."
"So you don't have any hot prospects?"
"The girls are the best fighters. They do what you ask of tham. The boys?Well,they want everything right away."
I continued chatting with Senora Cheto for a while.
"Well, when Cheto comes in tell him I said 'hi' ".
"You are?"
"Just tell him the big gringo came in to say 'hello' ".
She smiled at me and nodded.it was time to see if the kid had fixed the chip.When he saw me approaching,he set the chip on the counter.
"Could you fix it?"I asked.
The kid picked up the chip and aimed it at a wall sensor. He clicked the presser. A light flashed from the wall sensor.
"You fixed it,"I said relieved."
The kid showed no expression.
"What do I owe you?"
"15 dollars,"he said.
I paid him the fifteen,thanked him,and began walking back to my car.I thought about what Mrs. Cheto had said. So that was the two choices?Boxing or drug smuggling? No.there had to be something between that.

It's a struggle to make a living in Mexico. Tijuana is a little better,but it's unforgiving in Mexico. There's nobody out there that's going to feel your pain.That's why they want to come here.It's not to 'steal jobs'. it's to make 15 dollars an hour at something a grown American here thinks is beneath him.Whether they're illegals or not,much of those earnings are sent to Mexico to their families.

As I reached the border station,I thought about the "freeze" the congress(mostly the Democrats)had put on federal spending. The congressmen that voted "no" said they wanted a provision wanting the administration to favor letting the "Dreamers" stay in the U.S. With no legislation in the works and the DACA ACT to expire in March,the Dems put the kibosh on the fedreal emplyees getting paid.

The car "line" that day moved along at its normal rate. There were no hassles. The Immigration and Border Patrol people looked their usual nonchalant selves.The guard on duty asked what I had to declare and where I lived. He gave me back my "Sentri Pass" and I went on my way.

I see today that Congress had a change of heart about shutting down the government.Working at the border is no easy task. Crossing it illegally is a lot tougher.




Plaza Santa Cecilia

[dagosd2000]

A Wonderful Life

"If I had to do it all over again I wouldn't change nothing,"said Squawky."I never was a champ but that makes no difference. I loved boxing."
"That's good," I said."You always gave the fans their money's worth."
Me and Squawky were sitting outside at the Chicago Style Grill on Market Street making short work on a couple of "Chicago style" hot dogs. Marty.who owns the joint,is from The Windy City. He grew up eating sandwiches like the Chicago beef dipped sandwiches that are dipped in their own juices. His place is small and nothing to look at from the outside,but I'll go cross town from where I live to get the real article. He grills the dogs and puts them in a poppy seed bun with sliced pickles and peppers.
"How did you find this place?"asked Squawky.
"The barbeque place next door is the best in the city. I noticed this place so I gave it a try. The best sandwich and barbeque right next to each other."
Squawky nodded as he dove back into his dog. Everyone at the gym called him "Squawky" because he naver liked to talk much,that and his real name was Robin. Robin ain't no name for a fighter,so between him not saying much and having the name Robin,"Squawky seemed like a fit, besides it was OK with him being called "Squawky. He never put up a protest.

Squawky was around my age.He fought as a lightweight. The years hadn't put more poundage on him,just distributed it in different areas. He had a horse face,and hadn't lost any of that black combed back hair. His dark eyrs always looked down when he talked in that squeaky voice,but like I said he never used it much. His mouth kept a puckered look,always a little open.Squawky once told me he never talked much because he was afraid of saying the wrong thing.He had that light fair skin that cut easily every time he fought it seemed like. I could never understand why guys who were prone to cuts would want to ne a fighter,but like he had just said, he "loved boxing."
"I've always wanted to ask you something,"I said.
Before he could give me the go ahead,I asked him anyway.
"When you fought Salvador Sanchex in Tijuana.What was that like?"
"That guy had the best chin in the world. I hit him with everything I had.I couldn't move him."
"I wanted to go down there and see that one but I was sick.'
"I remember you and me were going to out on the town after that fight but you never showed."
"I was on my back for a week,"I said.
"Well Sanchez had me on my back too,"said Squawky finishing off his first hot dog.
"You know,"he said grabbing number two hot dog from the plastic basket."I've passed this place a thousand times but never gave it a try."
"You live around hear somewhere don't you?"
"Just a few blocks down the street. You know,more white boys like myself are moving in around this neighborhood."
"You like it?"
"It's fine with me. No pretensions if you know what I mean."
"If this place and the barbeque next door were at the beach there'd be line outside a block long."
Squawky was about half way through his second hot dog.
"Remember after I fought Renato at the Coliseum?You and me went out after that fight and did the town."
"How much money did you have on you that night>"I asked.
"My whole purse,a thousand bucks. I went right up to Mickey after the fight and he paid me cash out of the gate take."
"I remember you had to use part of that to make bail that night."
"But we sure had a good time didn't we?"
"Remember when you were sitting in that back booth at the Ginza?I told you that girl was one of those 'Bennie Boys' but you didn't believe me,"I said.
"When I reached under her dress that's when I found out and let her have it."
"The whole place broke out into a riot."
"I should have listened to you but you know how I am when I drink. I'm not the same person."
"You're not a 'good' drunk."
Squawky shoved the last bit of his dog into his mouth.
"That's why I've been married three times. I can't hold my liquor. If I'd made more money fighting I'd probably been married a few more times."
I was done eating too. We crunched up the wrappers and left them in the baskets.
"After my fighting career was over I didn't know what to do with myself. I must of had a hundred different jobs. Never liked any of them,"he said.
"So how's things going for you now?"
"Wondeful. I got this old Mexican gal who comes up across the border once a week and cleans my place and takes care of the other things. She don't speak English too good but that doesn't get in the way."
"That's good."
"I get my Social Security check and I'm on SSI. I live in a little apartment in back of that old quonset hut that Murray Goodman used to have his surplus store in.Remember Murray?"
"Yeah.He paid Archie Moore to wear his robe with the name of his store on the back of it when Moore would enter the ring."
"When i was down on my luck after I hit that kid in my car Archie took up a collection for me."
"I remember that,"I said in a low tone of voice.
"I stay busy though. Once in a while my daughter comes down from LA to visit me. I recycle bottles and cans after the weekend.Keeps me in drinking money.I like to take the trolley down to the border and bet the races in the casino."
"Good for you,"I said in the same low voice.
"But I sure wish i was fightin' again. There was nothing like it.It was awoderful life wan't it?"
"It sure was,"I said raising my voice
"You know. Next time let's try out the barbeque place next door."

Salvador Sanchez


It's a wonderful life as long as you can get these

[dagosd2000]

The Day Before The Fire

The old Caliente Racetrack was the big betting venue south of the border. San Diego had the Del Mar Racetrack that took in a pretty good handle,but it wasn't open all year round like Caliente.. Caliente also offered a bet called the 5-10.If you picked the winners, races 5 through 10(you could play for a 2 dollar bet),you hit the jackpot. My Uncle Joe hit it once. Walked away with 20 grand. My Uncle Joe was a habitual gambler.With the money he opened a little produce market in the east county of San Diego in the rural suburb of El Cajon.The market was just a front because in the back my uncle was making book on every sport from the ponies to the ballgames. It was a running joke with the sheriff's department out there. They knew what he was doing,but they looked the other way because the cops were placing bets all the time with my Uncle Joe. I mean what did my uncle know about oranges and cauliflowers except he had two ears that resembled the latter .He was a small time racketeer from the southwest side of Chicago.All he did in life was bartending and gambling which suited him fine. I'd go into his "market" once in a while. All the produce looked old and dead. Caliente finally ran him and an ex jockey by the name of Joe Peters out of the track because somehow they had snuck a phone into the track. They were pulling that ruse like in that movie "The Sting" .They had a guy on the take working at the Western Union.When a race started,and let's say the lead horse was six lengths in front down the stretch,then they'd phone the Western Union guy who delay the result,then they'd place the wager with a bookie.Of course the result was stalled and the bookie would get the "sting" and have to pay out.My mother never approved of her brother,my Uncle Joe,but when he died all alone in his little hotel room with the hot plate and the pull out bed on lower Broadway,my mother cried her eyes out.
"He was only a boy,"she bawled.

Well my Uncle Joe taught me how to read the racing form like he was learning me quantum physics. I never had the itch to gamble like my Uncle Joe(I had enough vices already),but from time to time I'd go to Caliente if I was feeling lucky. The old track was a structure of art. Made of oak wood with imported Italian tiles,statues and fountains graced the premises that displayed manicured lawns and flowers.Fred Harvey,the caterer and entrepreneur,put one of his posh restaurants inside the track.Fred Harvey's establishments were trademarks at all the major train depots across America. I remember the waiters dressed in their formal uniforms serving the meals on the white tableclothed furniture. Inside there were people(I should call them artists)who drew the results of the races on blackboards with hues of different chalks. The letters were elegant and beautiful.

Caliente Racetrack was a part of the action south of the border during Prohibition. All the celebrities from the US would journey down to the casino that was about a mile before you got to the track.If you ever watch that movie,The Champ with Wallace Beery and Jackie Cooper,you'll se the old racetrack. Foreigners mainly owned and opersted things. Roulette wheels,craps tables,poker games,and all the liquor and girls you could sop up where there for the price,and those high rollers didn't care about parting with their dough. But when Lazaro Cardenas stepped in as president he wanted to kick the foreigners out(goodby Standard Oil).He shut down the casino, but the track stayed.They had some pretty good nags race on that oval. Phar Lap and Seabiscuit to name two. Caliente was the first track to have the starting gate, and later Johnny Alessio ,the Amercan owner, implemented the wearing of head gear on the jocks.After the horses raced ,they'd have the greyhounds come out. They set up a little track in front of the grandstand for the dog races.

It was a Sunday. Me and Steve Bradaric(his old man was the day bartender at the Arizona)piled into my coral colored 57 Chevy Bel Air and high tailed it to the track. But we had to stop first at the Long Bar for some fortification with a couple of pitchers of Mexicali beer. We got to the track about the time of the second or third race. At that time the notewarthy trainers were R.E, Ellsworth and Cliff Clayton. There was an apprentice jock there named Miguel Yanez. He was really hot. With the five pound allowance,he was the winningest jockey at Caliente. However,when he came north to Santa Anita and Hollywood Park,he never got any of the good nags and was just so so.The Caliente track had a very hard surface. The record times at Caliente were very fast,. I think the record for 6 furlongs there was 1:07 and a 1/5th. You'd think with those fast times that the nags would run well at Del Mar. The best nags at Caliente would sometimes race at Del Mar and never get a call. The days of Seabiscuit and Eddie Arcaro were long gone by then.The races at Caliente in my day were a lot of low claiming races for 1000 dollars.It wasn't unusual to see a nag in a race that was over ten years old.

Well me and Bradaric didn't hit the 5-10 that day but we did collect on a few daily doubles. We thought with our big score wed stick around for the dog races and parlay our fortune. I liked the dog races better.It wasn't a long wait between races like it was for the nags,maybe 10 minutes. That afternoon they had kind of an exhibition race to start off the dog racing. They tied a monkey dressed in a jockey suit on top of each greyhound in the race.They gave names to the monkeys like "Eddie Bracero" and "Willie Boot Maker."It was hilarious to watch them chase the "rabbit' around the track. But by the time of the last dog race me and Steve Bradaric didn't have enough money on us to go back to the Long Bar for another pitcher of beer.We weren't even smiling .

When I got home,I threw the racing program in the garbage. The next day,Monday,I read that the racetrack had burned down. It was probably torched. They wanted Alessio out. The Mexicans wanted the whole enchilada. Johnny Alessio was always connected with the mob guys. He got in trouble with the feds mostly for not paying his taxes from the racetrack. He built a slew of schools in Tijuana,but the government wouldn't let him put his name on any of them,like he cared.

They rebuilt Caliente.It was a concrete monstrosity. They continued with the ponies,but Del Mar was expanding,There weren't any big sweepstakes races or class thoroughbreds around.The crowds had shrunk to practically nothing. Hank Rhon,the present owner,shut down horse racing in 1993. The Greyhounds kept running,but the handle was dwindling. Rhon decided to build a soccer stadium on the premises. He's owner of the Tijuana club,The Xolos. They draw huge crowds and have the highest prices for a seat in a all of Mexico. A group sky box you can shell out 200 grand and there's a waiting line! Next, Rhon is going to build a bullfight stadium.

Oh,how the times have changed. I could care less about it. The only regret I have is throwing that racing program in the garbage.


I can hear Ernie Myers in the press box now."They're off and running!"

[dagosd2000]

Monkey Business

The Caliente Racetrack also showcased some boxing cards. Because of the large seating capacity it could handle, I'd say, 10 thousand fans if required. However,most of the big boxing crowds in Tijuana saw the fights in the bullring. At Caliente they set up the ring on the track at the finish line.They had some ringside seats,but most of the seating was in the bleachers. I saw Chavez defend his title against Danilo Cabrera at the track. They really screwed things up that night. There was only one ticket booth open to handle all the fans that wanted to see Chavez put his title on the line. I was with a friend that night who when he saw the line stretch across the parking lot past the U.S. Embassy said to forget it and let's go home.
"Look pal," I responded confidently,"I'll show you how we'll bypass this mess and get in without the wait."
I took him to the back of the track where they kept the greyhounds. There was a gate there with a couple of Tijuana cops standing guard,but I knew if I made the correct gesture we wouldn't miss a round of action. When we got up to the cops,I smiled a friendly grin and waved with my best impersonation of a happy go lucky fellow.
"Buenos noches amigos," I beamed.
It was getting pretty dark.There was no one around except my friend and Tijuana's finest. The two cops gave me and my friend the once over look like what the hell are these two gringos doing here.
"Amigos," I went on,"Me and my friend really don't want to stand in that line. Is there anyway we can just pay you and you can let us in?",I proposed with my best pleading face.
The cops looked at each other. They didn't say anything.Then one of them said it would be Okay. I mean, what in the hell were they in their profession for?Just this:to take a bribe. But they didn't even have to put the bite on US. They had probably been waiting for us to come along.I reached for my money,20 bucks for the two of us. That covered the GA for a couple of ducats But then the cop who agreed to the bargain spoke abruptly.
"No.No. Don't hand me the money. Put the money over there in the weeds by the fence,"
"Why in the weeds?"
"The federal police are near by.If they see me take your money then will come up to us and take the money for themselves."
Sure.That's how it works. I put the two saw bucks in the weeds. The cop opened the gait.
Once me and my friend entered the premises we ambled up the terraced bleachers and got comfortable.
"Too bad we didn't have enough money to sit in one of those ringside seats," groaned my pal.
"You want to sit down in front?"I asked him.
Since the price of the ringside seats were 50 bucks most of the seats were not filled,but I knew why
"I'll show you how we'll get down there," I said again with assuredness.
"How's that?" said my friend entrusting me with anything at this point.
"You see the overhead ring lights? When the round begins they shut them off.When they do that we'll run down there and grab two seats."
"But won't we have to worry about the cops catching us?"
More of Tijuana's finest had the duty to make sure everything was copacetic around the ring-NOT.
"Look, you think we'll be the only ones running down there?Everyone and their brother will be hauling ass down there when they turn off the lights. You think those cops are going to put their butts on line to kick everybody out of those seats who don't belong?. They'd be the ones who'd get their asses whipped."
Like the sun rising in the east ,when those overhead lights were turned off for the first round of the opening prelim,there was a mad stampede of crazy Mexicans stepping over bodies that were slow to react and cops who couldn't get out of the way fast enough just like I said would happen.
"You see.I told you so."
The mad dash and bribing the cops was probably the most interesting occurrence of the night. Chavez tore into Cabrera and he made just as strong an effort to run and hide from Julio Cesar. I don't think Cabrera won a round in a fight that went the full 15.

The Boxrec records only have one listing for a fight at Caliente. I know there were more fights there. I went down one night by myself to watch a Mexican heavyweight by the name "King Kong" Diaz. I had seen the fight posters nailed up around TJ earlier in the week promoting the fight. Even the local San Diego papers gave it a few lines in the ports column. They mentioned that Diaz was undefeated. He was going to fight an American heavyweight that I had never heard of,Chris Davis. I admit I had to go to the Boxrec records to refresh my memory with his name. Now my mind is beginning to imagine things. An undefeated Mexican heavyweight,Has he got the goods I'm wondering? Does he have what it takes?"Is he a big athletic guy with skills,a knockout punch,and most importantly,courage? This Chris Davis guy. Is he a decent opponent?I know Mexico doesn't have a list of accomplished heavyweights on its menu. What if this "King Kong" became the champ one day? He could be the president down there.He'd be the greatest hero in Mexican history. They'd sing songs about him. He'd be a movie star. He'd marry the most beautiful actress in the republic.His face would be more in the open than the Pope's.The fight is at the track. I went down to Caliente the day before and bought a ticket. I didn't want to hassle with the unexpected. I get situated and see that the crowd was packed to the rafters. I could see the fighters making it down the aisle to the ring. The American is a black fighter. A black American heavyweight should be a good test for this "King Kong" fella'.(Found out in Boxrec that it as Davis's pro debut)
The two boys got into the ring and scuffed their shoes in the rosin box. They still had their robes on when they met in the center of the ring for instructions. I could see that Diaz is dark colored with a thick crop of black hair. He's got a round kind of baby face.He isn't what you'd call handsome,but in Mexico being homely is more of virtue with a man.Pretty boys are just that-pretty.After the ref goes over the rules the two go back to their corners and disrobe.When "King Kong" showed himself in the flesh,I knew right away that my prior conceptions were fantasies. The kid was blubbery especially around the middle. However,Davis wouldn't have won any Mr. America titles either. At the gong the two fighters plodded forward. They were slow and awkward. They punched like their hands were under water. By the 3rd round they were both spent. They were heaving laboriously.Drool was spewing from their mouths swinging like a putrid pendulum from their lips. They held and clinched throughout the entire fight. They were too tired to knock each other out,but they had enough guts to last the ten rounds. Everyone was glad when it was over. "King Kong" still ruled Skull Island,but I knew if he ever got in there with someone who could fight,he'd look like he was falling off the Empire State Building. In his next fight he was stopped by the Mexican journeyman ,Marcos Geraldo.

So there you have it. Two fights.One featuring Mexico's most famous fighter.The other, displaying a fighter who was wind and smoke. Maybe Canelo can put on another 50 pounds.



Julio Cesar Chavez

[dagosd2000]

The Palace

Another place I liked going to watch the fights in Tijuana was The Jai Alai Palace,or how the Mexicans called it,Fronton Palacio. It's still there on Revolution Street between 8th and 9th taking up just about the whole block. There hasn't been a fight there in ages and the Jai Alai games disappeared years ago. The place is one of those Caliente sports books. It does quite well.They don't play much Jai Alai in the world,not even in Spain where the game originated. I don't know how it is now,but you could only be a Jai Alai player if you were born in the Basque region of Spain, so that lowers the possibilities of many people participating in the sport. The game is similar to 3 wall handball except the players use a basket, they call a cesta,that is wrapped around their playing hand.With the cesta they catch a hard rubber ball and then play it like handball.It was an exciting game to watch,but it was rigged most of the time. The players would walk out onto the hardwood floor wearing a solid colored bright shirt and white pants. Of course the purpose was to bet 'em up,wager your money to win,place, or show. Sometimes they'd partner up so it was teams of two on two.You'd bet on the player's name not any number. For instance I'd go to the seller window and say"Ten to win on Javier." I remember seeing a lot of the girls who worked in the bars in the area betting their "trick" money at the Fronton. Easy come,easy go. Anyway ,they also would put on some fight cards at the Palacio,a big cream colored stucco building with the tile statue of the Jai Alai player out front Inside,the seating was tiered on one side rising up to the top of the ceiling.There was a nice bar and restaurant with waiters that came around to take your order. Across the street on the corner one of the Jai Players opened a Spanish restaurant and named it Chiki Jai. He put figures made with tiles on the front: Don Quixote and Sancho Panza sitting on their horses. The restaurant is still there. I don't know how it has stayed open for so long(since 1947).Mexicans don't care much for Spanish food just like over in Spain Spaniards aren't attracted that much to the Mexican bill of fare. When tourists cross the border they're not looking for a restaurant that serves paella. Hey,let me get back to the fights.

One night,it was the late 60's and off the top of my head I don't recall the card or any of the fighter's names so the aim here is not a description of the fights,but what transpired in a conversation I had with this Mexican kid who sitting next to me. We were sitting ringside. He told me it was his first time to see a fight. He was with his father and uncle. The two adults were the aficianado type.I could see they were really engrossed.They didn't pay much attention to the kid who I'd say was around 14. He was dressed neatly in a nice cashmere sweater and looked very unassuming.Like I said,I don't remember a thing about the fights that night.

Me and the kid got to talking. He asked me if this was my first time to see the fights. I said that I was pretty much a regular when it came to taking in the boxing matches. I filled him in on the current and past history of the Mexican boxing scene. It was a time when Mexico was flooded with champions and contenders.From welterweight on down,Mexican names dominated the rankings and championships. The kid was all ears.He wouldn't have given a wooden peso to carry on with his father and uncle who had the kid on their pay no mind list. Me and the kid even started talking about the differences between the U.S. and Mexico. He did most of the asking. He said he had never been to the United States.Then he asked me about all the Americans he saw at walking up and down Revolution Street, especially at night.
"Tell me," he said in a serious tone."What is inside all those bars?"
His query caught me by surprise.
"Well",I said trying to pick my words delicately."There are girls who work in those bars and they go with the men to satify their urges."
The kid's face sank,his body slouched like all the air had been slugged out of him. He turned his face away from me.I tried to explain,but the kid just sat there in silence. He didn't say nothing to nobody the rest of the night. His father and uncle were still wrapped up into themselves.I sat there looking into the ring. Sometimes I would glance over to the kid.He was looking at the floor. I don't think he remembered who was fighting that night either.

[dagosd2000]

Up And Down Old Broadway

Remember when Ring Magazine had that reporter Sam Taub who'd contribute articles the under his column "Up And Down Old Broadway"? I used to subscribe to The Ring. Then , also in the back pages,The Ring devoted features on pro wrestling. But Sam Taub;s byline always struck me,"Up And Down Old Broadway." I imagined this little Jewish old man in a tweed suit fancying a bow tie walking up and down Broadway,The Great White Way in New York City dropping in to see Jack Dempsey in his joint listening to what the latest, or the past, had on its menu,then sated, traversing through the heart of Manhattan The Village ,the Theater District,Times Square,Central Park West, past Columbia University, reaching the Bronx.Depending if you're going up or down, the historical landmarks ,the folklore,the ghosts and the living,the famous and the phone book names all to be savored, could fill a tome of Americana.

Every big city has its Broadway.Often it's just "Broadway." It's not addended with "avenue" or "street" or "boulevard."It's too important for the extra words. Broadway stands alone so to speak. We have a Broadway in San Diego too. Now before you start rolling your eyes,our Broadway is just as meaningful,maybe more so, because it is a part of our memories,especially the San Diegans that walked up and down its sidewalks before the renovations and the razings.Before all the high glass office buildings and condos,the franchise names and the pretentious ones,the glitter and the shine.Broadway ,now, is mostly a gimmick,a high priced tourist trap.P.T. Barnum would give a thumbs up to it all. Me? I try to avoid Broadway. The end,I'd say from 5th Avenue west to the harbor,is for the rubes who just blew into town and pay with their plastic. They eat in a façade of a overpriced seafood restaurant,take a harbor excursion ride,see the cruise ships in port,maybe take a shuttle to the zoo,and go back to the sticks and tell everyone back home they know what San Diego is all about. From 6th Street running east, Broadway shows its seamier side:the homeless pushing their lives in a shopping basket,the winos and hypes,the smell of urine wafting in the air.the lights at night dimly showing an eerie world,a world of lost souls that will never find their way back.

When I was a kid I'd take the 32 bus down to the foot of Broadway to old Lane Field,that green pined structure with all the knotholes where the minor league Padres called Lane Field their home,and where Ted Williams(a San Diegan),Joe DiMaggio,and Lefty O'Doul would swing for the fences.It was at Lane Field where Archie Moore finally put Shorty Hogue to sleep,but that was because Shorty's twin brother,Big Boy, was supposed to take on the Mongoose that night but on his way through the parking lot he injured his leg bumping into a rusty car fender so there was Shorty sitting at ringside, and not very sober, ready and willing to defend the family honor. I never saw any of that. I was just a twinkle in my old man's eye.

By the way, I didn't mention that me and the wife have booked this riverboat cruise on the Danube River in the summer. It's one of those Viking cruises on one of their new boats. We'll be seeing Prague first,then traveling in an air conditioned bus to the Danube and then on to Budapest,and Vienna. When I get back I'll tell you what all those places were all about.



Ted Williams



Parker's Mood by Charlie Parker. I know I was born too late.Oh well

[dagosd2000]

Many scenes in the movie The Champ filmed in 1931 were shot in Tijuana. Some of the locations are priceless:the Aguas Caliente Casino,The Aguas Caliente Racetrack. Watch this short scene in this clip.When Wallace Beery opens the gate to go outside,you can see the old Blue Fox Cafe..After it closed its doors,they made another Blue Fox(it was located on 2nd Street just off Revolution),but it wasn't a café by any stretch of the imagination.It was probably,next to the Moulin Rouge,the most infamous house of ill repute in the world.They tore it down around 40 years ago and built one of those parking ramps. Took all the fun away.
P.S. Just noticed when Beery leaves to go to the bar across the street,the price for a large pitcher Mexicali beer was 75 cents. That was the going rate in the early 60's when I did my drinking in the Long Bar. I don't think the bar Beery was going into was the Long Bar. Could have been, It was on Revolution Street,but it didn't have windows on the side where you could look out to the street.

Wallace Beery as Andy Purcell,The Champ





When they use the word "eat",they weren't talking about rolled tacos.They should have handed out "tweezers" at the door before you exited the place. Stupid is what stupid does,but I sure had a ball(literally)

[dagosd2000]

Homage

I just saw this on Youtube last night:an homage to Muhammad Ali by George Foreman after Ali's passing in 2016. Before I get into what I think of Foreman's tribute,I want to say again, that Foreman's transition from this one dimensional moody monster crushing every man that stood in front of him on his trek to the heavyweight title,and then after conquering Frazier validating his force,to see him today is like looking at someone else in a "George Foreman suit." His name is still George Foreman,but is it some sort of clone?Of course not,but today Foreman has come to terms with his life and what wants to do ahead in life. He wants to be a good guy.Call it a rebirth,salvation,he is a humble man,more of a man today than that ogre that glared to the camera threatening,"I'm going to kill you."

Liston,Frazier,and Norton are not with us anymore. Along with Foreman,these great fighters,champions,participated with Ali in heavyweight title matches that live in the paragons of boxing lore. You can call the two Liston fights farces,but think prior to fighting Liston,the pugilistic public believed that Clay/Ali would crumble to Sonny's massive fists. Joe Frazier displayed his Godly bequested courage in three of the most memorable fights ever with his Ali.Foreman was supposed to do what Liston was supposed to do to Ali. George was even bigger and meaner than Sonny,and Ali, by that time, wasn't Clay anymore.At least George didn't quit,even though he said later,"I should have got back up." And then there was Kenny Norton. He never fought Joltin' Joe. Liston had self destructed by then.Foreman made him look like all the stepping stones that George had stepped on before,but Kenny Norton will always be remembered for giving Muhammad Ali the most problems. If you peruse the many threads of Boxing History on the Boxrec site,the back and forth about Ali and Norton could fill a tome. Don't go after me with this,but I thought Norton got shafted in the last two. That would have been three victories and no defeats against The Greatest. Frazier,Liston,and Foreman combined to beat Ali once. But I'm making an argument that I try to stay away from;Who was better? So now I'm going to pass the buck to Big George.

If you watch Foreman's tribute to Ali,there's an amazing revelation.George said that in the late 70's Ali called him up and asked him if he'd fight Ken Norton again. Here's George tellin' it.
"Please fight Norton again,"begged Muhammad."I can't beat him. He's scared of you."
Now that's what Foreman said that Ali told him on the phone,"I CAN'T BEAT HIM"

But wait a minute,the records show very clearly and obviously that Norton won the first fight and lost the next two. The Ali followers will point to record the book for assisted validation.The Ali debunkers will argue till the end of time that the judges got it wrong.The anti Ali'ers should have gotten hold of Muhammad to prop up their arguments.

But maybe George took something out of context. Maybe Ali was talking tongue in cheek. Maybe George was hard of hearing. Maybe he just made the whole thing up.

I knew Ken Norton on the periphery when he was growing up on so so heavyweights in the Southland. I sparred with him several times. He didn't show his feelings much. i'd say only that he was a little arrogant.He liked bringing his young son,Ken Jr. to the gym.When Jose Luis Garcia knocked him unconscious in Los Angeles,it finally exposed this unexplainable problem Norton had with endurance. In the middle rounds he'd hit the wall.Against some very mediocre opposition,it looked like he was going to literally collapse. Then an accomplished Garcia made Norton re think his career. It wasn't a lack of hard work in the gym or on the road. Couldn't really blame it on a lack of good sparring partners(unless you want to mention my name).It was something between Kenny's ears. For some reason he'd get psyched out.So a desperate Norton went to a hypnotist,a local entertainer who called himself Dr.Dean,real name Dean Ezell.Something worked.Norton never had a stamina issue again. But when they made the fight with Ali in San Diego,Kenny's big win ,you could say, was against Henry Clark.I thought Clark would take him,you know ,Norton would run on empty by the 5th or 6th and put Norton on nowhere street forever. But Norton stopped Clark and then Ali was guaranteed 200 grand for what many believed as a "novelty fight " against the Henry Clark beater..

Both fighters spent their final weeks training in the Town and Country Hotel banquet room.While Ali was feasting on his ego talking more to the crowd than breaking a sweat,Norton,after Ali went back to his hotel room,would spar and punch the bags to a lonely hall littered with the residue that was left on the floor and tables after Ali's departure.. You could hear the echoes of the Norton's gloves striking the leather.

Something about Norton:I don't think Ali impressed him al all. He didn't disrespect him,but neither did he revere him.Norton only let the big punchers work on his mind.Norton had this beautifully muscled physique.He was Mandingo.To Norton,Ali was a pitter patter puncher who couldn't hurt him.It was Foreman,Shavers,and Cooney that hurt you if they found your chin.Norton lasted 4 rounds in total with those fellas'.

But Norton's success against Ali is still unbelievable and hard to explain. To bad we couldn't have gotten Ali to explain it to us.


Kenny Norton

[dagosd2000]

Taking A Little Off The Top

Just off the top of my head:When Angelo Dundee was in San Diego a couple of weeks before Ali's fight with Norton,I caught Dundee in a quiet moment outside in front of The Town And Country Hotel lobby.Both Ali and Norton were putting the finishing touches with their training at the hotel. I asked Dundee if they were going to put together a fight between Angelo's charge,Jose Napoles,and Carlos Monzon.Dundee didn't answer,but said that he was confident Napoles could beat Monzon. Napoles trained for five rounds for that fight..The fight went six. Angelo had a lot of great fighters to work with,but sometimes he couldn't control them. Napoles was one. At the end of his career Jose spent more time at the track than he did in the gym,and sometimes when he did show up ,he had had a few drinks in him.

Willie Pastrano was another fighter Dundee couldn't keep a lid on. Dundee said that Willie was a sex addict. When he should have been getting his rest before a fight,Willie was rolling around in the sack with some gal. Usually when a fighter disappears,his corner can find him in some watering hole. With Willie it was the No Tell Motel.

While I'm on that subject of fighters and women,my dad told me that when Rocky Marciano was in Chicago for a fight,Rocky would request the Outfit to line him up with a row of dames. My dad said that Rocky preferred to be in the sack with more than just one.My dad also said that Marciano's wife wasn't a favorite with the paisans.

I see where this Cuban exile kid,Yunier Dorticos,is going to try to unify the cruiserweight title against this tough Russian,Gassiev. Both boys are undefeated. I saw Dorticos fight here in San Diego.He went through an undefeated fighter by the name of Hamilton Ventura in less than a round. Dorticos reminds me of Teo Stevenson. All but one of his victories have been by knockout. I don't know anything about the Russian.The fight is in Russia,a tough task for Dorticos,but I think the Cuban will knock him out.


Rocky Marciano

[dagosd2000]

The Unspoken Truth

"You never saw Willie Pep,"said my old man.
"He was the best there ever was,"added my uncle Anthony."No one could lay a glove on him."
I was sitting in the parlor of my grandmother's house with my uncle Anthony my father's little half brother,and my dad in the house on the corner of Polk and Oakley Boulevards where my grandfather Diamond Joe had raised his family. We were waiting to eat the traditional Sunday dinner that all the women were cooking in the kitchen. Me and my old man and my uncle Anthony had just returned from the bakery with the fresh hot Italian loaves of bread.I'm listening to their conversation trying to make heads and tails of it.
"That mulignan Sandy Saddler couldn't lay a glove on him all right,"laughed my dad.
"Does Willie Pep fight anymore?"I asked.
"Naw,"said my uncle Anthony in a smug tone of voice."After he took care of Sandy Saddler he didn't need the dough anymore."
"He was the greatest,"my old man went on."The only guy who beat him was Sammy Angott and he was Italian."
"But I saw Rocky Marciano knock that moolie Joe Louis through the ropes,"said my father's half brother.
"Louis had enough after Rocky got through with him,"laughed my father.
"I'll tell you another mulignan that got what was coming to him.Sugar Ray Robinson.Jake LaMotta beat the hell out of him.,"boasted my uncle.
"Robinson and all his fancy sport coats."
"And that entourage that followed him around all the time."
"Jake put him in his place,"validated my old man.

I went along in life believing the words spoken by my uncle and my father to be the Gospel. Their rhetoric transcended more than their opinions about fighting.It had to do with a breed that ,taken on face value,was better than the black man,or to put it nicer terms,the negro,or to convey it in the southwest side vernacular,the mulignans. Those grease balls always threw out their chins and swelled up their chests before they smirked "mulignans."That Scorsese movie Raging Bull hit it close to the heart.That's how I remember how the neighborhood talked. Chicago,New York,it didn't matter.Those Italian neighborhoods were strictly defined. The Jews and the Irish and maybe the Greeks were on the periphery,but that was just a cramp. The "moolies'? That was a different matter. They were persona non grata.

I remember the first black kids I saw face to face. I was around eight years old. I had this tennis ball and was bouncing it against the wall of my grandmother's house on Polk and Oakley. Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple of black kids around the same age as myself approaching.
"Hey Mack,can we play with your ball,"one of them asked.
"Sure,"I said innocently.
I threw the kid the ball.
"Thanks sucker,"he laughed and took the ball and began walking down the street back where they came from.
"Hey,"I begged."Give me my ball back."
The kid with my ball turned his head around and told me to go" f--k "myself. I didn't know what to do.I was a little afraid.Then I heard a roaring voice.It was my Aunt Jeanette. She was at the top of the stairs and saw what had happened,all 300 pounds of her with her peroxide blond hair.
"You no good f-----g n-----s",she yelled rumbling down the stairs."give him the ball back or I'll slice you up with my knife!"
The kid dropped the ball like he had a hot coal in his hand and ran back with his friend towards 18th Street.
"Those f---ing mulignans,"said my aunt out of breath."They think they can come around here and pull that s--t."
I couldn't find any words.


As I grew up and my family moved away from Chicago and settled in San Diego,I found out that Willie Pep had lost to Sandy Sadler 3 times,and Sugar Ray Robinson had beaten Jake LaMotta 5 out of 6,and that Joe Louis was just a shell of himself in his last fight with Marciano. Then I thought of all those stories my dad and uncle and all the other grease balls would talk about in the poolrooms and standing on the corners in Little Italy. Somehow, it made dubious sense.


Sandy Saddler

[dagosd2000]

He's Gone

"He's gone,"
That's what Ralph and Joe Varchetti,my grandfather's bodyguards said to the police when they arrived to see my grandfather,dead on the sidewalk just a little ways down the street from his house. These two were supposed to protect my grandfather.Diamond Joe took good care of these guys and their families,but when the car pulled up along side them that evening and the Borsellino brothers leaped out with shotguns blazing away,Tony and Ralph were face down on the pavement.They left my grandfather standing there looking like a flagpole. 56 garlic soaked pellets ripped into him and it was over that fast.After the car sped away,Ralph dusts himself off and bends over my grandfather's bloody corpse. Ralph gives it a nudge. It's pretty obvious.
"Dimey?",Ralph mumbles.
Now everyone on the street pours out to see what happened. My father and his little sister Jeanette along with their mother ,my "nana" Carmela, were sitting on the porch of the house waiting for the patron of the 19th Ward who was returning from the Hod Carriers Union meeting. Diamond Joe headed it up. My father and his sister, when they saw him and his bodyguards walking up the street,started to bolt off the steps of the porch.Their father saw them.
"You waita a minit.I stop to buy some flowers.You waita a minit for me."
Those were his last words.Then hell arrived.My grandmother ran down the street and threw herself on her dead husband's body. She screamed revenge.My father and his sister were devastated.

My grandmother went to Capone for an explanation.
"It was a mistake,"shrugged Al Brown."It wasn't supposed to be that way."
What way? Big Bill Thompson was the mayor of Chicago. He gave Capone a free hand for a price that was affordable.My grandfather was the alderman for the 19th Ward. He was a Republican.Thompson was a Democrat and had all the rest of the alderman,who were Democrats, in his hip pocket. So Thompson went to Capone. to the guy my grandfather brought out from Brooklyn along with Frankie Yale to give him a "start",My grandfather introduced Capone to some high stake racketeering..Capone ate his spaghetti in Diamond Joe's Bella Napoli Café on a nightly basis. Dion O'Bannion tried to offer the cook to lace poison in Capone's rigatonis. The cook tipped off my grandfather who in turn went to Capone. They had to dig some more graves at Mt, Carmel after that fiasco.

So Al offered to take my father in to live with him in Capone's mother's house with his son Al Jr. who everyone called "Sonny."Capone's wife Mae then began griping that my father was a bad influence on their son. I guess she thought her husband was something more saintly. There's that picture of Capone with my father and Machine Gun Jack McGurn standing watch at the Cubbies game at Wrigley Field. Gabby Hartnett is talking to Capone.It was all set up for the city to see that Al was just an average kind of guy who enjoyed America's pastime like everyone else.

After the war,my father came out of the Marines. He'd seen plenty of killing and participated in as much at Okinawa and Pelilieu.He went looking for the Borselinno brothers. I heard about this from my uncle Joe. I guess one of the brothers was dead or deported,but the other one was still in the neighborhood. Don't need to tell you they had to break out the shovels at Mt. Carmel again.



Diamond Joe's funeral in front of his house. My mother when she was a little girl and her family lived upstairs. My father when he was kid and his family lived downstairs in the main house. I lived there for a time too. The house is gone now. The University of Illinois Chicago campus has a structure there It's all gone.The house,Diamond Joe,my father, Capone,the neighborhood,but I still have a little bit left to pass along a story or two



That's All-Jimmy Forrest

[dagosd2000]

Goodbye



Goodbye-Charlie Parker alto,Chicago tenor Von Freeman "live" at Chicago's Blackhawk restaurant 1948.That's all gone too.
I know what it meant when Bogart said "It's the things dreams are made of."

[dagosd2000]

Time For A Change

Next Monday the wife and I go to Mexico,Jiquilpan,Mexico to be exact where we had a house built ten years ago. it was different then,from a family perspective,and from my field of vision,just about everything else.Maybe it has to do with my age and my sore back.Then again,I could still be in my prime and the differences are unmistakable.Mexico isn't the Happy Place it used to be. For the first time that I can remember,Mexicans are looking over their shoulders. it used to be that it was silly to worry about what might go wrong,but fear ,like an invisible fog,drifts by everyone's front porch.They don't sluff it off anymore. Today, I hear Mexicans on this side say things like."I don't go down to Mexico anymore."A Mexican will caution you about maybe going somewhere that might be risky.Before,it was it was like that song,"La vida no vale nada."(life means nothing).They laughed at mortality.,but when death is executed without a dignified finish,a paranoia infects the spirit.

Jiquilpan has around 15 thousand residents.Most have lived their all their lives.The women stay pretty much put. The men ,however,have transversed the republic and the United States working from job to job ,sending the money back to their families.Maybe they start to build a house where sometime in the future they can finally retire and be near the kids and grandkids. But this dream is shaping without form. Unfinished,abandoned skeletons cast a lonely mood on the dirt streets and in the rolling country in the outskirts of town.Besides,no youthful Mexican wants to feel old by living in a far away little pueblo. Fathers who have migrated to El Norte, legally or without the proper papers, can't keep up. The cost of living in U.S.,the skyrocketing inflation below the border,the time and distance between a man and wife seeing each other only to talk on the telephone thousands of miles apart and asking what my son looks like because the father has only a photograh for a reference.It's like a rope cutting off the circulation.

My wife wants to go because she wants to go to the cemetery to visit her mother's grave. She passed away on the 16th of February more than 20 years ago.My wife has brothers and sisters in Jiquilpan. Everytime we go to the gravesite,I see the dried dead flowers near the headstone,the flowers that were fresh and alive when my wife placed them in front of her mother's headstone the previous year.

There'll be no more parties at our house like before when there was still a little hope,a vision,a dream that could be touched.But I can't be a gloomy Gus They'll see me as the American who's got it made because I am an American.However,today,that perception is more than a little envy. I need to stay close to the family,look over my shoulder once in a while. Lately, they've found some severed heads in black plastic bags around town.

It'll be a change all right.I only hope it's a change for the better.



The Virgin of Guadalupe Church about a block from our house


My wife in the middle flanked by our son,Ramon,and her sister.That picture was taken a long time ago




Some of my wife's family out in the country




Jose Alfredo Jimenez-Caminos de Guanajuato

"La Vida No Vale Nada" ANDALE JOSE ALFREDO!

[dagosd2000]

On The Reservation

Joe Frazier was the befitting foil for Muhammad Ali.You can add Liston and Foreman,but Sonny sat on his stool in the first fight and had a minor stroke in the second. George fought a dumb fight with Muhammad.He says so today. He thought the great Ali would cave in early like all the other Foreman victims. Foreman,if he would have paced himself and not loaded up with every swing could have possibly won,or at least lost a non entertaining decision.But Joe Frazier had only one gear and that cog wasn't " reverse."

During The Fight of The Century,Ali had slowed down by then. His legs were heavy, and Joe's pins ,like the rest of his body,were on fire. Unlike Sonny and George,Joe didn't carry the "bully" with him to try to get inside an opponents head. When the bully finally gets in there with another fighter who's tougher mentally(and granted,has skills),that intimidating factor turns into panic. Joe Frazier never panicked. Just about every fighter,great,good,and bad,is just a shadow of himself in his encore. Joe's last fight with Foreman was harder to take than the first fight.Joe was bobbin' and weavin',but his legs didn't want to move his frame into George's fuselage again.

When The Fight of The Century was being built up(Ali is back and now everything is right in the boxing world),it was another fight ,pitting Ali's wit and sarcasm and loudness of tone propelling into Joe's face.It was a no contest.Frazier saw everything as black and white. Allegory,subtlties,,nuance wasn't imbedded into Joe's mantra. The Ali cultists thought that this verbal massacre was enough to overwhelm Frazier.But the real fighting is done in the ring,not on the television talk shows.Ali lost fair and square,but blamed it on himself mostly. Then things get muddled. Joe puts his title on the line against. two unranked guys He runs into a killing machine called George Foreman. Ali loses to some little known fighter on the West Coast.But eventually it comes back to Ali correcting his mistake against Joltin' Joe. And again Ali does his Mr. Insult impersonation ala Don Rickles holding tiny rubber gorillas in his hand and punching them while he alludes that Frazier is somewhat simian. The Ali cult is roaring with laughter.

Joe Frazier was not stupid.He might have not been the most read man in the world(Ali wasn't either),but he was down to earth.As I add on the years ,book smarts is losing it's status with me.A good person doesn't require a Phd..Ali could articulate with his poetry.He as extremely intuitive.He could read your mind. As good as he was with his fists,Ali could have hosted a late night talk show.Joe stuck to fighting,That's all he knew.Both Ali and Frazier,after they put all their gear back inside their lockers for good, began slipping away from the dementia. Frazier also began a fondness for drink.But the media and the public still wanted to see Ali.The Olympics,60 Minutes,Friars Roasts until it became impossible. Now the cameras would go to him .We saw a tragic figure. We cried.Ali had entered immortality. Joe,on the other hand,was at sea still carping about how Ali talked to him.Even his son asked his dad to let go. But like I said,he saw things in black and white.

Oh, it must have been ten years ago. I was at a fight at the Four Points Sheraton Hotel. It was a small crowd.The card was unnoteworthy. I saw this guy who I knew only visually approach me where I was sitting. In his hand were a bunch of tickets. He greeted me like a long lost friend
"How would you like some free tickets for the fights next week at the Pachanga Indian Reservation?"he beamed.
I looked up at him giving him the once over.He mentioned some fighters names which I didn't recognize.
"I'll take one. Can i have another if i want to take a freend?"
"You can have as many as you want,"he gloated.
I took two..I asked a pal if he'd like to tag along. He thought it over and then relented.

The Pachanga Indian Reservation is located, like all those other Indian reservations:way out in the boondocks in the foothills of the east county. At night,you can't see much on the winding asphalt roads so I don't like to do any drinking when I attend the cards out there. When we finally arrived after an hour long trek,I could see just a handful of people in the set up arena. I was thinking how many of the customers got in free like us?.

Again,I can't tell you who was fighting that night. I was wishing that I didn't take the passes when my friend gave me a nudge.
"Isn't that Joe Frazier sitting at ringside,"he said pointing.
I quickly focused Joltin' Joe into view.
"It sure is," I answered."I wonder who's with him."
Before the main event,the ring announcer(who was also the promoter),pointed out the noteworthies in the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen,fight fans,"he shouted out to the audience."It is my pleasure to announce that we have with us the former heavyweight champion of the world with us tonight...Joltin' Joe Frazier!.Stand up Joe."
The guy sitting next to Frazier put his hand under Frazier's arm and helped him stand up.Frazier was smiling and waving.His face glowed as bright as the ring lights.The crowd gave him a standing ovation.Then suddenly Frazier pitched forward. The guy still had his hand under Frazier's arm. If he hadn't ,Joe would have landed face first on the ring apron.There was some laughter.
"Look,Frazier's drunk," said my friend.
Frazier finally, with the assistance of the guy next to him ,resettled into his seat. He was still smiling and waving.I turned to my friend.
"If the main event is a stinker,let's get out of here early.I don't like diving on that road."
"Ok with me ,"he said.
After a couple of rounds,I got up and waved to my friend that it was time to go.
As we were slowly moving along that winding road back to the city ,never seeing another car,my friend broke the silence.
"What about that Frazier being drunk like that?"
"What about it,"i said.


Joe frazier after his fighting days were over

[dagosd2000]

No Fish Story

I went to my high school homecoming football game last year. I went by myself. it was an I'mpulse,and the fact that I was bored. Where I went to high school still has a fairly good tradition,not only in the community,but in San Diego. A lot of that attention derived from the former football coach,Bennie Edens. I played for him in the early 60's and went back to coach with him in the late 80's early 90's. The district finally forced him to retire,I believe in 1994. He had gone through several strokes and was beginning to lose his grip on things.He had mind lapses,had troulble walking,his stamina had left him.The district wouldn't cover him anymore with health insurance so in 1994 he retired. He had almost 50 years of coaching at the school.At that time he was the longest active high school coach in the country.He never coached anywhere else.When he passed away in 2009 they named the football field in his honor.

If you ask anyone in San Diego what they know about Point Loma High School,they'll say that's where Bennie Edens coached football for all those years. I think that's why there is such a good turnout for their homecoming games.But like I said,I didn't go to the homecoming game for any sentimental reasons At the half they invited the alumni to step down and walk on the track in front of the bleachers.Well,it looked like a fire drill at the old folks home. My hip told me not to go down there,but even if I still had a bounce in my step,I wouldn't have joined the parade. A lot of Point Loma alums wear their graduating class on their chests like a badge of honror.The farther back you go,the more you're revered.,at least that's what they have in their minds.Funny,while the geriatric set was hobbling along on the track,I don't think anyone much cared. I looked around and everyone was either at the refreshment stand,playing with their I Phones,or going through adolescent rituals of sexual flirtations. All this time the PA system was blasting what was,I guess ,the current rap song hits.

Point Loma was well ahead by the half. Usually, they book a homecoming game with a weak opponent. That way it's a happy homecoming for all the fans who are cheering for "our" side. I stayed around for the half because I was curious to see if I could recognize anyone I went to school with,or just someone I knew from the neighborhood. Through al the pandemonium,I saw this old guy walking with a cane with the other alums. He was wearing a crunched up fedora.He seemed by himself,everyone passing him by.But he was the guy I couldn't take my eyes off . When the ceremony finished,I followed him with my eyes. He carefully walked through the gate and sat down on the first row of the bleachers. I moved down from where I was and ambled next to him .As I drew closer everything came into focus It was Eddie Madruga,an old Portugese fisherman. I used to pal around with his son,Eddie Jr. when I was going to Point Loma. His son ws going to the Catholic high school,Saint Augustine. I sat down next to him.There were mobs of people walking in front of us so it was hard to see the football field.
"Mr. Mendoza,"I said politely."Remember me?Roger. I used to pal around with Eddie."
The old guy turned his head and smiled.
"Sure.How have you been?"
Mr. Mendoza's jacket resembled the condition of his hat.His trousers fitted loosely. He was wearing tennis shoes with no socks.
"I've been doing well,"I said."I see you made it to homecoming."
As I began striking up conversation,I saw that Mr. Mendoza's copper colored face was lined and drawn.His brown eyes were deep set below coarse steel pitted gray eyebrows .His thin deep purple mouth , a beaked nose,and high forehead filled out the rest of his countenance.Though his build was average,his hands were large and rough with thick dark fingernails. The hands of a fisherman. Through all the age,he smiled and was alert.
"I usually don't come anymore,"he said."I had an urge tonight. I don't like walking much."
"Did you go to school here?"I asked.
"I graduated in 1950."
"You must be the oldest alumni here tonight."
"I don't know,"he said."I think there's another fella' over there that went to school here before I did",he said pointing.
"Why did you send your son to Saints instead of Point Loma?"
"I thought going to Catholic school was better.Besides,just about all the Portugese were sending their kids to Catholic school."
"There's not much left of the Portugese community anymore,"I said ruefully.
"It's all gone,the boats the fishermen,the neighborhood.I fished for close to 50 years."
"Didn't they say you used to be a fighter once?"
"I tried it for a while. I thought I could fight better than fish.When I quit fishing,that's when I got drafted. If you tuna fished the government left you alone. We were feeding the country.When I tried boxing Uncle Sam sent me the letter."
"Someone said you fought Bob Murphy.."
"Yeah, I fought Murphy,but not in a ring,but it really wasn't all that. I was in the Arizona one night.I see Murphy at the end of the bar working his way down to my end bothering everybody in the process."
No way I was going to miss this story,especially from the horse's mouth.
"Well Murphy had been drinking and like all those Irish,he's a bad drunk.I figure when he gets to me something is going to happen.Besides, he knows that I've had a few fights as a pro."
"So what happened when he got to you?"
"I catch him out of the corner of my eye,but pretend I don't notice him.Then he bumps up against me and puts his arm on my shoulder. I figure now it's going to start."
"Was the Arizona crowded that night?"
"It was packed to the doors.I think everyone wanted to see us go at it except Radovich. He didn't want a beef in his place."
"So what happened next?"I asked with baited breath.
"Murphy puts his face up to mine and says'I hear you're a fighter' I look around and everyone's stopped what they're doin' looking at me and Murphy. I kind of sluff it off and say 'Yeah I've fought a little.' ".
"Then what?"
The football game had resumed, but that was on my pay no mind list by now.
"Well Murphy puts his face almost touching mine and begins smiling.Then he says 'Son let me fill you in on somethin'.No matter how much you like everybody there's always one son of a bitch that hates your guts for no damn reason' ".
"And that was it?"
"That was it. Nothing.He just continued going down the bar."
"The way they all tell it,I thought it was a knockdown battle royal with blood all over."
"Over time stories get stretched. It's like an old fish story. It gets bigger each time it's told."
"Yeah I guess so,"I said a little disappointed.
"Well, I don't know about you but I'm going to get to get going,"said Mr. Madruga.
"Me too.I've had enough of homecoming."
We shook hands. I told him to say hello to his son.I got up and moved through all the people to the parking lot.I decided if anyone should bring up the time Eddie Madruga and Irish bob Murphy got into it at the Arizana that night,i'd believe anything they said about it



Tuna fishing with poles .A real fish story.




Irish Bob Murphy

[dagosd2000]

Juan

I've been married to my wife for 45 years and been going down to her home town,Jiquilpan,Michoacan for the same amount of time. Ten years ago we had a house built in Jiquilpan in the section of town up on the hill they call Las Lomas. The house was built on the property where my wife's mother,Maria de Jesus(everyone called her Jesus), lived.We brought her to Tijuana after I married my wife, She took care raising my sister in law's three sons,Jorge,Oscar,and Fernando.My sister in law,Teresa,their mother,wasn't what I'd say playing with a full deck. She lived with her mother in the house in Tijuana,but it was my mother in law who lived for those three boys. I always saw her wearing her apron that was spotted with splotches if manteca.She lived in that house in the old colonia of Canon Jhonson for 15 years. Every Sunday my wife and I would go to Tijuana to visit her and the boys.Sometimes some of my wife's family would make the trek to Tijuana.It was to visit Jesus of course,but there was always the very good chance they could find a "coyote" to smuggle them across the border to the United States.Sometimes, if the family members were kids,I'd be the "smuggler". It was always more costly and risky to have a "coyote" smuggle a kid.But back in those times it was different.I'd put the kid or kids in the back seat of my van and drive to the border. The custom's guy would ask "Citizenship?" I'd say,"I'm U.S., my wife is Mexican(and hand him her green card),and the kids are U.S." Then he'd wave us through.Worked like a charm.Now it's a lot different. Everyone has to show documentation. The days of the phony green cards or visas are a thing of the past at the border crossing. All the documentation is "swiped" in a computer at the crossing station..Counterfeit documents won't fly at the border check points anymore.

All my wife's brothers and sisters,not to mention all the nieces and nephews,wound up one way or another in TJ in that house with Jesus for a stretch. I remember my wife's brother Juan.When my wife and I went to Jiquilpan two weeks ago to commemorate the passing of Jesus on the 15th of February,1997, we went to visit Juan.Juan had been sick for a long time,but it wasn't like he was bed ridden and suffering.It started around 20 years ago with the diabetes.The doctors gave him medicines and told him to not eat tortillas and red meat and to stop smoking and drinking,though Juan didn't really drink that much. But Juan figured it was better to keep on living like he always had than to sacrifice anything.

I remember when Juan still had his health. He was "cocheton" which means he had full cheeks in Spanish.he had the handlebar mustache that always stretched over his wide smile. Later Juan lost his teeth,but he never lost that smile.He walked a little stoop shouldered but that was because he was always pushing that hand painted wooden cart selling his "chepos",the sweet tamales he'd make in the morning with his wife Carmela. Juan would wake up at 3 in the morning,walk into town to catch the bus to Sahuayo(the town that is six miles east from Jiquilpan),go to the mercados to buy 200 kilos of corn,then return to Jiquilpan,lifting the sacks of corn onto his cart that he had at the bottom of the hill,push the load up the hill to house in Las Lomas. There his wife Carmela would be waiting. They both would then shuck the corn and put the kernels in a machine that ground the kernels into" masa." Then they would cook the "masa" in a big pot of boiling water and then add butter and sugar until it turned into paste. Then they'd take the "masa" and wrap it into a mold inside the husks. They'd work in the house and make a hundred or so "chepos" a day. He sold each "chepo" for 50 cents.Juan would then load the "chepos" on his cart and make his way into town. Along the way you could hear him shout "Chepos! Chepos!"Later ,Juan saved up enough money to buy a motor scooter with a basket on the back. He's load the "chepos" on the back of the scooter and you could hear him riding that scooter in the hills and in town."Chepos!".One time the motor on the scooter blew a valve. Juan asked me to lend hin 400 dollars so he could buy a new motor. He paid me back when he had saved up enough money.

Everybody in Jiquilpan knew Juan. It wasn't that he sold the "chepos" everywhere(there were others that sold" chepos"),but Juan was a nice guy,always happy with that wry Mexican humor,that it was better to laugh than to cry,to not waste anger on anything unimportant. Juan had three brothers who always were pissed off about something. They liked to fight,sometimes each other,and when their mother Jesus couldn't control them ,she get the police to put them in jail to cool their heels.Juan wasn't looking for a fight. He had a family:a wife,,two sons and a daughter.He worked hard along side his wife. He didn't complain about the work. It would have fallen on deaf ears.

But Juan had time to let off steam. He loved to dance. He was the best damcer I'd ever seen. At parties he'd dance with all the girls and they loved dancing with Juan. He especially liked dancing with his sister in law,Carolina. I'd watch the dancing and it was remakable to see how he stepped to the rhythm. He could go on for hours. I'd call him "El Rey De Mambo."

I remember the time my wife went to visit her sister in Mexico City. Juan went with us. We talked my sister in law's "chilango" husband to go with me and Juan to the Arena Coliseo to watch the fights. I couldn't stand the guy. He was always bum rapping the United States,but he had never been there. He had lived in Mexico City all his life and was a big "politico" with the party that was in power at the time,the PRI.He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and his mother put him charge to run her factory that made school uniforms.The guy was a smug A Hole with his manicured fingernails and his opinions that he thought were engraved in stone.When me and Juan asked him if he wanted to go to the fights,he confessed he'd never been to a fight, let alone one at the Arena Coliseo.He said that the Arena Coliseo was in a "bad" part of town. The fights were kind of lousy,but he had the time of his life. Later,he said that he'd take us to a spot that had "real" Mexican food. He took us to taco stand.

Then there was the time when Juan had come to Tijuana to visit his mother. Sunday,my wife and I arrived the house and me and Juan decided to go into town and get drunk. Well,we hit every bar in the Coahuila and finally decided to see what kind of action we could find in the Molino Rojo.(It seems every Mexican town has a Molino Rojo-Moulin Rouge.Even Jiquilpan has "their" Molino Rojo).There used to be this huge neon windmill on the top of bar that's neon lights would rotate around. The Molino Rojo is not there anymore,but they left the big neon windmill. Anyway,me and Juan are feeling no pain and have a couple of girls to help us lap up our 'cahuamas" of Corona beer in those amber bottles with the ochre colored labels.Before we got too drunk so that we couldn't exhibit to the senoritas our in unparalleled bedroom performances,it was off to separate dungy rooms. After I had relieved my self,I went back to the bar to wait for Juan,but he never showed himself. I waited and then searched the rooms and looked for the girl he was with,but it was like trying to find Jimmy Hoffa. I finally went back to the house in Canon Jhonson
"Where's Juan?"everyone asked.
"I don't know.He was with me,but I lost him."
Two days later Juan showed up at his mother's house.

Juan died last February 15th on the 22nd anniversity of his mother,Jesus's death. He died the a little room at the San Rafael Hospital in Jiquilpan.His body was racked with disease. He had diabetes and getting dialysis every other day. His son, Santiago, would send him the money from New York where Santiago had landscaping business.Juan was also in the throes of cirrhosis of the liver. He had just a sub of a left foot that was wrapped in bandages. His right foot was black with the toes dead from necrosis. His skin was a dark purplish and under the parchment there was no flesh.His eyes were yellow.Juan was hooked up to oxygen with a tube that had been inserted in his nose.Inside the room were his wife,Carmela,his brothers, Arturo and Jose Luis,and Juan's daughter,Lupe. My wife and I were also at his bedside. Juan was in terrible pain. When they lifted his dressing gown we could see his swollen stomach. Juan was enraged. He was shouting,flailing his srms.Carmela ,Lupe,and my wife went to his side. They dabbed wet cotton on his mouth.They asked him if he wanted to be raised up,but he just shouted and swung his arms .He raged like that for about a half hour,and then I heard the rale from his chest. He tugged the tube from his nose. He looked at me with those discolored wild eyes.Then the rale stopped. I saw his eyes dilate.His wife,Carmela looked at me clamly.
"Se cabo,Rogelio?"
I nodded.Arturo and Jose Luis just stared.

The wake was the next day at the funeral parlor. People had to stand outside. Juan's children had flown in from New York.The next day was the Mass at the big church,San Francisco. People were crowded outside in the plaza. After the Mass,the casket was carried to the cemetary. We walked to the cemetary with Juan for the last time. The "musicos" played along side as we walked. Juan wanted music when his time came.The casket was placed in the grave at the family plot. His sons helped bury their father. The musicians still played.



Flor Triste-Los Canaries de Michoacan

[dagosd2000]

Taking A Little Off The Top

Just off the top of my head:I don't know of a sport like boxing where the fighters sweat so much when training.. I've talked about how Denny Moyer and Ronnie Wilson were stablemates down here in san Diego under the auspices of manager,Sid Flaherty and trainer Danny Rodriguez.Flaherty had a training camp in the east county of San Diego in a quiet little burg called Jamul.Along with his stable of fighters,Flaherty raised these Alaskan Malamute dogs. He took as much time with his hounds as he did with the pugs. The dogs,I have to admit were beautiful,but they were always on edge. Anyway,once in awhile I'd drive out to the foothills to Flaherty's training facility to watch Denny and Ronnie train together.Sid saw that Ronnie was beginning to burn both ends of the candle.He was in the gym almost everyday,but at night he'd frequent the local watering holes just as often.Sid had the idea if he brought Moyer down from Portland he'd keep an eye on Wilson so he wouldn't run astray.Well,that was like throwing gasoline on the fire. A few times I'd participate in a nighttime romp with those two. They had stronger constitutions than I ever possessed. I'd be heaving my guts in the bathroom and they'd be just hitting their strides at the bar. However,after a night on the town,,they'd be back in the gym the next day.I remember one afternoon at Flaherty's camp,I saw Moyer and Wilson spar together.They were wearing those rubber suits. After 5 or 6 rounds they peeled off the rubber suits.A waterfall of sweat splattered on the ring canvas.I don't know if it was my imagination playing games with my mind,but when all that perspiration hit the mat,I felt I was with that pair back in the bar from the night previous.


When I see Ray "Windmill" White at these boxing functions,he's always dressed meticulously wearing a tailored suit. He's approachable and very srticulate,but when I bring up a few of his fights that I either saw on the TV or in person,he kind of backs away. If you remember him in the ring,he'd clown around sometimes.He'd swing his arms around his back(he must have been double jointed)to deliver a blow or he'd drop to the canvas like he was dead,then pop up again like a Jack In The Box.People would watch him fight to see what the next antic he'd pull. He had a guy in his corner named Baron Von Stume.He was an eerie looking fellow with a big handlebar mustache waxed at the ends.I saw White on the Tonight Show once. He put on his "crazy" act like he was back in the ring.But White wasn't crazy.He was not a bad fighter.i think if he would have ditched the shenanigans and fought more seriously,he could have been ranked. That's why I think today when I see him at the boxing events,he wants to present himself as being a normal guy. I think he wishes he could do it all over again,but differently.


When Luis Rodriguez fought Rafael Gutierrez here in san Diego,Jose Napoles was at the stardust Hotel everyday to watch Rodriguez train. The Cuban fighters that fled the Castro ban on pro boxing were very close When I caught with Napoles in Ciudad Juarez a few years ago,I asked Jose what Sugar Ramos was up to.I think Jose could have gone on and on talking about his compadre.

They used to put on boxing shows at the Spreckles Theater on Broadway in San Diego. The beautiful old building was saved from being torn down by benevolent benefactors.The sugar baron Spreckles family had the place built initially as an opera house.At the time they had the boxing matches there,the Spreckles was a movie theater. Today,it's a venue mostly for live music showsOne time I was in attendance at the matches when in the middle of a round,the curtain unfurled to the stage. Everyone in the theater was yelling,but the fighters kept going at each other(you could hear the punches landing).When they finally got the curtain rolled up again,probably after a minute or two,it was like nothing had happened.But the judges were sitting in the front row theater seats.I wondered how they scored the round they didn't see?

Ray "Windmill" White.He could have been a contender.

[Chuck1052]

As far as I know, Ray "Windmill" White still lives in Oak View, a small unincorporated community located about 10 miles north of Ventura. During his time as a professional boxer, White received a huge amount of coverage in the Ventura Star-Free Press (later the Ventura County Star). While not boxing, White worked as a carpenter. Based on what I read, White didn't seem to envy the latter-day boxers who were making far money than he did, adding that he was active when housing prices were far lower in California. For a long time after retiring from boxing, White worked with amateur boxers in boxing gyms in the Ventura area.

- Chuck Johnston

[dagosd2000]

As far as I know, Ray "Windmill" White still lives in Oak View, a small unincorporated community located about 10 miles north of Ventura. During his time as a professional boxer, White received a huge amount of coverage in the Ventura Star-Free Press (later the Ventura County Star). While not boxing, White worked as a carpenter. Based on what I read, White didn't seem to envy the latter-day boxers who were making far money than he did, adding that he was active when housing prices were far lower in California. For a long time after retiring from boxing, White worked with amateur boxers in boxing gyms in the Ventura area.

- Chuck Johnston

Chuck
I bumped into Ray White several years ago at the CBHOF banquet(I was at Tiger Smalls table). He said he was spending some time, like you say,training amateur fighters in Ventura County. Dan Hanley wanted to do an interview with him and asked me how he could get in touch. I gave Dan the info on the gym where White was working,but I guess they never got connected.

I saw White fight Jesse Burnett at the Coliseum here in San Diego. Burnett was outclassing him.White would get tapped on the shoulder and flop to the canvas,then spring back up to his feet at the count of 9.Of course everybody was getting a big laugh out of that.However,the ref wasn't that impressed.After White had performed that stunt several times,the ref halted the fight.White then leaped from the ring,gloves still on,and ran out the door into the street. I think that's why White doesn't like to recall his boxing past that much.

[Chuck1052]

While being a colorful boxer who gave the audience a lot of laughs, Ray "Windmill" White also was a competent journeyman fighter with fairly good defensive skills. As I recall, Ray was ranked for one month in the Ring Magazine top-ten light-heavyweight ratings, only at number 10 . But Jesse Burnett was a far better fighter than White, so I am not surprised that Burnett won easily in their bout.

- Chuck Johnston

[dagosd2000]

While being a colorful boxer who gave the audience a lot of laughs, Ray "Windmill" White also was a competent journeyman fighter with fairly good defensive skills. As I recall, Ray was ranked for one month in the Ring Magazine top-ten light-heavyweight ratings, only at number 10 . But Jesse Burnett was a far better fighter than White, so I am not surprised that Burnett won easily in their bout.

- Chuck Johnston

Chuck
I never went in for Windmill's schtick. I didn't think it was funny. i thought he degraded the sport by acting like he did in the ring.I always wanted to see him lose,but he was SO unorthodox he gave a lot of guys problems. He was gangly and had a long reach.If he would have bore down and honed some skills he would have gone a lot further. But seeing him at these boxing banquets now,my heart kind of goes out to him.He's a gentleman and a very nice guy.I know there's a lot of people out there that want to engage him with how he behaved in the ring(can't blame them).They're still laughing,but I don't think Ray is.I hope he discovers a good prospect in the gym and brings him along.Then maybe they'll also remember The Windmill for being a good trainer of fighters.

[dagosd2000]

Music,Music,Music

Deep in the thread I used to go back and forth with some of the Mexican/Chicano East LA boys about what kind of music they listened to when they were still in their primes and sowing their oats. The Mexican fighters on both sides of the line were steeped in their music as much as the aficianados were lighting off those firecrackers and throwing those dead rattlesnakes and the women's underpants soaked with blood around ringside. They had a passion for the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles,the Arena Coliseo in Mexico City,and all the rowdy arenas in every pueblo in the republic.Though the fighters were Mexican and fought like "like a Mexican",they came from different demographics.They grew up listening to their regional songs that became ingrained in their identities.

LA was oldies,lowrider music. Los grupos of Mexico City were closer to the East LA sounds.The rural areas of Mexico was a sound of the ranchero,the campesino All the music had it's happy tone,muy alegre,but it was the sad,romantic songs that told stories of novios and heartbreak that were metaphors of a people who undercut the myth of "no bad days." You can't hide from sadness,but you can always sing

So here's a typical melody for the LA battlers,Bobby,Mando,and the rest of the Chicano fighters that put on those shows:




Sad Girl-Willie G and Thee Midniters

Requests from Tepito in Mexico City:Joe Medel,Zarate,and "Raton."



A Tu Recuerdo-Los Angeles Negros

OK Gato and your cousin Joe Becerra, time to play this one on the jukebox



Una Pagina Mas-Los Cadetes de Linares



Native son of Jalisco,Jesse Pimentel

[dagosd2000]

Ok Mantequilla. When you won the title from Curtis Cokes you said,"If they threw me in the middle of the sea,I'd listen for the music of Mexico and I'd find my way home."With that,the president,Ordaz,for the first time in Mexican history a president of Mexico expedited a foreigner's Mexican citizenship.Since you live in Ciudad Juarez,this one is for you:



Jesusita en Chihuahua

[dagosd2000]

The Home Run King

I got a call after I got back from Mexico from Jon Berndes,a guy I went to school with. We played baseball in the same Little League. His dad was the first president of the league, named the Loma Portal Little League. I talked to Jon on the phone.He said that the league was celebrating its 60th anniversary and that he was trying to round up as many of the fellas' that played in the league back then. I remember being asked to attend the 10th anniversary.They said that my home run record still stood up. I was a little surprised ,but I was more than happy to show up. I had hit 14 home runs in my final year and that was the benchmark for any of the other kids if they wanted to surpass that mark. All the ex little Leaguers were happy about me being there that day. There were other former players in attendance,but I guess because I held the home run mark,they treated me as some kind of celebrity.

The opening day of the season is when they commemorate the history of the Loma portal Little League.At the 10th anniversity they asked me if I'd stand at home plate and hit the opening day pitch that was going to be tossed by a monkey from the san Diego Zoo. The monkey's keeper was going to hold the monkey on the mound and coax the chimp to throw a baseball ,hopefully,in the vicinity of home plate.Before stepping up to the plate I saw a lot of familiar faces of former players and friends.During the day we shared memories of our days of spring. They ,to my surprise,made a big fuss about how many home runs I hit up on the embankment behind the fence. Well, I'm standing in the batter's box not knowing what to expect. I see the monkey and its keeper putting the ball in the monkey's hand. The monkey was screeching and yelling and I'm thinking he ain't gonna' throw the ball when all of a sudden he raises his arm and launches a missile that's headed right at my face. I duck and swing at the same time not coming close to hitting the ball. I was glad that was over .

Well,40 years later I get another call from Jon Berndes.He says the Loma Portal Little league is going to celebrate its 50th anniversary and wanted to know if I'd show. As an enticement he said my home run record was still intact. It didn't matter .I would have gone anyway. But unlike the 10th anniversary ,I had difficulty recognizing a lot of those former friends and players. The wrinkles and lines in the faces,the gray receding hair,the limps in the gait made me have to squint. But they all right away acknowledged me for some reason.. The president of the league chose me from all the other ex players to make speech. I stepped out in front and said the happiest days of my life were playing Little Baseball on this field as a kid.Then I went on and said that it was about time for some young ball player to break my home run record. The old guys I was with told me afterwards that no one will ever break my record. It was like that home run record was also a part of their lore. They shared it with me. I would say that for most of them,their memories of playing Little League were as cherished as my recollections.

But then Jon Berndes called me up last week to inform me that the Loma Portal Little League was going to have a 60th year celebration on opening day last Saturday. Again,I said I'd be happy to attend.Jon asked me if I knew any other former players who might still be around. I said off hand that I didn't,but I'd try to find out and get back to him. As a caveat Jon told me that the president of the league told him that a kid had broken my home run record.
"Well.it's about time,"I said bitter sweetly."How many did he hit?"
"The president said he hit 21."
"Is the kid going to be there?"I asked. "I want to be the first to shake his hand."
"He didn't say,"asnswered Jon."But you know I have to check on that. He might have hit them in the three years he was in the league,not in one season."
"Did he say the kid's name?"
"No,he didn't tell me."
"When did he do it?"
"I don't know. I'm going to have to ask him again,"he said.
"Well,I'll be there,"I said.
"By the way.My mother will be there.She's 103.We'll wheel her out to the field,"he said laughing.
"That's amazing. I wouldn't want to miss that."

Saturday morning I arrived and hour early because I knew parking was going to be a challenge. I walked to the field to se if I could recognize anyone.A felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Jon Berndes.
"Roger,you just get here? Recognize anyone yet?"
"No,I haven't see anyone."
"Well,I have name tags.There should be about 10 or 15.That's the number that commited."
Jon gave me my name tag and I pinned it on the lapel of my shirt. I sat in the bleachers with my head on a swivel.
"Did that kid show up that broke my record?"I asked him.
"I don't know. I'll have to ask the president of the league if he showed up."
Jon walked away saying he'd be back in a minute.While I continued waiting,I saw some faces that were coming into focus that looked familiar. They were standing around a table looking at some of the old pictures and programs of the league on opening day 60 years ago. i was about to get up and go over there when i heard a voice over my shoulder.
"Roger,how are you doing?Remember me?"
I ran my eyes up and down giving him the once over.
"Steve...Steve Grebe.Sure I do pal.How's it going?"
I could tell he was happy to see me as i was to see him.
"How many home runs did you hit off me opening day?"he asked shaking his head.
"I hit two. Was that you on the mound?"
"Yeah.That was me.I'll never forget it.I could never get you out. I bet there are still some of your home run balls in those bushes on the embankment,"he said grinning.
The crowd around the memorabilia table picked up on the converstion and walked briskly to where Steve and I were talking.
"Look fellas' .Roger is holding court,"said one.
"Roger the home run champ of the Loma Portal Little League,"exclaimed another.
"They'll never touch his record,"boasted the guy next to him.
Then Steve Grebe chimed in.
"Those days were the best days of my life,"he sighed.
"Steve.Not to change the subject,"I said."But didn't you tell me you were related to the fighter Harry Greb?"
"He was my uncle."
"I've always wanted to ask you this. You spell your name with an 'e' on the end and pronounce your name'Gree' bee' ".
"No.Harry Greb was my uncle all right,"he said assuredly.
"Is the home run king going to make a speech?"asked one the former players.
"I will if they ask me,but I've been told some kid broke my record."
"Don't say that,"said Steve Grebe sternly."Don't bring that up. No one broke your record. You'll always be our home run king."


Harry Greb