BoxRec

The Left Hand To The Face

There was that time that I thought I might become a fighter. I'd go to the fights at the old Coliseum in San Diego,take in a few bouts at the Olympic Auditorium every year,and then there was always a card in Tijuana.During the 60's and 70's when I was maturing physically into something that had the possibility of stepping through the ropes and perhaps making a dream into a reality, I knew I'd have to get some experience under my belt first. Oh, I was a pretty big dude. I was playing football and was a strongman in the gym.i knew if I had to get into fighting trim I'd have to shed a few pounds,but because of my prowess as a pig skinner and weight lifter, I believed those abilities would translate easily inside a boxing ring. Just a little practice.With my size and strength,once I learned the sweet science,I'd break Marciano's record.

I was palling around with an amateur heavyweight at the time when I decided to make my move.We'd been working out with the weights at a gym down by the beach.Every gym I worked out at I could always bench press more than anyone else in the place.To know that I could bench press more than all the rest of the guys inflated my ego.But the bench press is kind of a lazy man's lift.You lie on a bench , bring the bar down to your chest, press up, and lock it out.In Eastern European countries the iron men focus on the snatch and clean and jerk...a hell of a lot more effort and skill executing those lifts.

But then the time came when I thought I'd try my hand at boxing.The amateur heavyweight I was "lifting" with at the gym was willing to work with me at the 32nd Naval Street Gym in National City. This guy hadn't lost in a dozen fights.He had skills. Now I was receptive to have him pass them along to me. However, in the beginning there wasn't any drill on techniques. His purpose for having me in the gym was to work him out being a sparring partner.Well I got a taste of it pretty quick.

The first thing that got my attention was the jab,his.I guess, for the rookie like myself,I didn't see it coming.I'm hanging my chin out there,standing straight in front of the guy,and then BANG!He jumps the left into my face.He pumped it in there all night long.Forget how much I could bench press.A left hand to the face can become quite frustrating, not to mention demoralizing.

After walking around with a split lip,i decided that need instruction badly on how to develop my own left jab so I went down to the old Coliseum to seek out a fighter who would be patient enough to share some knowledge of executing the left hand to the face .There was a popular local fighter by the name of Bobby DiFilippis that took a time out and show this big lug how to throw the jab. All my weightlifting strength was of no avail in performing the art of the jab. If anything, my big muscles tied me up.By the time DiFilippis was done with me,my confidence was rapidly dwindling. I mean this guy weighed around 130 pounds and was glad he didn't ask me to step inside the ring with him.

My final taste of the "left hand" experience was my traumatic effort in futility with the up and coming local hero,heavyweight Kenny Norton.Well,I've told this story before. The amateur guy I was hanging around with brought me over to Burke Emery's gym in North Park. There was Norton,just at the start of his pro career,looking for someone to spar with. By the way,there wasn't a plethora of heavyweights in San Diego.Since I was with my buddy,i thought he'd give Norton some work. To make a long story short,my face was the target.And the first punch I tasted was Norton's left hand to the face. It broke my nose. He was pretty pissed off because I couldn't continue,big muscles and all.Maybe I should have tried to bench press him.

A footnote to all this was something I heard from Larry Holmes.He said that when he was Ali's sparring partner in Manila, he was beating Ali with the jab. That's when he believed that if they ever fought that he could beat the "Greatest."

When Norton broke my nose I went back to the weight lifting gym and found a bench to lie on.

Lawrence Welk,Dragnet,and The Olympic Auditorium

The 2nd annual West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame bestowed their honors on some of the Southland's most memorable.The fighters are the ones that wake up the dreams ,but of course a lady like Aileen Eaton certainly is paramount because without her, and next year's likely inductee,George Parnassus, they were the nests that provided the homes much of the nurturing,the Olympic Auditorium and the Forum.Occasionally a big fight would land in The Memorial Coliseum or Dodger Stadium.There was the old Hollywood Legion too.Wrigley Field,home of the minor league Angels,was a venue sometimes.There were fights in San Pedro and of course Gilmore Field.The Hollywood Stars played ball there.I remember when Steve Bilko hit over 60 homeruns and was as big a celebrity as a movieland Hollywood star.That's how Sgt. Bilko got his name you know.When the Cubbies brought big Steve up to the parent club,he whiffed on the major league curve ball,the pitch that separated a player from the bigs and the ones that languished in the minors.

There's no skyline to speak of in LA. I remember Los Angeles City Hall was the tallest building downtown.That's where Clark Kent worked at The Daily Planet.Joe Friday sometimes had to go to court there.I liked the old Dragnets better with Ben Alexander as Detective Smith. Double breasted suits and the fedoras were standard.The Lawrence Welk show was broadcast live from the Aragon Ballroom in Venice Beach. I remember when Welk fired the first Champagne Lady,Alice Lon, for showing too much leg when was singing sitting on a piano. The fans screamed, and Welk wanted to take her back,but she refused.

My father sent me and my mother and sisters and my grandmother out to LA from Chicago. We were there at the grand opening of Disneyland. I remember it was very hot and I got sick on the Mad Hatter ride.We stayed at the Ambassador Hotel on Sunset Boulevard. Rita Hayworth was starring at the Coconut Grove. I saw her husband Dick Haymes. I also remember seeing Walter Crinkite at the pool. We bumped into Victor McLaglen in the elevator.I remember my mother getting a kick out of seeing him.Sometimes I think ugly guys like that are really very handsome,more manly looking in a way.

There was Knotts Berry Farm and the home made chicken dinner at the restaurant out in front. I'll never forget Jim Jeffries' Barn with the honky tonk piano playing and all the old fight pictures of guys like Jack Dempsey,Gentleman Jim,and Big Jeff himself.Then it was over to Ghost Town and Judge Roy Bean's Saloon named after Lilly Langtry.Orange County was full of orange groves and all the beach cities along old 101 had their own unique charm and beauty.

I'll never forget when my Italian grandmother ordered spaghetti at the Brown Derby.It wasn't even on the menu. The waiter tried to talk her out of it,but she was stubborn.Finally after all the fuss,the waiter brought out a bowl of spaghetti.It smelled like Chef Boy R Di.It blew me away many years later when I was watching the Mike Douglas show. One of the gueats was the chef at the old Brown Derby. Mike Douglas asked him if there was a dish he didn't know how to cook.He answered spaghetti! I bet he always had a can of Chef Bor R Di around in case a character like my grandmother asked for macaroni.

It was the first time I saw oleander bushes growing on the center divides of the freeway. It was the first time I saw a freeway. There were old streets near downtown and all the telephone poles in the industrial neighborhoods.Across from Union Train Station was Olvera Street.I saw that Mexican comic Pedro Gonzalez Gonzalez do his act at one of the Mexican restaurants,And then there were all the concrete storm canals that criss crossed near the railroad tracks.The ones I saw in that movie" Them" with the giant ants and Jim Arness.

The motion picture industry once was the biggest employer in town,movies made in hollywwod and the Golden Age of Cinema. A star on Hollywood Boulevard honoring an actor or actress that made us dream of what the world should be or not be.The screen that has influenced man more than any of the most prestigious universities. It is a medium that has encroached on our thinking,taken away our instincts and we don't even know it. And all this is in Los Angeles.

The West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame had their banquet yesterday. It was pure LA. It was film noir.It was the smog and the haze,the purple and white oleanders growing on the center dividers,fighters and fight fans of the Southland.It is a time capsule that wants to be left alone.







Rick Farris,President of West Coast Boxing




Dan Hanley,Vice President



Some non boxers for a change


"Judo" Gene LeBell,son of Aileen Eaton





Ryan ONeal







Irachelle Duran,daughter of Roberto Duran

Roger- I know that there were fight shows at Gilmore Stadium, but I doubt if there were any at Gilmore Field. Gilmore Stadium was a multi-sports facility which opened during 1934 while Gilmore Field was the Hollywood Stars' baseball park which opened during 1939. The two sports facilities were located about two hundred yards from each other.

- Chuck Johnston

-

God's Child

I forgot to mention that the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame Ceremony was held in the banquet room at the Garland hotel in Studio City. I booked a room for the night on line so I could have dinner with Rick Farris and his wife Monica, and Dan Hanley after the event was over. After last year's event Dan wanted to have a "brewskie",but I was with my wife, Maria ,and we had to get back to Tijuana to get our poodle dogs that were being baby sat by our daughter. It was a rush rush and I promised myself that I'd handle it differently this time around.

I left Maria at home and I think she was disappointed.I usually take her to these boxing affairs.She enjoys seeing Rick and Moni,Randy De La O and his wife Jeri,Dan Hanley,and of course the fighters.Take this to the bank. My wife's struggles growing up in Mexico parallel the backrounds of the Mexican fighters for the most part that attend these boxing functions in LA. "Gato" Gonzalez and Gaspar Ortega always ask me "How's Maria doing?"My wife is a "comadre" to these ex fighters and their wives. There's no stilted conversations.No pretentions. After I had bought my single ticket,I heard the news that Bobby Chacon had died. I wanted to tell my wife the sad news.
"You know who died?Remember the fighter who acted loco and was with the girl at the boxing events and..."
"Bobby?"
Yes,my wife sure did remember Bobby Chacon. She knew that it was all the shots he took. He was just a little kid again. He may have embarrassed a certain boxing promotor who would sit him at the back of the room at his event to get him out of the way,but Bobby didn't embarrass Maria. You see, when a human being gets that way or is born that way,Mexicans look at him as being something special in the eyes of God. He's now one of God's children.He may not be ablr to take care of himself,but God will.There's a place in heaven waiting.

I remember Mando Muniz at one of these events standing beside me.We were looking at Bobby joking around.No one could stop him. Mando nudged my shoulder.
"There goes Bobby,"he said with a laugh.
He knew.For the grace of God it could of been him.

Fighters are OK. They ain't making money off of each other.They know when the time comes when they don't have it anymore,there's a lot of people who'll turn their backs on them...or sit them at the back of the room.



A spot for him in heaven

dagosd2000 wrote:God's Child

I forgot to mention that the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame Ceremony was held in the banquet room at the Garland hotel in Studio City. I booked a room for the night on line so I could have dinner with Rick Farris and his wife Monica, and Dan Hanley after the event was over. After last year's event Dan wanted to have a "brewskie",but I was with my wife, Maria ,and we had to get back to Tijuana to get our poodle dogs that were being baby sat by our daughter. It was a rush rush and I promised myself that I'd handle it differently this time around.

I left Maria at home and I think she was disappointed.I usually take her to these boxing affairs.She enjoys seeing Rick and Moni,Randy De La O and his wife Jeri,Dan Hanley,and of course the fighters.Take this to the bank. My wife's struggles growing up in Mexico parallel the backrounds of the Mexican fighters for the most part that attend these boxing functions in LA. "Gato" Gonzalez and Gaspar Ortega always ask me "How's Maria doing?"My wife is a "comadre" to these ex fighters and their wives. There's no stilted conversations.No pretentions. After I had bought my single ticket,I heard the news that Bobby Chacon had died. I wanted to tell my wife the sad news.
"You know who died?Remember the fighter who acted loco and was with the girl at the boxing events and..."
"Bobby?"
Yes,my wife sure did remember Bobby Chacon. She knew that it was all the shots he took. He was just a little kid again. He may have embarrassed a certain boxing promotor who would sit him at the back of the room at his event to get him out of the way,but Bobby didn't embarrass Maria. You see, when a human being gets that way or is born that way,Mexicans look at him as being something special in the eyes of God. He's now one of God's children.He may not be ablr to take care of himself,but God will.There's a place in heaven waiting.

I remember Mando Muniz at one of these events standing beside me.We were looking at Bobby joking around.No one could stop him. Mando nudged my shoulder.
"There goes Bobby,"he said with a laugh.
He knew.For the grace of God it could of been him.

Fighters are OK. They ain't making money off of each other.They know when the time comes when they don't have it anymore,there's a lot of people who'll turn their backs on them...or sit them at the back of the room.



A spot for him in heaven

I will miss Bobby Chacon. He was one of my favorite champions. He could fight. He had a heart of a lion, and always gave the fans their money's worth. It's sad to know he died penniless. A guy that gave so much for the sport of boxing. A true warrior in the sense of the word. We will miss you, Bobby! You was the greatest!

The Orient

It was a time when the Vietnam War was at its height. Downtown San Diego, south of Broadway, was bustling with Asian bars,card rooms,massage parlors,Chinese restaurants,and pawn shops. San Diego was a Navy town and the war in Vietnam accommodated the serviceman's wants and needs. Night time was when the area came alive.After sleeping it in ,by dusk the movement began to gradually churning into an escapade of debauchery until the law proclaimed the last call of alcohol.

My neighbor who lived across the street from me was Japanese. I grew up with his kids.We all went to school together and played in the Little League.They were as American as anybody.Their dad and mom were Nisei and were interned in one of those camps during World War II. The couple had four boys and they all had American first names and Japanese middle names.Because the family was American there wasn't this Japanese slash American aura that many ethnics today carry around. No,they were all American and their politics,you could say,were pretty much Republican.

The old man was quite a character. After the War,he got himself a tuna boat.It was about average size for those days,around 250 tons of fish you could put in the well. They all pole fished back then,the showers were salt water,and it was a hard,but profitable way to make a living.But as fate would have it,his boat caught fire in the engine room and sank.

But the old guy was resourceful.The Nisei were, for the most part,resourceful and not afraid to get ahead.They weren't necessarily clannish and shy, and their ability to mix with White people got them ahead of the other Asian types of the time. After his boat went the deep six,he opened up a bar downtown.It was one of those Asian bars and when the Vietnam War took off,the old man was in the right time and the right place.

He named the bar the Orient.i remember when he bought it. It was called the Rio.There was this big beautiful glass mirror behind the bar with an etching of a Brazilian woman dancing a samba. When the old man took the place over he left the mirror as it was, No one knew the difference anyway.The old man made sure there were plenty of B girls working the sailors for all the money they had on them.i remember the girls spreading the papers on the pool tables looking to see what ships were in port. They knew those boats like their own kin and the sailors on board those boats knew which girls were in those joints.It was a mutual admiration society.

Al the girls were Asian.They had bar names like Lisa and Crystal.Of course those weren't their real names.There was also a pecking order. The Japanerse girls looked down on the Korean and Philippino girls,but they were all of the same ilk. They had learned their trade in the slop chutes in towns like Subec Bay and Yokohama,hooked some lonely horny swabby into putting a ring on their finger,got a divorce state side,and, now were back to milking the swabs for all the money they had in their wallets. But don't get me wrong. The swabs knew what it was.It was all one big rush of adrenaline. Then it was back to the musty old ship. Besides, Tijuana was off limits and if you got in a beef across the border there was not much the State Department could do for you.

I'd go down to the Orient usually with the old man's youngest son(Number 4 Son as Charlie Can would say).He was like his old man. He liked to drink,gamble ,fool around with the girls,and could shoot a very good game of pool. He hustled as good as those women with the shiny dresses with the slits up the sides,who smoked and drank,were always nudging next to you like they thought you were the most handsome guy on earth only to get you to buy them a drink.All the neon lights,the clinking of cocktail glasses,the crack of the billiard balls,the ringing of the pinball machines,the gray layer of cigarette smoke,the heavy makeup and eyeshadow on the girls' faces...it was a crazy dream.

One night me and Number 4 Son had just returned from a the downtown Coliseum after watching the weekly card.Ronnie Wilson had boxed the ears off somebody and now we wanted indulge in something more attuned to the opposite sex, We bellied up to the bar and Number 4 Son ordered the girl to set us up. She was squatting behind the bar shoveling Kim Chi into her mouth with a pair of chop sticks.She was Korean and ate up that local dish like it was manna from heaven.Kim Chi is some sort of cabbage that's doused in chili ,wrapped in a cloth,and then boiled.I never cared for it,but if I wanted to score points with one of the Korean chicks,I'd bring over a dish of Kim Chi to her hoping that it might lead to a roll in the sack later on that night.

The old man saw us at the bar and came over to ask how were things.
"So how were the fights boys?" he asked.
I could tell by this time of the night he was feeling no pain. It was a packed bar and I could see that he had a cute little number waiting for him in one of the booths in the corner.
"Pretty good,"I answered,"Ronnie Wilson had no trouble tonight."
"In a few minutes I'm going next door to the card room.You boys interested?"asked the old man.
"You know I always lose my money."I said with a smirk.
"I'll be over after I finish my drink,"said Number 4 Son.
"Randy,"said his dad."I need to go to the safe.Meet me over at the card room."
The old man went over to the booth and said something to the cute little number,then he came back to the bar.
"Roger,see that little old guy at the end of the bar.He says he was a fighter. He's been in here all week."
I looked down at the end of the bar. The man was bundled up in a tattered old coat sitting across from one of the girls behind the bar. She was smiling at him exhaling her cigarette smoke into his face .
'You buy Kim a drink?"she asked as she blew a smoke ring.
"Sure,"said the little old man.
I could see the seat next to him was empty so I occupied it.The girl poured herself a vodka and orange juice.
"4 dolla',"said Dragon Lady.
I looked over to the old guy. I could see that he'd been a fighter...the scar tissue over the eyes,the pushed around nose. He sat hunched over.It was easy to tell he was a Latin American.He never looked at me as he was staring at the bar girl.
"Tak says you were a fighter,"I finally said.
The remark kind of atartled him. He turned to me. He looked very old,but I assumed that was becuase of the way he lived his life.
"I was once,"he said. "Say,do you have a cigarette?"
"I don't smoke ,"I answered.
"That's good.Smoking is bad for you. Also too much drinking."
And then he said with a smile.
"Also fighting too long when you don't have it anymore."
I peered a little deeper at him. Something seemed familiar.
"What is your name?"
"Manual Ortiz."
That was it. I felt uneasy.
"The bantam weight champ?"
"Yes.I could have moved up with no problem,but then there was Willie Pep,"he said shaking is head.
I could see that his eyes were bloodshot and there were dark bags under them.
"You live around here?"
"I stay at the Mars Hotel across the street."
The B girl had downed her drink.
"Kim is thirsty,"she purred."Which one of you handsome men want to buy Kim a drink?"
Just then the old fighter started to cough.He couldn't stop himself. he pulled out a cloth from his coat a spat heavily into it.
"You sick old man,"snapped the B girl."You make me sick."
The old fighter had gotten control of himself.
"Yes,"he said trying to catch his breath."I guess I make people sick. I'll just go back across the street,"
The old fighter struggled down from the bar stool and walked out.I looked at him hunched over going out into the street.The B girl swiped his glass away.
"Roger san.You buy Kim a drink?"
"No,i think I'll go play cards next door."
"You big cheap skate,"she snarled."I no like you anymore."
"I'd rather lose my money playing cards than wasting it on you,"I said.

A few years later I had heard that Manual Ortiz had passed away in San Diego.There wasn't any news of it in the paper.




Manual Ortiz

Junior

"Carlos,wasn't your father a fighter ?"I asked the kid wearing the singlet.
"Oh yeah.He fought a lot in Mexico."
My son was on the wrestling team at the high school.Carlos was on the team also.I was coaching football,but I always got a kick out of watching the wrestlers,I thought it was a more grueling sport than football. I didn't know much about the sport.At least I knew I couldn't coach it.I always liked watching practice as much as the matches.
"Didn't he fight Carlos Zarate?"i asked.
"Yeah.He fought Zarate.Zarate knocked him out."
Carlos Armenta Jr. was a bantamweight wrestler,the same fighting weight as his father.Carlos was a pretty good wrestler.He liked to pal around with the kid who was the next weight up from his,Erik Rosza.Erik was a blond haired kid.i think his bloodline was German.Carlos was no doubt Mexican.He could have rode with Villa.Even though the two kids looked different,they had the same happy go lucky personalities. Nothing in life was to be taken too seriously,except wrestling. But even then I think they just wanted to approach it the right way.
"Coach is asking a lot for Ramon to make 147,"remarked Carlos.
"If he weighs in at 160,he can't beat Jesus so he has to come down,"I said.
"Your son has sacrificed a lot,"said Carlos."We're all pulling for him."
"You and Erik have been wrestling varsity for three years.You have a shot to go the state meet."
My son Ramon had always wanted to wrestle. I forced him to play football. He was very good making the All League team his sophomore year. I had coached him in Pop Warner and taught him the skills so by the time he got to high school he had a head start.He was always exceptionally strong. I got him early in the weight room and within a year he was benching 300 pounds.But it was a lot more than weight lifting strength. I remember grabbing him when he was a baby. It was like trying to hold on to a tiger cat.My wife has that kind of strength.It runs in her family.Not everyone the family has it,but my son inherited it.

My son didn't pal around with Carlos and Erik. My son was more of a loner and do crazy stuff like Carlos and Erik. Everyone on the team was close.The coach had a lot to do with that.
"So did you ever watch your dad fight?"I asked Carlos.
"No,he fought in Mexico before he met my mother."
I don't think Carlos's dad was in the picture anymore. I never saw him at any of the wrestling matches.
"So did your dad ever fight anyone else that was famous?"
I asked that question because the Ring Record Book didn't have a record of his father.
"He probably did,but I don't know who they were. He was one of those guys who either knocked the other guy out or got knocked out himself,"he went on contently.(BoxRec has Carlos Armenta down for three fights.all losses by K0)
"There were a lot of fights in Mexico that were never officially recorded,"I said.
"He said he had a lot of fights,"said Carlos.
The coach gathered his team together on the mat and paired them to warm up.Carlos and Erik always worked on the mat together.The coach put Ramon in there with Jesus. Even though my son was a lot stronger than Jesus,Jesus had more skills that offset my son's power.Once in a while my son would get the best of him,but at that level skills win out most of the time over pure strength.

At the end of the season,Carlos qualified to get to the County CIF Championships. He got to the quarter finals,but lost to a very good wrestler who was on the team that won the CIF Championship.It was a very good match. The fans on both sides were going crazy. Me and Ramon and Erik along with Carlos's teammates surrounded the might screaming our heads off for the kid. Carlos lost in the last seconds when the other kid broke away on an escape. We were all out of breath.Erik ran out to the mat and put his arms around Carlos.He broke down and began sobbing.
"I'm sorry,"Carlos stammered."I can't control myself."
As I looked at Carlos,i almost felt like crying too.Carlos went to the edge of the mat and plopped in a folding chair. He draped a towel over his head.I went over to console him.
"You really did good man. You almost had him,"I said not very convincingly.
Carlos removed the towel covering his head. His eyes were wet and bloodshot.
"You know coach,I'm glad my father wasn't here.i wouldn't want him to see me crying."




Carlos Zarate

The Passageway

There's what they call a "pasillo" between Third and Fourth Streets that runs along Calle Madero in Tijuana.The alley cuts in a couple of blocks from Madero. The alley harbors some pretty seedy people.Heroin addcts,"borrachos",and the homeless take up residency in the alley sleeping on folded cardboard boxes.You can smell the urine and last night's spilled beer.Broken glass and used needles litter the cracked concrete street.Although what I described is pretty hideous,the alley does have residents who struggle to get through life in a more or less civilized manner. It's a little neighborhood that functions on a combination of street smarts with a distrust of everything inside and outside its surroundings.There's not much anyone can do for each other,or wants to do.Energy is focused on what's left of a family.I've roamed that place for years. My dentist has an office down the street. Esther's Gallery ,that puts together the frames on my paintings, is also a block away.Through the years I've grown acquainted with the alley.One guy I became friends with is Juanito who sells the oranges on the corner.The other day I stopped by.
"Rogelio!Where you been?",beamed Juanito standing behind his pushcart.
"I've been around.Esther is putting a frame on one of my paintings.She told me to come back in an hour,"I answered.
Juanito's makes orange juice with one of those big commercial juice squeezers that have the handle you push down .He also slices cantaloupes,melons,pineapples,grapes,and jicamas and puts them in cups and then arrays them around the front of his cart to sell.If you want he'll sprinkle chili and squeeze lime juice on the fruit cup.Alongside the juicer is two big jugs .One is filled with lime juice with cut limes floating on top sweetened with sugar and the other with horchata flavored with cinnamon.Big chunks of ice were floating on top of the liquids. Two big metal dippers hung inside the jugs
"Give me a large orange juice Juanito,"I said.
Juanito began to slice oranges in halves and put them in the juice sieve.Then he'd press down with the handle.The juice would collect in a bowl under the sieve. After collecting enough juice he'd take out the pulp and put it in the juice.He'd then fill a plastic cup with the contents.After wiping the side of the cup with a towel,Juanito handed me the orange juice.
"Tell me Juan.Are you still fighting?"
"I'm fighting next week at the Rancho Grande."
Juanito was a good looking kid.He had a warm smile and clear light skin.He didn't have much of any Indian features.He didn't have the Indian nose or the soft skin.His body was defined and he was fairly tall.
"Who are you fighting?"I asked.
"I don't know yet. It doesn't matter to me."
I knew that Juanito had won his first fight and then fought a draw in his second go around,but after those bouts he hadn't tasted victory. In fact he hadn't won a fight in over two years. He was regular on the undercards in the various venues around Tijuana. He would fight mostly in the bars that scattered the city.
"How's your sister doing?Does she still live at the end of the "pasillo"?
"She's still in that apartment with all her dogs."
"I haven't seen her for awhile."
"She worries about her daughter.She's in the process of getting her American citizenship."
I handed Juan ten pesos for the juice.That was 60 cents in American money.I took a big drink.The juice tasted wonderful and fresh.
"Juanito,as I was walking around I see a lot of 'negritos' in the street. What's with that?"
"They are from Haiti. They came up from Brazil.Brazil took them in after Haiti had that hurricane awhile back,but now Brazil kicked them out because their economy went bad.So they are up here wanting to get to your country."
"There are sure are a lot of them,"I said.
"Several thousand. The Mexican cops have rounded them up and taken them to the American embassy to get their papers in order to cross,but your embassy can only process 25 a day. I wish they'd hurry. We don't want those 'prietos' here.' "
Juanito pulled out some money from his pocket.
"Rogelio,do me a favor and run down to my sister's apartment and give her this money. I need her to buy more oranges.Take the ten pesos back.Here,take it. The juice I buy for you."
I took the money and walked down a half block and turned into the alley.Just to my left I saw a door ajar.Felicitas's place was open for business. I tried to scoot by.
"Rogelio!"the big woman shouted."Come in.I never see you anymore."
It was Felicitas,the owner of the house. She was a big woman,but her facial features were very petite,pert lips surrounded by plump cheeks..She waddled when she walked on her tiny feet.Her sandy hair was pulled back in a pony tail.She wore a large pair of blue jeans,a sweatshirt,and tennis shoes.
"I have a new girl,"she said anxiously."She's from Vera Cruz.Her name is Esperanza. My clients say she does everything."
I peeked inside the door. I saw a woman sitting on a bar stool. The padding was torn.the woman was wearing a pair of woolen pants partially covered by a skirt. She was heavy set and slouched on the stool. Her lower lip hung down.i could see a stud in her nostril.
"I need to take this money to Juanito's sister,"I said to Felicitas trying to get away.
"Come back when you finish,"said Felicitas."She does everything and is very clean."
"Well right now I have to get going."
I had the orange juice in my hand.
"Rogelio," Felicitas went on." I wouldn't drink that.It's filthy around here. the wind blows the dirt around and it lands on everything. People spit and throw up and they have tuberculosis and aids. I had a girl who worked here and she ate a taco that she bought on the corner.She got sick and died."
"Like I said.I got to get on my way."
I started walking down the alley. There was graffiti everywhere.i could here men laughing from one of the apartments. I saw a woman taking clothes from a basket and putting them on a clothesline.
"Senora.Excuse me.Where does Juanito's sister live?"I asked her.
The woman turned to me.She looked disgusted.
"Over there,"She pointed. "The one with the broken door.Be carefull of the dogs."
I went up to the door. The screen was torn and the door was off its hinges.I knocked lightly. I could hear dogs running around and then begin to bark.Juanito's sister pried the door open.
"Rogelio.What a surprise. Milagro!"she exclaimed.
Juanito's sister wore her hair up. Her teeth were stained yellow from smoking.Like her brother,she had a nice smile,but her complexion was darker.I thought she was pretty,but that was because I thought she was pleasant.
"I asked that woman hanging the clothes where you lived."
"That old 'bruja' dumps her dishwater outside our door. It stinks up everything."
"Your brother wants you to take this money and buy him some more oranges."
"I need to walk down to the school and pick up my daughter first. I'm in the process of getting her American citizenship.That way I'll get a hundred more dollars a month."
"Well,here's the money for the oranges."
I put the money in her hand.
"Rogelio.Do me a favor. Try to tell my brother to give up boxing. He's going to get hurt. He'll wind up like the rest."
"If I say that to him,he'll know that you told me to say that to him."
She smiled and pushed the door shut.I turned around and began walking back to Esther's Gallery,but I made a point to bypass Felicita's.However,i did stop to tell Juanito that I gave his sister the money. I never mentioned anything about fighting.

Streetfighter

I used to be part of a high school football staff comprised of ex NFL players.I thought I'd lay back and observe how the pros did it. I thought I'd learn a thing or two. I was surprised to discover that these guys didn't comprehend the game as much as I had believed.With the exception of one,I won't mention these guys names. It's not important anyway.Besides it has nothing to do with the point I want to make.

One of the coaches was an old timer by the name of George Dixon. If I heard it right he had coached at Notre Dame with Parsegian and later with Lombardi at Washington. He was a crusty old dude. A shaved head and a grouchy attitude,he reminded me of a drill sergeant. He might have been one,probably a Marine.I like to think so anyway.It would fit his profile. Not only was he a relic ,but his mantra was formulated way before my time.

He called the kids "thimble dicks' and " numb nuts" and with that poetry came no semblance of any affinity.The kids didn't know what to make of him. I don't think they hated him or even disliked him.I don't think the kids had ever seen anyone like him before.He assumed that these teenagers already knew how to play the game. He didn't want to spend time teaching the kids the basics. If he asked a lineman to execute a "fold block" with the guy next to him and the kid just stood there in a trance,all George would come up with was "your IQ is lower than a tree."

Old George also had his opinions on how the young generation was developing within the course humanity.He'd look out onto the P.E field and shake his head disgustingly.
"What the hell is the world coming to?Girls playing sports with boys. I can't even tell the difference between the girls and the boys anymore.The boys look like girls with that long hair.I think our society is going queer."

One day(I don't know how it came up)George had a take on fighters.
"Fighters? They're lucky they can do that. If they couldn't they'd all wind up with syphilis and be in jail."
George was one of those guys you couldn't get out of your mind.If he could articulate a little better,maybe he'd carry some credence with his observations.But it was his opinion about fighters that stuck with me.

A lot of people think that fighters are fearless and a bunch of tough guys. For the most part that's right,but boxing is like any other sport. It has rules.You can't bring a knife or gun into the ring with you.You're not supposed to bite the other guy's ear off.There's a referee in there to make sure the Marquis of Queensberry doesn't roll over in his grave.

Most fighters I've known don't look for a fight outside the ring.(They don't get paid for stuff like that).But if they're pushed I don't know many that would back down.Ronnie Wilson and Denny Moyer, who were with Sid Flaherty down here in San Diego, were two of the nicest most unassuming guys you'd ever want to meet,but if they had had a few too many, you could set them off just like that and then you'd be in a world of hurt.Archie Moore,when I knew him, was out of boxing for a number of years,but he wouldn't take any guff from anyone. Burke Emery was the same way.

However, there were a few that really didn't want to get mixed up in a street fight type of scenario.I knew some of those guys. I won't mention their names.They might read this and look me up to call me out as a liar.Bur I will mention two fighters,who are often mentioned as the greatest pound for pound fighters,who, I believe, didn't want to fight anybody in an alley,Sugar Ray Robinson and Muhammad Ali. With the gloves on,with the ref in the ring with them,within the Marquis of Queensberry guidelines as the rules to obey, they could wup up on you.Funny,I don't think Muhammad Ali wanted to get in the grasp of Sonny Liston in a barroom brawl nor do I think Ray Robinson would find it comfortable to have Jake LaMotta take him on in a phone booth.

I guess maybe that's why the MMA has become the favorite of the new generation. There aren't all these rules. It's dirty fighting.It's like a street fight.But I'll always go to boxing. To see two fellas in there that know what they're doing,even the big punchers like the Tysons,is condusive to my appreciations. Those skills can be equated with an art form. Maybe they should have matched Kenny Norton and Larry Holmes in the Louvre.



He belongs in the Louvre

Cubbies go to the World Serious.




Here's my dad sitting between Al Capone and Frank Nitti .Machine Gun Jack McGurn is the muscle sitting behind the trio. Gabby Hartnett autographing a ball for my dad.Wrigley Field,Chicago !931.

The Bend

"I didn't know trees grew in the desert,"said Eddie.
"Those aren't trees.They're cactus,"I replied.
"They're as big as trees."
"They're called Saguaro cactus."
"They stand there lke sentries,"he said.
We had passed through the checkpoint outside of Yuma.I was driving Eddie and his fighter,Circy Jones,to Gila Bend so they could make connections with Eddie's brother so they could continue on to Phoenix.Circy was to fight on the undercard.They had taken the fight on short notice.Circy was curled up on the back seat sleeping.
"Is Circy ready?" I asked his trainer.
"He's been coming to the gym more often."
Eddie Johnson had been working with fighters off and on in San Diego for years.He used to fight when he was in the service.He was a pretty fair middle weight.He'd put on a few pounds and his hairline was receding and you could see the gray around the temples.His dark brown skin was still taught on his shouldres and arms.Eddie settled in San Diego after he got out of the Navy.Originally from Brooklyn,the old trainer had had a few prospects,but none of them had panned out. He bought a junk yard with his Navy pay,was getting a pension,and on the side dabbled with working with fighters.After the old Coliseum went dark,his time with fighters had dwindled down pretty much.His new protegee,Circy,had walked into the gym a few years ago.
"I worked with Circy to stay away from the wrong element,if you know what I mean,"said Eddie.
"The Black neighborhood has changed a lot ,"I said.
"The kids don't seem to have as much fun anymore,"said Eddie."For an old Black man like myself,I've lost my place . I'm trying to prevent Circy into falling in with those Pirus.They try to pull him in all the time."
The highway was a straight shot until we got to the bend. The sky was clear and the landscape underscored with tumbleweeds and desert flowers.The mesas were far off in the distance.It was late May and the desert air was very pleasant.
"Your brother is going to meet us at the bend?,"I asked Eddie.
"He said he'd be in his car in front of the sign."
"What made your brother move to Phoenix?"
"He landed a job driving a big rig. This will be the first time I've seen him since he moved out from back east."
"Turning left at the bend,it's around an hour or so until you get to Phoenix,"I said."Where's the fight going to be at?"
"I don't know,but my brother has taken care of everything. Tomorrow morning we've got the weigh in with the commission.You'll be at the Fight?"
"I'll be there.I'll phone you before I arrive back in Phoenix."
I saw a road sign that read "Gila Bend 20 miles".
"Call your brother and make sure he's waiting for us."I said.
Eddie pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
"My phone is dead,"he said."Can you use your phone to get him."
I dialed the number of Eddie's brother.He was waiting at the sign at the bend.
"We'll be there soon. You better wake up Circy."
Eddie roused up Circy from the back seat. Eddie's brother was waiting for us in his car.
"You sure you don't want to go into town with us?"asked Eddie.
"No,I'm going straight ahead.There's something I've always wanted to do,but I'll be back for the fight.Are you going to stay with your brother?"
"He's putting us up at the Easy 8 Motel.He says it's off the freeway near the ballpark."
"I know where that is.A lot of the truckers stay there."
After letting Eddie and Circy off I continued down the highway.I wanted to see some of the old ghost towns,especially Tombsone ,Arizona.The Wild West had always fascinated me. It was a unique part of American history.It signified the pioneer spirit and when men where men and they settled matters with their fists or with face to face gun fight.One's word was his bond.You had to be tough to survive.It was a era that I only knew from books and the movies.What might have been made up was of no importance to me.

I saw the sign for the Tombstone turnoff.It was about another 30 minutes to the "Town to Tough to Die." The first sight I saw was Boot Hill. I pulled into the parking lot and walked inside the little store. There was a girl wearing a pioneer type dress behind the counter. As I neared her,I noticed a tattoo of a rose with thorns on her forearm.She was playing on her I Phone.
"Are the McLaury brothers tombstones out in the back?"I asked her.
"They're in row 2,"she answered not looking up from her phone."They aren't the original headstones. The originals were stolen years ago."
I found where the McLaurys were buried.They were killed by the Earps and Doc Holliday at the gunfight at the OK Corral. I could tell the headstones were new and freshly painted. After reading the inscriptions,I drove into the town of Tombstone. I parked my car and walked down Main Street. Some workers were repairing part of the asphalt near the curb. I saw the Bird Cage Theater. A guy dressed up in cowboy garb was sitting in front. I guess he was a greeter. He was talking to someone on his cell phone.
"I get off at 3 o'clock,"he said. "Make sure you made those reservations to Disneyland.I'll pick you up after I can get out of here.Make sure the kids are ready."
After walking around for awhile,I stopped at a store that sold novelties. I picked up a few T shirts for the grandkids.I then drove to Tucson and stayed the night in a motel. The next morning I called Eddie about the fight. His phone was working now. He told me that the fight was off.Evidently ,Circy had left the motel that night. Vice picked him up for trying to pick up a hooker in the parking lot. He was also holding a few joints.Eddie said that he was going to stay in Phoenix to try to clear things up. There was no reason for me to go there. I made the trip back to San Diego in one hop. As I went through the desert it got very dark. I thought of the big Saguaro cactus as I was driving along.I couldn't see them,but I knew they had been there for over a hundred years.There were like sentries. What they were guarding,I had no idea.



Wyatt Earp

dagosd2000 wrote:Cubbies go to the World Serious.




Here's my dad sitting between Al Capone and Frank Nitti .Machine Gun Jack McGurn is the muscle sitting behind the trio. Gabby Hartnett autographing a ball for my dad.Wrigley Field,Chicago !931.

Rog, that is one historical photo. Didn't you say it is often mis-printed that that was Sonny Capone? Absolutely wild photo. BTW, Go Cubs!!

scartissue wrote:

dagosd2000 wrote:Cubbies go to the World Serious.




Here's my dad sitting between Al Capone and Frank Nitti .Machine Gun Jack McGurn is the muscle sitting behind the trio. Gabby Hartnett autographing a ball for my dad.Wrigley Field,Chicago !931.

Rog, that is one historical photo. Didn't you say it is often mis-printed that that was Sonny Capone? Absolutely wild photo. BTW, Go Cubs!!

Some references say the boy is Al Jr. (Sonny),but most credible sources just say the boy in the photo is not Sonny,but a stand in.




A picture of my dad around the same time. After my dad's father(Diamond Joe Esposito) was killed,Capone wanted my father to live at Capones mother's house with his son,Sonny. My dad lived there for several years. Often Capone would take my dad with him when he went out. Capone told my grandmother(my dad's mother)that he thought my dad was a bad influence on his son!

dagosd2000 wrote:

scartissue wrote:

dagosd2000 wrote:Cubbies go to the World Serious.




Here's my dad sitting between Al Capone and Frank Nitti .Machine Gun Jack McGurn is the muscle sitting behind the trio. Gabby Hartnett autographing a ball for my dad.Wrigley Field,Chicago !931.

Rog, that is one historical photo. Didn't you say it is often mis-printed that that was Sonny Capone? Absolutely wild photo. BTW, Go Cubs!!

Some references say the boy is Al Jr. (Sonny),but most credible sources just say the boy in the photo is not Sonny,but a stand in.




A picture of my dad around the same time. After my dad's father(Diamond Joe Esposito) was killed,Capone wanted my father to live at Capones mother's house with his son,Sonny. My dad lived there for several years. Often Capone would take my dad with him when he went out. Capone told my grandmother(my dad's mother)that he thought my dad was a bad influence on his son!

Just a note to the above.My father didn't see this picture again until the end of his life. Back in his day there were no computers with the internet. When I showed him this photograph,he said that he had not seen it in over 60 years.At the time some notations mentioned that the boy was Sonny Capone.When my father first saw the photograph in the Chicago papers,there was no mention of who the boy was.He remembered that day. After Gabby Hartnett signed the baseball for him,my dad became a devoted Cubs fan.

The Little Corner

They put the big fights in Tijuana in the downtown bullring.It's been quite awhile since they tore the place down.They said it was unsafe.They were afraid it would collapse some day,so they tore it down. There's a new bullring in Playas de Tijuana by the ocean.They don't hold many fights there let alone a big fight,but Mexico hasn't had any big fights in a long time.The Canelos,Marquezes,and even daddy Chavez filled arenas in California,Texas,and of course,Las Vegas for the big fights.Last month I drove up to LA to watch Roman Gonzalez take on a very good Mexican fighter,Carlos Quadras.The atmosphere wasn't like I remember it when let's say Olivares or Jose Napoles would put their titles on the line.I've seen some pretty important fights with the Mexican fighters in the Forum back in the day.One night at the Forum the aficianados thought Chucho Castillo got robbed against Lionel Rose.All hell broke loose.I ran outta there fast!I remember never seen a lack of passion from the Mexican fans. The Olympic Auditorium was a legal riot sometimes pushing the envelope beyond the law.Today, The Olympic is a Korean Church.Not mjuch action there.The Staple Center in downtown LA is the big venue now,but there isn't the multitude of good Mexican fighters today like there was back in the 60's and 70's to keep a weekly card going.I cherish the old memories .

When I'd go to a fight at the old downtown bullring,I made a point never to park in the parking lot. You'd think they'd put some parking attendants in the lot to guide the cars into organized parking places. Excuse me.Did I say organized?The lot would fill up with cars parked at all different angles that made it look like someone had opened a jig saw puzzle and dumped the contents on the floor,so I'd park a few blocks away on the street.

The old bullring was located on the boulevard halfway between downtown and the Caliente Racetrack. I remember across the boulevard all the taco stands lined up in a row.Cars would pull alongside and people would get out and sit on the stools and eat their "tacos various"and wash them down with a cold bottle of beer.I remember the lightbulbs that hung across the front of those hand painted stands,the aromas of the meat sizzling on the grills,the colorful array of chilis,salsas, and radishes that were available to fill up the hot corn tortillas.Before going to the fights,I'd have a good feed at one of those stands.The mulas, buchis,gordas,tacos al pastor,the carne asada...the savors was unlike anything else. The best tacos in the world.

After satisfying my tastebuds I'd stop for a bracer at a little bar called the Rinconcito. I'd park my car out front. The bar was between the bullring and the boulevard on a tight busy intersection.The neighborhood was in an old section of the city. The houses and stores had been around for some time.It was all familiar.When the bullring was standing,the Rinconcito did a pretty good business. The weekly bullfights,the boxing matches,and the concerts featuring the singers and musicians of the golden era of Mexico kept the Rinconcito on a pretty good pace. The old guy ,Chon, the owner, was a man who took a lot of pride with his little bar. He adorned the walls with pictures of bullfighters and fighters. Chon was posing in all of them.He was especially proud of his picture he had taken with "El Cordobes"the best bullfighter of the day.There was an inscription that the matador had written to Chon saying tha Chon was a special friend and his memory would be with him forever.The picture was hanging centered behind the bar.Next to the picture of Chon and "El Cordobes" was a sepia photo of a young Chon wearing his boxing trunks. His skin was dark and his hair was thick.He looked very serious in his fighting pose.
Chon was roughewn looking.He'd been a fighter so he said. His gray hair was receding ,but he still combed it straight back.He had the misshapen nose of a pug.He always wore a white buttoned shirt opened at the front that exposed his light brown skin showing no hair on his chest.His hands were thick as were his fingernails.

The first time I saw Jose Napoles fight was in the bullring against one of those journeyman fighters they brought up from the States,Herbie Lee. George Parnassus was grooming Mantequilla for his debut across the border. Before the fight I thought I'd drop by and have a word and a drink with Chon.
The stools and tables were filled up with fans getting there minds right for the fight.Chon had a small black and white television in back of the bar. it was seldom turned on.Chon didn't want any music in his place,except for the street musicians who would walk in from outside,so there was no jukebox.Two booths were in the back against the wall.A couple of tables with a few chairs were between the booths and the bar. I found a stool at the end of the bar.Chon noticed me right away.
"You going to see the fight?"he asked as he put a coaster on the bar.He then began to draw a beer from the tap.He put a head on it like a pro.
"I've heard a lot about this Napoles,"I said.
"You'll be impressed,"said the old fighter."He'll win the title. Parnassus will get him in there with Cokes in Los Angeles."
"I've seen Lewis and Indian Red.They're very good."
"They're not in Napoles's class.Once he gets to LA there will be a lot of action."
"I'll be looking forward to it."I said.
The fights were to start at 9 o'clock,but in Mexico nothing starts on time whether it's a concert,a wedding,a funeral,or a fight. I looked at my watch.It was 9 o'clock.I had plenty of time.
"You ever notice that not many Mexicans wear watches nor do you see many clocks inside buildings,"remarked Chon.
"I've never gave it much thought,but come to think of it you're right."
"Nor do you see clocks in someone's house."
"Now you've got me curious,"I said.
"Mexicans see time as constraining. They don't want to be a slave to it.You very seldom see the time when a store opens and closes on the front of a building,and if you do, the owner will open and close his doors when he feels like it."
"Americans are always looking at the clock,"i said.
"Time will always go on.You can't control it so why let it control you?"
"Funny,"I quipped."When I come to Mexico I lose track of time.I'm not in a hurry to go home."
"American men are always worried that their wives will become angry if they come home late."
"Maybe that's why they close the bars down a 2 am in San Diego."
"Here, the cantinas stay open all night depending if someone needs to have one more copita."
I began to chuckle.
"Now you sound like Hemingway,"I said.
"Hemingway?"Chon asked with a wink."Didn't he fight Baby Arizmendi?"
"No,that was Baby Casanova."
"Roger,how about if I buy you a drink?"
I looked at my watch.
"Sure.I've got plenty of time."

Passing Through

I took my wife to one of the Casa de Cambios in San Ysidro so she could exchange her dollars into pesos.We drove down from San Diego which is about a 20 minute commute.From San Ysidro we'd cross into Tijuana where my wife would go to her bank and then wire the money to her hometown,Jiquilpan,Michoacan.The money would be put into the savings account of her brother. The purpose of this exercise was that Mexico was going to celebrate Dia de Los Muertos,The Day of The Dead.My wife's brother would then buy flowers to put on my mother in law's grave.

There are a slew of these exchange houses in San Ysidro which is the first stop after you cross the border from Tijuana.They've got these Casa de Cambios in Tijuana,but you get a better exchange rate on the US side for some reason.San Ysidro is always crowded with foot traffic and automobiles.My wife wanted to make the exchange at this certain exchange house she always insists on going to.Mexicans are creatures of habit. They don't like to deviate from routines and rituals that they,after periods of time,feel comfortable with.My wife must not have been the only Mexican that thought this Casa de Cambio was a Yelp 4 star rater. The line of people outside this joint stretched around the block.As usual I couldn't understand the reason.
"For cryin' out loud why don't you go to the one across the street!,"I yelled at my wife as I drove inside the parking lot.
"Callete!" she shot back."I like this one."
"The exchange rate is the same!It's the same for all these places!"I shouted in my frustration.
"Callete.Park the car,"
There was no alternative,so I prked the car and got out my crossword puzzles that I keep handy in the glove compartment for monotonous occasions like this like when she just wants to go to her favorite Mexican market in National City just to buy "her" tortillas.The wait is usually over an hour before she walks back pushing an overflowing shopping cart with half the store in it. Thank goodness for crossword puzzles,so I took out a pencil and began to decipher.

As I was exercising my brain,I saw a woman get out of a car that had entered the lot and was parked a few slots down from mine.She was holding the hand of a young boy.I recognized the woman immediately.She was Vargas's daughter,Concha.Vargas was the old fighter who had recently passed away in the sanitorio near the border.
"Conchita!" I shouted in her direction."Ven aqui."
The woman turned and saw me sitting in the car. She smiled and waved and walked with the boy towards my car.
"Rogelio,what are you doing here?" she asked.
She was very lovely with her black hair combed straight down. Her mouth broadened into a wonderful smile.Her teeth were even perfect,her lips full,and her dark complexion immaculate.Her shape was full,but taut.I was transfixed on her large dark eyes as we spoke.
"My wife is changing her money.She wants to wire her brother in Michoacán money so he can buy flowers to put on their mother's grave for Dia de Los Muertos,"I answered.
"It's a small world,"she retorted."I'm here for the same reason."
I looked at the boy. He was a cute little guy.He was dressed very neatly wearing brown slacks and a white shirt. His black leather shoes you could see were shiny and polished. His thick black hair was parted to the side.
"Who's the little guy?"I asked.
"My father's great grandson,Juanito.I named him after my father.My father passed away just before he was born."
"I remember him talking about how he was going to have his first great grandchild,"I said.
"He told me that you visited him in the sanitorio,"said Concha."That was very nice of you to do that. It made him happy."
"Is your daughter still living with you?"I asked.
"She always has.The boy's father never wanted to marry my daughter, nor did he want to work. The guy lives with his mother. She is very happy to have him."
"Wasn't your father from Michoacán?"
"Yes.He was born in Cotija."
"That's not far from my wife's hometown,Jiquilpan."
"Yes, I know Jiquilpan."
"My wife is sending money down there to put things on the grave,"I said.
"My father is buried in Cotija.The money is to buy things to put on the grave also."
"I guess the souls of the dead pass through on The Day of The Dead.The families leave things that they enjoyed on Earth."
"The cemetery gets very busy.Where your mother in law and my father are buried it is traditional to put things on the grave that the departed were fond of."
"I guess my brother in law will put flowers and a taco of frijoles on her grave. I remember my mother in law loved beans and tortillas."
"They will put a pair of boxing gloves and a bottle of tequila on my father's grave,"lamented Concha.
"We used to go out on the town after his fights",I said.
I noticed that she didn't smile after I had said that.I then wish I hadn't spoken.
"I think at the end my father liked to drink more than to fight,at least in the ring."
"He made some money at it,"I said trying to recover from my previous statement.
"When he was a going good it was good enough,but the drinking caught up with him.After he couldn't win anymore there was no more money coming in and his temperament got worse.My mother couldn't take it any longer."
Somehow I thought I had contributed to the problem.
"But in the beginning it wan't so bad,"said Concha."My father didn't like to work.He thought fighting was easier.Juanito's father doesn't like to work either,and take it from me,he's no fighter. A real "maricon".A little mamas' boy."
I could see Juanito tugging at Concha's skirt.
"Rogelio,"said Concha."Juanito is telling me it's time to go.I enjoyed seeing you again. Say hello to your wife for me."
"I sure will."

As I saw her get in line with the boy,i thought of some those times me and vargas would kick up our heels in the streets in Tijuana. We must of had a drink and sung a song in every bar on Revolution Street and in The Coahuila.I'll never forget the night we found ourselves in The Bambi Bar.It was a little hot joint just a block up from Revolution on 3rd Street.It was late and the placed was packed and loud.There were two groups of street musicains inside.a Norteno group and a Tambora ensemble.Both bands were playing as loud as they could,singing and pounding away. There were two contingents of rowdy drunks trying to sing along.The pandemonium was fitting.The chaos was aglow.There were a group of girls sitting at a table with their hands rubbing the crotches of their drunken male companions.They were all drinking it up.Everybody knew what they wanted. There were no pretenses.I remember this big blond I'd see in there all the time. They called her Roxy.She was sitting at the table trying to start a fire between this dude's legs. Vargas saw me eyeing her.He worked his way to where Roxy was at and pulled her away. Her pushed her in my direction.

Roxy was like the star attraction at The Bambi. She was over the top in all categories.First ,let's get something straight.Her name wasn't really Roxy. It was probably something like Maria or Guadalupe,but "Roxy" was more apropos for a joint like the Bambi Bar. Vargas had her stand in front of me.
"Rogelio,I want you to meet my friend Roxy."
Roxy put out her hand limply.
"Nice to meet you,"she said almost incoherently as she rubbed her nose with her fingertips.
"Rogelio my friend. I want you to have some fun. I've taken care of it.I'll be waiting at the bar when you're finished."
I have to admit,by that time any semblance of morality had dissipated hours ago.
As I followed Roxy down the hallway into one of the back rooms I was taken by the size of her. She was half a head taller than me even without her high heels. Her sequin dress fit her torso tighter than a matador's outfit. You could tell her ass and chi chis were shot up with silicon,her hair tinted a platinum blond,the make up thick and eerie.Her eye shadow was a deep purple. She pushed me flat on my back on the small bed in the room. All there was was the bed.No bathroom.No chair.No dresser drawer.The room smelled of marijuana.First she pulled off my pants down to my knees.That was as undressed as she wanted me.Then she took off hers.When those chi chis popped out from her reinforced wire brassiere they looked like warheads.As she straddled on top of me I grabbed at those monsters. They were hard as rocks.

Well I don't remember too much else. I guess I was inside her. I couldn't tell. Either I was too drunk or she was big there like everywhere else.I felt nothing.All I really remembered next was throwing up on the street outside bending down next to Vargas. All I could hear was that deafening music from inside the Bambi Bar.Sometime later I heard someone remark that Roxy was really a man.That f--k--g Vargas.I certainly didn't want to share that experience with Vargas's daughter.

Just as I was finished reminiscing ,my wife returned to the car.
"Remember that old fighter Vargas?"I asked.
"The fighter that died recently in Tijuana.?"
"Yes.Well I just saw his daughter.She went in to change her money.She's sending it down to Cotija so they can put things on her father's grave for Dia de Los Muertos ."
"What are they going to put on the grave?"
"Boxing gloves,a bottle of tequila,and....hopefully Roxy."
I don't think my wife heard what I said because she was counting her money.



The dead passing through. Jiquilpan,Mexico

The Rooster Commands The Sunrise

I remember in the 60's and 70's when the bantamweight division was loaded.Top to bottom with quality .Even the boys who couldn't break into the rankings were good fighters and, on a given day, could beat the champ and be wearing that crown.And what a name for a division! Bantanmweight.The Mexicans call it "Peso Gallo".Roosters...now they love to fight.Right? Below them are the flyweights.Who wants to become a flyweight fanatic nowadays? Above the roosters are the feathers.Wimpy name for fighters,flies and feathers.Gallos!Those spirited roosters when pitted against each other fight to the death! The Palenque,the name for the Mexican cockpit,is a Roman coliseum. The machos bring their bravest animals to do battle. Bets are wagered.The excitement is frenetic. A macho sport in a macho world. Pancho Villa would break down in tears with emotion as his fighting roosters engaged in their wars.Pancho Villa! If he was around you could bet that it was a man's world.

Eder Jofre started things off in the 60's when he beat Eloy Sanchez(the upset winner of Jose Becerra0) to win the championship that had been vacant since Becerra had hung up his gloves. The Brazilian seemed unbeatable. If he had fought more in the United States,especially in New York,there would be calls for him being the greatest pound for pounder who ever laced them up.He might have been the toughest pound for pound. He only lost twice, by decision, and that was to the same guy,Fighting Harada.Both contests were in Harada's back yard.A draw was sandwiched in between those losses.After that those three fights he announced his retirement.A couple of years later he came back as a featherweight ,fought 24 more bouts winning the crown from Jose Legra,no slouch.He crushed the once indestructible Vicente Saldivar(Saldivar was also making a comeback,but didn't take any tune up fights before getting in there with Eder...big risk).Jofre's last fight was against Famoso Gomez. He fought mostly in Brazil.If you were to bring up his name to a millennial fight fan he'd probably scratch his head.

During Jofre's hiatus,the Mexican bantamweights came to the front,middle and back of the division. It was an exciting period in Southern California and Mexico.The weekly cards were saturated with bantamweights.Ruben Olivares was the first big star.After disposing of Lional Rose(who had defended his title against Chucho Castillo)the aficianados were hungry for one of their own to be the boss. Olivares fit that bill. Undeafeated with a left hook that could break down doors,he looked like he'd have the belt around his waist forever.But there were other "gallos" anxious to get at him.Castillo bloodied Ruben up and wrested the crown.Further into the decade Rafael Herrera and Rodolfo Martinez would be atop of the division.Later bantams like Romeo Anaya,Alfoso Zamora, Carlos Zarate,and Lupe Pintor would be the cocks of the walk.Throw in names like Jesus Pimentel,Joe Medel,Raul Cruz,Romeo Anaya,Benny Rodriguez,and Julio Guerrero and you could be sure the fighting venues would be packed to the doors.Inside the arenas you'd here the firecrackers going off,the blood soaked in the crotch women's panties being tossed around ringside,the dead rattlesnake getting thrown in somebody's face,all activities enabled by ample amounts of alcohol.The fights complemented the hysteria. There was enough blood spilt to fill the Mayo Clinic.It was definitely worth the price of admission.

Today,Mexico has focused their pugilistic eye on weightier divisions. Recent years have produced Mexican fighters like Erik Morales,Fernando Marquez and his brother Juan Manual,Marco Antonio Barrera,Julio Cesar Chavez, Antonio Margarito,and Canelo Alvarez,all champions,but no bantamweight title holders.The Mexican gamecocks don't dominate the division like in the old day.


_______________________


My nephew, Chelis, owns a palenque in my wife's hometown in Mexico.It's on the outskirts of town. The place used to be a taller mechanico,a garage.But he wasn't taking in the money like before. Today's automobiles, with all their technology, had outpaced Chelis's understanding.Since he was a little boy he liked the palenque.When he was in a position,he revamped his garage into a cockpit.Chelis has over 200 roosters. He keeps in separate cages.He feeds them the best grains and gives them vitamins. He used to inject them with steroids and amphetimines,but tells me that that's really not necessary.The birds will fight naturally.

Chelis has his Palenque on Saturday evenings. His wife cooks food for the paying customers.There's plenty of beer. The bleachers around the pit are full of aficianados.Chelis's brother ,Carlos,takes the money at the gate.The owners of the feathered entries bring in their birds in fancy crates.The men wear their tejanas(Mexican cowboy hats),their wide leather belts with the big buckles, and their alligator skinned botas(boots).Bellies hanging over their stomachs and big furled mustaches accent the manhood. The puas(razor blades.BTW Olivares was named 'El Puas')are tied diligently to the animal's legs. There's a referee that stands in the middle of the cockpit. The owners of the birds hold their animals with tight grasps and bring them to the center of the pit. Like touching gloves before a fight the birds touch beaks,but this is no act of sportsmanship. This ceremony is to induce the fight in the animals,like they need any prodding. Once the birds leave human grasp they tear into each other. The beginning moments are electrifying.But more often than not,there's a quick quell in the battle. Both animals suffer wounds that disable their spirit to continue.Bleeding and hurt, they settle down in the dirt looking more like hens.Instinct tells them that they want no more part of it. The owners,not satisfied with this result,have the option of gathering their charges and coaxing them to have at it again.The birds by this time have quit. The referee can call a decision of the winner,but it's an obvious stalemate. The drunkenness of the owners braces their false egos and often a fight between managers ensues. Be wary of a knife or gun that will be in the hands of these adversaries.Meanwhile, the birds are bleeding to death.No one wants to pay off.The confusion becomes a calamity.If it wasn't for all the bloodshed this mess morphs into a comedy of a sorts. But then people don't know that Pancho Villa had a funny side.




Eder Jofre


My nephew Chelis injecting his charge with some fighting spirit

Nice Guys Finish First

When Joe Louis asked me who I thought the best heavyweight around today was,I have to admit I was humbled. The old champ was doing his greeting schtick on the steps of the Caesars Hotel. I was with my wife spending a few carefree days in Las Vegas. We were staying at the Dunes just down the street. I can't imagine what it's like today(I haven't been to Vegas in 20 years),but the city blocks in Vegas have to be the longest in the world.From the Dunes you can easily see Caesars.The hotel looks like it's right there in front of you,but because all the hotels are so big it seems like it takes forever walking from one hotel to the other.It's like walking in a time warp. Anyway, we get to Caesars,walk past the fountain where Evil Kneivel vaulted his motorcycle over,and there standing out in the bright Las Vegas sun, standing on the steps leading to the hotel entrance, is the Brown Bomber,Joe Louis.

I've told this one before so I'll emphasize the encounter from a personal aspect. Joe's wearing this big ten gallon cowboy hat.He's got on a nice tan sportcoat and shiny leather boots. His shirt is open at the collar and he's got a gold chain draped down his chest. I poked my wife in the ribs and said that this is the great Joe Louis.My wife had no idea.I tried to explain that he was one of the greatest fighters of all time.That made a little dent with my wife,but still she wasn't bowled over by a longshot. I shook hands with the man and introduced my wife. Joe Louis had one of the friendliest smiles going. The one time I don't bring a camera is when I went to Caesars palace that day. The big deal was that a boxing icon legend asks my two cents about who is the best heavyweight out there. I said Ali. I got no argument from Joe. But it was the way the man conducted himself. If you didn't recognize it was Joe Louis,you'd think it was another sucker waiting to lose his money inside the casino.

Oh you can bet Joe emptied his wallet plenty at the tables,but it usually wasn't his own dough.i don't think the man ever had to pay for a meal,a drink,or a roll of the dice with his own scratch.After all the fallout with the nasty IRS wanting to take his money that they said he owed in back taxes and, more shamefully,belittling the man,the government finally said that they had gotten their pound of flesh. Joe now was getting Sinatras kick from Budweiser,with some further financial assistance from Ash Resnick.All Joe had to do was smile and wave and take some pictures with the tourists who came to the Caesars Hotel.

Now my wife is probably as good a judge on human character than any PHD psychologist from one those Ivy league schools. You see ,you're probably better off being brought up poor and having to take care of your mother and younger siblings on a little ranch with no plumbing or electricity and dirt floors on top of a mountain in Michoacán than some college kid going to one of those big universities on their parents' dime and getting everything he asks for to see the worth of a person. So when my wife settled down and concentrated a little on Joe Louis conversing with us and greeting all the passerbys,I knew she'd understand.
"You have pretty wife,"said Joe sheepishly.
"Thank you."said Maria just as nicely.


Maybe it was hard for my wife to understand that this man ,once, could beat up any man in the world or how glamorous women threw themselves at him, and he was the most recognizable sports figure(or any figure0 on the planet. Joe Louis,that day,looked old and drawn. He aged rapidly .Even when Marciano put him through the ropes,Joe looked worn and tired Talking to me and the wife,Joe's speech was slow,but he always talked slow.He certainly wasn't prolific with words,but he did say at Madison Square Garden wearing his uniform at that rally for the war that "God was on our side".He was supposed to say "We are on God's side,"but changed it around. Good for you Joe Louis.

I saw my wife smiling at Joe like he was smiling at her and everyone else who stopped and said hello. It surprised me that some people just walked by him. Maybe they didn't know who he was or maybe it was more important to get to a craps table. I shook his hand before departing. Then he gave my wife a gentle hug. My wife blushed and giggled softly. As me and the wife walked inside Caesars Palace my wife looked back over her shoulder.
"Does he have children and a wife?"asked my wife.
"Yes.He has a son and has been married a few times."
I looked for a blackjack table.
"It's kind of sad in a way to see him standing out there all alone,"I said to my wife.
"Oh, he must have many friends,"said my wife as we walked inside the casino.

Just Got Sucker Punched. Mose Allison Dead At 89


https://youtu.be/bJd2Y51nTtE

I Ain't Got Nuthin' But The Blues

Beautiful Naples

When my grandfather was on top in Chicago during the Roaring 20's in Chicago his favorite hangout was his restaurant/speakeasy,The Bella Napoli on South Halsted Street..A lot of celebrities ,when in town,would frequent Diamond Joe's place.Al Jolson,Rudy Vallee,Ruth Etting,and Doug Fairbanks and Mary Pickford were no strangers to chomping down on a plate of pasta at the Bella.Dimey would bring over Jane Addam's Hull House orphans to the Bella and put out a spread for them.Hull House was located across the street from my grandfather's restaurant and when he wasn't bedding Jane Addams he would make sure her kids were well fed. My grandfather ,having in mind of opening an eatery,ventured to his homeland and brought back with him the most renown chef in Naples. His Neopolitan specialties were savored on the palates of the rich and powerful and his average neighborhood paisans. Those recipes were passed along to my grandmother,then to my mother who shared them with my sisters. Even other Italians, who are prone to like their mother's gravy, would say "our" Italian meals were the best they had ever eaten.

Al Capone ate his spaghetti in the Bella Napoli just about every night. Al's wife ,Mae,was an Irish lass . I don't think her expertise was making raviolis,so Al tucked a napkin under his chin and would go to work on a bowl of linguini with white clam sauce at my grandfather's restaurant. Legend has it that Al was such a regular at the Bella Napoli that Dion O'Bannion tried to bribe the dago chef to add prussic acid as one of the ingredients to Big Al's dinner. Of course the chef was a paisan of Capone's also and that never happened.

When the Manassa Mauler,Jack Dempsey, was lined up to fight Tunney again in Chicago,Big All wanted to make some big money with the rematch.Al thought he had an offer Dempsey's people couldn't refuse.Jack would "win" the rematch,the third fight would be legit.The sit down for this overture was inside my grandfather's joint,The Bella Napoli.

Well ,there was a lot of people who would have had to string along with this.From what they said,Dempsey was the least cooperative. Jack had lost his legs and his desire to fight much anymore.Besides,he didn't want to wind up having scrambled eggs for brains. Doc Kearns had kept him out of the ring for three years boxing exhibitions and acting with movie stars. I heard the old fight manager say(remember that story of when my dad took me to the back room of Bob Johnston's bar in San Diego?) that he protected Jack pretty good during his run as a fighter. Doc took him out West and had him fight a string of no names in places like Ely,Nevada and Murray,Utah. With the help of some Plaster of Paris and some energetic sports writers,Doc and Dempsey were ready for the big Jess in Toledo.Kearns lays 10 G's that his fighter,who was the betting underdog ,would knockout the big plow boy in the opening frame getting 10 to 1. Wiilard had never been off his feet in a fight. We gotta' love you Doc.

Well ,you saw what transpired under that hot Ohio sky. The bronzed skinned Dempsey comes roaring out of his coener and throws a left hook that started from Lake Erie that collapses the Kansan. After six more excursions to the canvas with Dempsey scowling and hovering over Willard like a rabid dog, Kearns thought his side bet was safe. At the gong, Jack leaps through the ropes and quickly removes his gloves and the evidence.But Big Jess, broken up and bruised, wanted to go on. Ollie Pecord ,the ref,is screaming at Dempsey to get back in there.Imagine if Dempsey would have been DQ'd for leaving the ring? So the play went on for two more rounds. It's interesting that Dempsey couldn't knock the big guy down anymore nor have Pecord toll ten over his Jess's hulk. At the bell of round 4 Jess stayed on his stool.Teeth missing,bones broken,and his will to continue dwindling, they waved the towel in his corner. Jack Dempsey,the new champ.

Dempsey was in the right place at the right time, and he was with Doc Kearns. Dempsey,along with Babe Ruth,were the most famous sports figures of that era. Doc handpicked Dempsey's opponents carefully:a French light heavyweight with a big heart and a weak chin;a game fighter who was afflicted with an illness that he would finally succumb to in three months after fighter Dempsey;an Irish pug who really didn't deserve a shot;and then there was that big bull of a fighter from Argentina who punched Dempsey through the ropes. The excited scribes pushed Dempsey back through the ropes in the opposite direction and he's lucky he wasn't disqualified. Three years later, amid turmoil within Dempsey's camp,here comes the Fighting Marine.Tunney in the two fights wins 19 out of 20 rounds against Jack.

Dempsey was smart not to get involved with one of Capone's schemes in Chicago.Later, Dempsey wound up opening his own joint on Broadway in New York across from the Garden. It was a bucket list stop for fight fans when visiting the Apple. My dad told me that one time he was in New York City visiting his Uncle Chas they stopped in to say hello to the Manassa Mauler. When my dad returned from his visit,I asked him if Dempsey remembered his dinner at the Bella Napoli with all those interesting characters.The first thing out of my father's mouth was that Dempsey said it was the best spaghetti he had ever eaten.

See, I told you so.


Diamond Joe with his pigeons walking the top of the Bella Napoli







Kid Blackie

Rog, what a story. I found myself googling the Bella Napoli of Chicago after reading your piece. Diamond Joe cut quite a swath in the Windy City. What an era!

scartissue wrote:Rog, what a story. I found myself googling the Bella Napoli of Chicago after reading your piece. Diamond Joe cut quite a swath in the Windy City. What an era!

Thanks Dan,After my grandfather was killed,my grandmother tried to run the Bella Napoli. She squandered everything and the place closed its doors. It was busted for selling booze during Prohibition.The Outfit guys didn't look after her and stole her blind. My father wound up living with Capone for awhile.To their dying days,my father ,his mother,and his sister said that they never recovered from the loss of Diamond Joe.




Diamond Joe,my Uncle Chuck(he never got caught up in the rackets),my dad,my grandmothers' sister,and my grandmother relaxing at the Bella Napoli.

The Phone Call

I don't watch much TV anymore. I can't stand commercials,especially all the pitches from the drug companies. At my age they make me feel that I've got every ailment in the world,and then they list the side effects.When they run off "death" as a possible side effect when using their product,I reach for the remote. About the only channel that interests me anymore is Turner Classic Movies. PBS is OK,but their slant is too far to the left for me,but I do admit that the Lawrence Welk Show is a Saturday night staple.

The other night I'm relaxed under the covers watching a Jimmy Cagney movie on TBS. The name of the flick was "Blonde Crazy".Joan Blondell co starred with him. It was one of those real old talkies made in 1931,Jimmy Cagney and his moll ,Joan Blondell, are a couple of con artists.The mood of this film was more comical than morose. The pair flim flam their way through life until they run into Louis Calhern and his female side kick, and Jimmy and Joan wind up getting taken at their own game.Well ,Jimmy and Joan plot their revenge, ala The Sting,and now things get interesting.Just when the plot begins to thicken, the phone rings.With a grunt I grab my cell and hit the mute button on the remote.
"Hello",I asked hoping for a wrong number or some dumb ad.
"Roger"said the voice on the other end."It's 'Gato Gonzalez'.I call to see how you are doing."
"Hey 'Gato' I'm doing just fine. How's Barb?"
I had a quick chat with Rodolfo at the West Coast Hall of Fame Banquet in September.He's a very humble man,shy to a point,thankful for what he has,and never feels sorry for himself. 'Gato' said that he would give me a call when I saw him in LA.
"Roger,Barb is fine thank you.And how are you and Maria?"
"We're doing well thanks."
"I have two hernias that I go to the doctor for,"explained the former lightweight champ.
"Barb said that you had two hernias when I saw you in September. That was the first thing she said to me. Before that when we talked the first thing she said was that you locked the keys in the car."
"She always worries for me.I am very fortunate."
"Yes you are.She's a wonderful person. Everyone should have someone in our lives like that."
I went to switch gears.
"Gato,gone to any fights lately?"
"I go this week to Ontario."
"Who's fighting?"
"I don't know. I go to the fights.They invite me and Barbara.They introduce me. I have a very good time."
"I saw this Roman Gonzalez fight at the Forum awhile back. He's the best fighter out there. Do you know of him?"
"No.I do not know him."
I was a little surprised by his answer.
"He's a flyweight,"I said."He's never lost a fight as an amateur or as a pro."
"You know Roger,'Alacran ' Torres showed me how to fight in Guadalajara. He and my cousin Jose Becerra.They show me the left hook to the liver."
"You had excellent teachers."
"Roger,my family was very poor.We fought to get something out of life."
"I remember telling you once that whenever I saw you in public,you were always finely dressed."
"That's because as a kid I always wore used clothes.I always wanted to buy new clothes when I made some money."
"Do you ever go to Tijuana anymore?"i asked.
"No. Too many problems.But I still own the house by the racetrack that I bought for my mother. I made 25,000 dollars when I win Carmona the title. My mother lived in Tijuana in the Zona Norte. She no like it there. Very dangerous. So I take 19,000 dollars and buy her the house by the racetrack. It had ten rooms.She was very happy. My brothers live there now."
"Barb told me once that your brothers want to come to the United States."
"Yes,but it is impossible."
'Gato' was one of the smoothest fighters I had ever seen in the ring. He had a style similar to Jose Napoles,very efficient,a fluid easy rhythm,and he had that left hook to the liver.If Mando Ramos hadn't have gone off the deep end and wound up in jail the eve of his title defense with Carmona.'Gato' would have wound up fighting a man he really admired as a fighter,and a friend, for the lightweight championship.
"Mando," I said with sincerity."You had one of the best styles I've ever seen. You reminded me of 'Mantequilla' Napoles.'You were beautiful to watch."
"Thank you.I try my best.The last time I saw Jose Napoles he doesn't recognize me."
"I saw him a couple of years ago .He lives in Ciudad Juarez. The neighborhood he lives in is very poor.He smokes his cigars in front of his house and seems happy.It's his wife's house. He told me he went to Cuba."
"Yes. It is very sad."
"He told me he had trained a fighter who was very good,but didn't want to train.The kid never came back to the gym."
"I had a fighter too that I thought would be a good one. He trained hard,but in his first fight he was chicken. He fell down from the first punch."
"They don't make them like you anymore.Now the kids would rather sell drugs to make the easy money."
"I miss 'Alacran' Torres and my cousin,"lamented 'Gato'." They are no longer with me."
"Tell me 'Gato'. How did Jose Becerra lose to a guy like Eloy Sanchez?"
"He have family problems. He fight no more after that."
I glanced at the television.They were running the credits. The movie was over.
"Look 'Gato' ,we got to get together after the first of the year.Last time you and Barb came down here. Me and Maria will drive up to see you and Barb. We'll go to nice restaurant."
"That sounds good."
"And make sure they have mariachis."
"Yes. mariachis. That is always good for luck."
After parting on the phone,i thought I was very lucky to have 'Gato' Gonzalez as a friend.



"Gato" Gonzalez

Cuba Si,Muhammad No

Fidel Castro is "No Mas".The old dictator passed away in his homeland at the age of 90.He was in power during eleven U.S. presidencies and if he could have survived through next January, the number would have been an even dozen. He overthrew a dictator so he could establish himself as another . His first overtures were to the United States,but after nationalizing Cuba's economy,he found common ground with Communist Russia. Embracing that ideology and finding a trade partner,Castro preached animosity with six hour public tirades against America.He was going to stand up to us,and hopefully, bring in the rest of Latin America on his side. The Bay of Pigs fiasco put the U.S. in a bullying posture making Nikita Kruschev think he could put ICBMs inside Fidel's empire. Well, JFK put his foot down( though there were some side deals made between Nicky and John Boy.) Kennedy promised(though he lied)that there would be no more attempts to knock off Fidel and that we'd yank our missiles that pointed in the direction of the Big Bear out of Turkey.The temperature of the Cold War could have put all the frozen food industry on ice forever. Meanwhile, Castro thinks he can bring the Latino world to see his point of view. Che Guevara decided to take the "revolution" across the ocean to Africa(against Fidel's wishes) to Algiers and the Congo,but what did he really have to offer? Cuba was just as bad off as it was before. With another autocrat in power and an economy that was mired in a swamp,who would want to go over to his side? Cuba didn't have the moxie to become an industrial nation and had to rely on foreign trade. U.S. embargos stunted Cuba's growth. Guevara snuck back to the Western Hemisphere and tried to get something going in Bolivia. Now our CIA,with the assistance of the Bolivian government,put him in their sights. Our Cuban CIA guy,Felix Rodriguez, put Guevara out of his misery and then chopped off his hands to validate the forensics. So much for the short historical recap.

So with a country that's starving to death and Castro eliminating his opposition,the bearded dictator ,still decked out in his military fatigues,now has to find something he can rally his people around. Because Castro thinks professional sports exploits ,he builds up his sports programs with athletes who compete well into their 20's.Probably Castro's biggest trophy was the giant heavyweight Teofilo Stevenson. He won three Olympic Gold Medals.He beat future pro American heavyweights Duane Bobick for a Gold(Bobick ,however,had won one from Teo in a Pan Am Games),John Tate,and Tyrell Biggs. It seemed like Stevenson would win a third Gold in 1984 in LA ,but Cuba boycotted the games. After eleven years of fighting undefeated he finally lost to Francisco Damiani(who would turn pro)and then a there was that Russian he could never beat in two tries.

With feelings between the U.S. and Cuba still at arms length and all the notches in Stevenson's gun against American amateurs,there was a cry on this side for Fidel to put up his charge against "The Greatest." After his 2nd Gold Medal in 1976 promotors wanted to make this happen in the darnest way. Ali was on the downside of his career. Stevenson was at his pinnacle.It would have been a fair fight.But Stevenson said"What is a million dollars compared to the lives of 8 million Cubans?"(What the hell did he mean by that remark?) No hint capitalism with those words, and I'm sure Castro put them in his mouth. Stevenson's countrymen would have loved to see their big guy do battle with Ali. Who knows what was inside Teo's mind about fighting Ali?A Stevenson loss would have erased an icon off the map of Cuba. I'm sure Fidel nixed the deal.Let's face it,he didn't have much that he could showoff to the Free World.

Because Stevenson was a national hero,he lived,unlike most of his countrymen,very comfortably. He lived a big house and had everything he wanted,as long as he stayed on the island. Castro is gone now,so is Teo Stevenson. Maybe things will loosen up in Cuba now. Fidel Castro's experiment was a failure,but he kept it that way with an iron fist. I hope his brother Raul,who's now the boss, is one apple that fell farther away from the tree.



Teofilo Stevenson

Don't quite know how much the Cuban people were kept in the dark over the last number of decades, but on the radio the other day there was this dude who left the island back in the early '80s and went on to become a successful restaurateur. Over the last few years anyone that made their way to these shores saw him and what he was amazed at was their complete lack of any kind of technology. I guess sheep are easier to herd when they just react to a bell.