October 13, 2009
World in motion: the remarkable story of Ernie 'Indian Red' Lopez
Lopez, a former welterweight, fought twice for the world title and lost both times
Owen Slot, Chief Sports Reporter
One of the most extraordinary stories I have ever had the privilege to cover came to an end at the weekend when Ernie Lopez was laid to rest in Pleasant Grove, Utah.
He was 64, a former welterweight who fought twice for the world title and lost both times. And his life was an epic which people in Hollywood have looked at bringing to the big screen, except that there is a challenge there that no one can overcome: Lopez - or “Indian Red” as he was known throughout his fighting life - lost 11 years of his life to dementia. He apparently vanished off the face of the planet; his family thought he was gone for good. Even when he was found again, he could not account for where he had been. And he didn’t think it was 11 years anyway; he insisted it was just three.
As a journalist, it has been hard not to fall in love with the story of Indian Red. Back in January 2007, when covering a Ricky Hatton fight in Las Vegas, on a quiet day, I set off with photographer Marc Aspland to find Indian Red. We flew to Salt Lake City and then drove south to this unremarkable town called Pleasant Grove, at the foot of the Wasatch mountain range. We did not have a clue what to expect, but it was a truly remarkable day and Marc and I occasionally recall it and when we do so, it is with phenomenal fondness - because it was so offbeat, so weird yet magical and because we found a splendid old warrior and we loved the way his family loved him and we felt privileged that they allowed us briefly to share in that.
No apologies here, then, if this sounds emotional. Yet his life was not Hollywood schmaltz, it raises familiar old questions which are uncomfortable and to which there are no definable answers.
First of all: he died of dementia and we will never know to what extent all those blows in the ring were responsible. We cannot know, we can only suspect.
Secondly, he came from a background that was poor and tough. He was called Indian Red because he came from the Ute Indian reservation in Fort Duchesne, Utah, one of eight who were born to a mother he and his siblings adored and a father who would beat her up after he had drunk away his earnings. They struggled for food and clothing and for a while it was so bad they were taken away and scattered in foster homes around the state. So, in retrospect, who would deny Lopez his boxing life, the life which took him away from the reservation and around the world and gave him pride and - for a while at least - wealth? Like many fighters, boxing seemed to define Lopez. It may have been boxing that killed Lopez, but it was also the making of him.
And thirdly, what is an athlete to do when the prime of their athletic life is past? Or when they cannot quite reach their goals? And indeed that can be applied to any walk of life, but for Lopez, his downfall was that he happened to be at his prime at the same time as Jose Napoles, a wonderfully skilled Mexican who ruled the welterweights for six years. He went 15 rounds with Napoles in 1970 and the defeat, according to his former wife, Marcia, knocked the life out of him. The confidence and spirit drained.
He got a second shot at Napoles’s title three years later though by that time his marriage was over. That second time he only lasted to the seventh round. From our trip to Pleasant Grove, I will never forget his son, Lance, recollecting that second Napoles bout. He was just a boy and his mother took him out in the morning to buy a newspaper to find out the result; what Lance saw in the paper was a photograph of his father lying flat on the canvas with Napoles’ hand under his head. He was convinced his father was dead.
In Pleasant Grove, Lopez’s sister, Naomi, gave her own recollection of that fight: “He had his self-esteem knocked clean from him that day. And he never got it back.”
It was at Naomi’s house that we met. We talked through the vast stretch of their lives, from the Indian reservation, through Ernie's boxing until the present day and there was an entire chapter devoted to the bitterly hard life of their mother. Throughout all this, Ernie would remain almost entirely silent. He still had his wits about him but was too slow to use them. He tended just to smile and nod in recognition.
When we turned the pages of the scrapbook that Lance had kept of his career, his eyes lit up with pride. Lance had also been showing him videotape of his fights and when we asked what he thought of himself as a fighter, he replied softly, but humorously: “I should have ducked more.”
Nothing, though, could be done to recall that lost decade. After the second Napoles fight, there was only one direction for his career to go; he would have three more bouts and three more defeats. He then started taking work on building sites, but he would move around, never stopping anywhere for long.
In early 1993, he had been living with his daughter Cindy for a while; he explained that it was time for him to move on again and asked to be dropped at the bus station. And that was it; communication dead, no phone calls, no Christmas cards, nothing.
Eleven years later, an LA detective discovered that his social security number had been registered at a Presbyterian Night Shelter in Forth Worth, Texas. So Marcia rang the shelter. “Is that Marcia, my ex-wife?” a familiar voice asked. “Ernie,” she replied, “where have you been?”
And thus was Lopez reunited with his family for the last five years of his life when, amongst many other surprises, he discovered he had 22 grandchildren and one great-grandchild.
When we met Lopez, on that memorable trip to Pleasant Grove, we were touched by the depth of affection in which he was held. I even spoke on the phone to Marcia, who was long since remarried, but who also was clearly moved when her children were reunited with their father. Everyone spoke of his charisma – and even in his silence, you got an impression of the kind of man he once had been.
An awesome man, indeed. But I felt for Naomi. For much of those last years, she ensured that he had a loving home, but she and her husband also had to keep a pretty much permanent watch on him; if he wandered off again, there was no way that he would find his way back.
And now he is finally departed, I find myself recalling that day we met him. We asked and asked about those lost 11 years and he recalled how he marvelled at snow drifts in Maine, how he lost his car when its wheels got stuck in deep mud – he could not remember where – and how he was robbed sleeping rough in Las Vegas. And that was it.
I personally recall his proud, weathered face and strong, square chin – they seemed to be a history lesson in themselves – and how he quite liked being asked to pose for pictures again. He loved being a boxer and in some ways he had hated it. May he rest in peace.
