Sometimes a picture tells the best story . . .
When I saw Frank had posted the link to the Duarte vs. Davila II war, I remembered the day it was fought and how I recorded it on VHS from the CBS broadcast. I carried that tape thru my travels, along with many others that I believed defined what I consider to be legendary West Coast prizefighting of the day.
I watched this one over and over, in slow motion, stop-action, dissecting every single blow. I wanted to see if certain shots really landed, or appeared to have been more damamging than they actually were. This fight was a great one to break down in that manner. Another was Roberto Duran's beat down of Davey Moore. Replay these bouts slowly and watch closely, and you'll see punches that did far more damage than a split-second hint you got when you first watched in real time.
As I mentioned, I carried this fight tape with me. Perhaps it was a little personal pride for two guys that came up in my era, in the same place that I did. Like me, these guys were Junior Golden Glovers. They had the same Gold & Blue satin Jr. GG's Championship jacket that I had, as does the Baltazar's, the Quarry's, the Sandoval's, etc.
Whenever I'd have a visitor, one that was a bit over the top about the tremendous action he saw in a Roy Jones fight, I'd pull out my Duate-Davila tape and sit them down. This tape allowed me to be "speechless", I didn't have to say a word, but I was going to show him what we considered great, but almost common in the City of Angels. These were L.A. guys, specifically, Venice for Frankie Duarte (he actually lived in nearby Rancho Park and attended Venice High School) and Pomona for Albert Davila.
As Frank mentioned, Duarte was a Teamsters boy, and Louie J. his chief coach. As Jr. Glover, Albert Davila fought out of the Sacred Heart Boys Club in Pomona. Tony Cerda was his coach. I can remember Frankie Baltazar Jr. in the '68 JR. Gloves championship fight, matched with Albert's brother Armando in the finals. We were all that close, yet not always personally so. Over time you get to know the guys you see every couple weeks at the fights. We'd travel together, we'd lodge together, we'd fight each other, sometimes more than once. I always liked the travel, sometimes six of us packed into the back seat of a car, a few more up front with the driver. The driver's were the coaches, guys like Frank.
The coaches are the true heros of boxing. They usually develop talent, often right out of diapers, they teach them, drive them here and there, fight to get them the best matches, the best sparring, whatever edge they can provide. Then the kid turns pro, somebody with a few bucks approaches them, feeds them a line and the years of work put in by the coach fills somebody else's bank account. This happens every single day of the week. It's almost like tradition in boxing.
In '2000, I was living in Phoenix and working with boxers. There were two pretty hot prelim kids in our stable, and I worked closely with one that I never knew to lose. He was 18, had main event skills yet had only fought 4's and a six. His name was Homero Sierra, and his Boxrec stats show his good potential. This kid would have done great in L.A. when I was fighting. He just did everything right, had those instincts, the confidence, the toughness. We were going to take him to Las Vegas, a card at the "Orleans". We had made all the travel arrangements, lodging for the fighter, his manager/trainer, myself. We would drive from Phoenix. Goosen brother-in-law, Tom Brown, was the matchmaker. I hoped Richard would get this kid out of Phoenix, bring him to L.A. and get into the mainstream. Phoenix is a great place for boxers to be FROM. A lot of great promise has dried up in that desert.
We all meet at the gym. As Rambo (the boxer's ring name) and I wait in the gym office for his manager, I remember that I had left my VHS copy of the Duarte-Davila bout on the shelf, above the TV in the office. I used to play it to kids who were interested in seeing how L.A. bantam's fought a few years back. Of course, I'd intimate that "all" L.A. guys fought like this. That we all were just naturally blessed with Davila's blinding boxing skills, and Frankie's power and tenacity were required before the California Commission would even consider granting us a license.
I'd tell the kids, "El Huero" and "Tweety" are just typical of Los Angles boxers in the eighties. However, if you think they are good, you should have seen what we had in the 60's & 70's. And if we thought those were good, you should have seen what L.A. had in the 40's and 50's. I'd look them in the eye and in my most serious voice tell them, "and we don't even want to consider how tough the fighters were before that!"
I believe the best way to get thru to a kid is to make a strong first impression. Duarte vs. Davila II made such an impression, and supported my BS claim.
I play the tape for Rambo. In the second round, manager Richard Rodriguez arrives, sees the action and sits down without speaking. Rodriguez knows all about L.A. fighters, fighting both amateur and pro bouts at the Olympic in the late 50's & early 60's, as well as the L.A. boys who came to Phoenix. Rodriguez met them in prelims at Phoenix's Madison Square Garden, or in sparring sessions at his own Madison Gym. By the bell opening round three, both boxer and manager had moved closer to the TV, they are now leaning forward in their chairs.
"Duarte goes down!" A short, picture-perfect hook sits "El Huero" on the canvas. Rodriguez and Rambo are suddenly on their feet. "Did you see that!", Rambo shouts. Duarte's face said it all, he shakes his head, pounds the canvas with his glove and climbs to his feet. Duarte rises from the canvas, Davila gets cut, and we know the rest. Everytime I see the fight, I still get excited, the energy does wonders for the spirit of a true boxing personality.
As I looked around the room, after the fight had been stopped, I notice that another half dozen people had come in and were standing watching the screen. All were going overboard about the great action. One of the less knowledgable observers, a Roy Jone's die-hard, had to admit, "We'll never see Roy in one like that."
Roy Jones ain't from L.A.
-Rick Farris
