BoxRec

Crossing The Line

I must have got my wires crossed because I thought Tiger Smalls told me that there was going to be a fight card at the gymnasium in Colonia Independencia in Tijuana. He said that his son,Prince,was scheduled to fight,but at the last minute his opponent dropped out, but that there would be a card anyway.I drove down there Tuesday evening ,and found out there was no fights going on at the gymnasium.

The gymnasium is near where my daughter lives in Canon Jhonson. Calonia Independencia is located on a hill north above Canon Jhonson which is in the canyon. Above Canon Jhonson to the west is Colonia Francisco Villa.To the east, also above Canon Jhonson, is Colonia Hidalgo. Ranking those colonias,Canon Jhonson is low man on the pecking order. There are no parks in Canon Jhonson. No schools. No sidewalks even. Colonia Independencia ,where the gymnasium is, is more affluent. It's a homey neighborhood. There are meat markets,tortillairas,mercados,auto repair garages,pharmacies,little restaurants,and second hand stores.There's the church near the center of the colonia with a plaza that privides swings and monkey bars for the kids.Vendors selling brightly colored balloons on sticks are everywhere. Benches circle the plaza. Vendors pushing carts sell a variety of food:tacos,ice cream,fruit cocktails comprised of melons,pineapples,mangos,guavas,and hicamas. Coconuts are split open with big machetes and the meat is scraped out or a hole is punched through the shell and a straw inserted.Fresh limes are squeezed over the fruit and more often than not,chile is sprinkled on top of everything.You can buy a beef,chorizo,or ham torta on hot baked fresh bread with the flour still on the top of the crust.Roasted peanuts and cotton candy are not hard to find. To quench thirsts,big jugs of horchata,jamaica,and limonada with the big chunks of ice and the long metal dippers inside the glass jugs,the liquid contents poured over the sides to the brims of wax cups. Of course a selection of soft drinks ,mostly in bottles,are on the counters. A little side note:it's hard to find a Pepsi Cola. Mexicans go for Coca Cola,and the type they make in Mexico in the bottles tastes better than what you can get in the States.The Mexican Coke in bottles is made with cane sugar as opposed to U.S. Coke that's made with fructose corn syrup. In back of the park is a Little League field that is beside the gymnasium.

I parked my car next to the Little League Field and walked across the grass to the gymnasium.When I walked inside the gymnasium,I knew right away that I had missed out. No ring was set up. A few kids were shooting hoops.The metal bleachers edged against the concrete floor. The place was pretty hollow and empty. The echoes of the basketballs dribbled on the floor sent a lonely feeling through the air. A custodian was mopping around the men's restroom.He was short and lean and I could see the veins sticking out in his arms. His thick black hair looked like he didn't have to comb it to keep everything in place. A well trimmed mustache stood out on his copper face. His bushy eyebrows sat atop a pair of old eyes. He wore a plain white T shirt that was thin from wear. Khaki pants, that was a standard part of his dress,draped at the bottom partially covering scuffed up leather shoes. He had a big plastic water bucket, with a rusty squeegee attached on the rim, on the floor next to him. His motions with his mop were slow making a careful circular motion. As I neared, he never lost his rhythm.
"Hey amigo,"I called out."When were the peleas?"
He stopped his mopping and turned his face to me.
"Next week. Fights next week. Here in the gimnasio. The ring will be here,"he said calmly pointing to the center of the concrete floor.
"Someone told me the fights were tonight."
"Maybe you didn't hear him good. Or maybe he play a trick on you."
"I don't think he'd do that,"I said.
The custodian let out a snicker and resumed to mopping the floor. I looked around. There was nothing going on here so I decided maybe I'd go back down the hill and find a bar to drink a beer or two. The bars in Tijuana are not allowed in the colonias. If you want a drink in a bar,you have to go downtown. The culture looks at it as if you want to get drunk or find a girl,you don't do that sort of thing close to home. Go downtown .You'll find anything you want there.

So as I walked back to my car,I saw that it was gone.Standing on the curb was a big cop holding a sign ,attached to a metal post, with the words "No Estationarse." -No Parking. He was waiting for me to return.
"Where's my car?"I asked him with a tenseness in my tone.
"You can not park here,"he answered. He was a fat guy with a doughy face and a big double chin. His skin glistened .He was around middle age.He wore his uniform sloppily. His gun inside his holster flopped out from his side. His pants looked like they were going to drop down to his ankles. He kept opening his eyes wide when he talked,but they would never focus on me.
"That sign wasn't here when I parked my car before.So where's my car now?"I asked starting to get steamed.
"I call the grua. You can get your car if you go to the police station and pay the multa. Take this ticket with you,"he said as he held out a smudged carbon copy.
"Where's the station then?"
"Calle Ocho."
"I thought they tore that down.
"The jail they tear down. And the fire station. They make new police station.Go there and pay,"he said putting the sign between me and him.

That was it. He was holding all the cards. it was a set up. He would probably split my money with the captain at the police station. He knew it. I knew it,but if I put up a beef with him,I might have to pay a kings ransom to get my car back or I might not get it back at all.I was a man-a gringo man. He was waiting for me to play it strong with him. He figured a gringo would make a plea about "violating my personal rights." No way I'd do that. If I was a woman,I might get away with calling him a" carbon" or something like that,but a woman wouldn't get a concession from a cop like him.He'd let her belly ache,but she would sooner or later play his game.

I took the ticket and then hailed a taxi. The police station was about a mile down the hill.No way I was going to walk there. Not with my arthritis. When I get aggravated, it hurts worse.I was plenty sore-mentally and physically. The cabbie dropped me off in front of the station. I figured he was in on the rip off too. How many guys had he taken to the police station to get theircars back? The station was real nice. It was new and situated in a little lawn area where people were sitting on benches outside. I went to the counter with my crumpled ticket.
"I'm here to pay my fine and get my car back,"I said to the clerk sitting behind the desk. He took the ticket,gave me a quick look,and then read what was on it. He made no small talk.No expression.Very cold and dry.
"You park next to a school. The fine is 300 pesos."
"How much in dolares?"
He moved a calculator in front of him and figured the total.
"20 dollars."
I pulled a twenty from my wallet and put it on the desk.
"Can I get my car now?"
"Your car is in the towing yard."
"Where's that?"I said in a stronger tone of voice.
"Two blocks up the street on top of the hill."
I had no choice. I'd go to the yard and hope my car was there.As I turned to leave ,the clerk stopped me.
"Wait,"he said."Since this is Tuesday you have to pay only 15."
He gave me back five dollars and a receipt to take to the tow yard. I turned again to leave, and standing in my way is the fat cop who gave me the ticket in the park.
"Hey man<"he said with a sarcastic voice."You like democracy?"
"Of course,"I answered. I figured he wanted to bait me into something.
I stepped around him.

I walked the two blocks to the tow yard. There ,in front of the office which was in a little trailer,was my car still hooked up to the tow truck. I gave the guy inside the trailer the receipt.
"Can I get my car now?"I asked.
"Now you need to pay 50 dollars,"he said very nonchalantly.
"Then can I get my car?"
"Yes. Do you need a receipt?"
"No thanks."
After trying to find a guy to unhook my car,I finally got the car back. Now, I just wanted to get back home. Forget having any fun in Tijuana. By that time my arthritis was wouldn't have let me feel any pleasure anyway

I drove back to the border crossing lines. I was cussing out everything about Mexico I could think of. The line backed up and I came to a slow halt,my car progressing foot by foot until I would get to the U.S. Customs agent.
"Now wonder things are so screwed up here,"I thought."I can see why so many Mexicans want to get to the U.S."
I was still grumbling as I looked at all the people on the Mexican side who were maneuvering through the lines trying to sell anything:candy,chiclets,churros,sodas,plaster of paris dishes painted in bright colors,burritos,soccer shirts in all sizes of Mexican teams and jerseys with the names of the famous players of the world on the back.Men and women were hawking prints of the Virgin of Guadalupe,the Pope. There were mothers pushing their crippled children in wheel chairs. Fire eaters and jugglers performed for any pittance. Low life sorts waving greasy dirty rags in front of the cars wanting to wipe off the dirt, only afterwards would you see that the car had more grime smeared on it than before. People selling newspapers and magazines. Some people had nothing to offer.They just begged.
A man holding a newspaper came to my driver's side. I held up my hand
"No gracias,"I said. "I don' read Spanish."
"But this newspaper is in English,"the vendor said earnestly.
I looked at the paper. It was the Wall Street Journal.
"Look ,"he said putting his head almost inside my car."You can read all about Las Vegas. It's all here. It's in English. The massacre.You can read all about it."
"No thank you."
"It's only a dollar. In the states it costs more,"He pled."All the blood is mentioned.You don't want to know about what happened?"
"No thanks,"I said meekly.
"Ok.If you want to know,i have it here. Maybe later then."
The cars were inching forward.I moved up until I got to the Custom's booth.
"Anything to declare?"asked the Custom's guy.
"Not a thing. Nothing at all.Nothing,"I answered.


https://imgur.com/86KCWyv

The Little League field



https://imgur.com/e1lqSHs

The sub station at Colonia Indepenencia. Don't park your car near by

Will The Real Bandit Please Stand Up...If You Can

The Arizona Café in Ocean Beach was a rallying spot if you wanted to get a history of the raucous times in San Diego during and after the big war.I don't know why George Radovich put the name "Café" on the door.He took the place over from his father after he passed away. George then moved his mother upstairs above the bar in that nice spacious apartment. George was Polish, or maybe more succinctly, some sort of Serb. Everyone that worked behind the bar was something of that ilk. Tony Pandza who ran the bowling alley was a Slav. So were the old gals Radovich would put in the kitchen ,that was between the bar and the bowling alley, to cook the lunches. I have to admit it was the best home cooking in Ocean Beach. It wasn't uncommon to hear Polish or Russian spoken inside the Arizona. I don't understand either,but that's what they said they were talking. They all belonged to the Serbian Defense League. They had this idea that one day they'd go back to Yugoslavia and kick out Tito and divide the country back up again so they wouldn't have to mix with those other races,kind of what eventually happened,but Radovich and all his pals are dead now and believe me they wouldn't have gone back to the land of their ancestors on a bet. They liked Ocean Beach well enough and they loved the Arizona more than sailing a boat on the Vistula. The Arizona symbolized the embodiment of their happy go lucky life style. They loved lapping up beer and vodka and raising hell. If the man introduced their wives to the environment,the bond usually didn't endure for very long. Some guys that worked the Arizona I never permitted their wives to walk through the door.Same way with their kids. Some of those guys set the rules that they didn't want to see their kids in the joint. Maybe they didn't want their families to witness their bad behavior.More than likely, having one of their kids or a wife frequenting the premises would cramp his approach if he wanted to move in on one of the barflies.

The building was made out of bricks painted a mossy green .The alley ran along the backside,a parking lot out in the back. Inside, the bar was to the right. If you were one of the regulars you sat with the rest of "made guys" at the far end of the bar by the parking lot. Some artist ,way back when,came in one day and did a caricature of George on a piece of cardboard. George like it so much that he commissioned the guy to do one of all the "made men' who sat at the rear of the bar. After time, the wall in back of the bar was adorned with these images. There was George in the middle,Steve Brardaric the afternoon bartender,Tony Pandza who ran the bowling alley, "Typewriter" Frank who owned the typewriter repair shop on Newport Street,Ross Miller the engineer on one of the tuna boats,Bill Homik the owner of The Catalina Lounge on Voltaire Street and also a Serb.I forget the other guys names.By the time I turned 21 all the tobacco smoke gave those images an ochre stained parchment look that was befitting. After Radovich died and his son sold the place with everything in it,I tried to get those caricatures from the new owner,but he isn't letting go of them. Hell,he doesn't know who those guys were. He didn't blow into Ocean Beach till the mid 90's. When he took over he gutted the place and remodeled it trying to turn it into one of those preppy lookin' joints:flat screens covering all the walls,tearing out the kitchen,selling off the bowling alley to a shirt screening place,and getting rid of the piano that was in the corner nest to the dance floor.The juke box with all those old yellowed 45's with Benny Goodman,the Dorsey brothers,Lional Hampton,Glenn Miller,Frank Sinatra ,and the like were traded off for whatever they use now with all that music that's more glitz and sequins than good music that played the ballads and tunes with the rhythms that you could stomp your foot to.George had some old Lawrence Welk polkas on 45's that were the best polka music I ever heard. I've tried to find those renditions on Amazon,but I've come up dry.

Funny though,the new owner put up the old pictures that George's son threw in with the deal,mostly stuff to do with sports."Skeets" Quinlan the first big name football star from San Diego State College had his picture hanging behind the bar.George had played and coached the San Diego Bombers semi pro football club. In those days the pro teams would play exhibition games with the local semi pro clubs. The LA Rams(who were in the old American Football Conference) would play the Bombers. Everyone got to be pals. In the off season a lot of those Rams like Waterfield,Van Brocklin,and "Crazy Legs" Hirsch would come down to San Diego to do some sports fishing ,and blow off steam in the Arizona.After closing time the fellas' would trek down to Tijuana and throw their money around in some of TJ's more sordid establishments.Some of the other pictures were George posing with the University of San Diego football team and staff.George was the line coach. All the Arizona bowling teams were represented. And then there were the fighters. George posing in his boxing trunks when he was an amateur fighter in the Bay Area. Then there were a few of "Irish" Bob Murphy who George handled after Murphy got out of the Navy in San Diego. The Hogue brothers,Shorty and "Big Boy." No Archie Moore. I know that crowd had respect for the Mongoose,but they weren't open minded enough to have a black guy's picture on the wall. And I remember another local(George just put up pics of the local talent) ,Johnny "The Bandit" Romero. Romero was Mexican so I guess that was OK with the red necks that sopped up the booze and picked out the décor with George having the final say.

"Johnny "the Bandit" Romero was the first big rival for Archie Moore when Moore when establishing himself in the fistic community. I heard some stories of "The Bandit" in the Arizona. I guess Romero gave everything he could muster at Archie.Beat him once. The venue ,of course,was the San Diego Coliseum. Romero fought over 100 times. In those days records were sketchy. He was born in San Diego. I looked at his record. It doesn't show any fights in Mexico,but I wouldn't bet the farm on that. Most of his fights were at the Coliseum.Archie eventually persevered,(with a lot of juice from Doc Kearns)and earned his way to a title. He was in some big fights. He fought in all over the world and was a first ballot "shoe in" in the inaugural International Boxing Hall of Fame . Jonny Romero fought his last fight at the old minor league ballpark,Lane Field,down by the docks in San Diego.

A few years back ,local promoter Bobby DiPhilippis,put on a card at the Four Points Sheridan Hotel in Kearny Mesa. The ring announcer called out some of the celebrities that were in attendance. Leon Spinks was there to see his nephew Leon Spinks III fight in the main event. James "The Heat Kinchen" was sitting in the back.Then the announcer pointed out that there was an old time living local sports legend in the audience. He had fought Archie Moore. The announcer said that Johnny "The Bandit" Romero was in the crowd.The crowd mustered up a slight applause. I couldn't believe it.I didn't see anyone stand up or wave. I walked over to where the announcer had pointed and saw an old bald headed guy sitting there with a big grin on his face. He was white as hell. He sure didn't look close to those old photographs of the fighter I saw in the Arizona. When I got home I looked up the history of Romero in the Boxrec records. Said he died in !978.Maybe that's why the guy didn't stand when his name was mentioned,or if that was Johnny "The Bandit" Romero he would have been over a hundred years old. No wonder he didn't stand up.

https://imgur.com/3XfGlTv

Johnny "The Bandit" Romero

Taking A Little Off The Top

Just off the top of my head:With all this controversy in the U.S. of black athletes.mainly NFL football players,(we'll see what turns out when the NBA starts the regular season in a week )taking a knee during the National Anthem,I can't recall a fighter not standing for the flag except one time. It was about five years ago at the World Boxing Hall of Fame Banquet. The fighter:Mia St. John. There she was seated on stage with the other prominent fighters and sports celebs. I can't remember why she was up there. I don't think she got an award,but when the National Anthem was played,she sat on her rear gazing out to the audience with a smug grin on her face. At the time,and even now,I don't think she didn't stand wanting to make a political statement. No one said anything to her, and there wasn't a chorus of boos emanating from the crowd. I think she didn't stand because of her religious beliefs. She might have been a Jehovah's Witness. I know they don't want to stand for the National Anthem or recognizing any salute honoring a country,most holidays(I think they believe in Easter),or any political figure like the president. When I was teaching school near the border,I had a few Jehovahs in my classes. They didn't want to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.They didn't want to write an essay about Christmas or Thanksgiving.If you weren't a Jehovah ,they didn't want to socialize with you. Forget about asking one of them for a favor. However,after every class, where they were a part of the enrollees,I'd find those "Watchtower" pamphlets on my desk. I'd be polite and say "Please don't leave your literature on my desk",but it would never cease. So I'm guessing Mia St. John might have been a Jehovah or something similar.

There used to be a law in California awhile back that if a boxing card couldn't put together enough fights that totaled 15 rounds( I could be wrong with that number),the customers were entitled to get their money back. I was at the San Diego Coliseum a few times when this happened. What rubbed salt in the wound was after sitting through the shortened card,the paying fans would then storm the ticket window and get their money back. Mickey Davies put on a lot of shows at the Coliseum. I was sitting next to him one night. He told me in all the years that he was a matchmaker,he never had a card go off as planned. Always something:a fighter wants more money at the last moment,they find drugs in his blood test,he gets injured in the gym,he's in jail,or the most common,he just isn't in the mood.


James "The Heat" Kinchen was talking to me about the times he fought in Tijuana,especially the Municipal Auditorium. He said that they put all the fighters in one big dressing room.What got his attention was how some of the Mexican fighters were getting their hands wrapped. James said that the trainers would pre wrap with a roll of gauze,then take a wet towel and place it over the gauze.Sometimes the towel would be sprinkled with plaster of Paris. Then more gauze,and then the tape,lots of it. James told me that he made sure his opponent didn't rely on that methodology to get the edge on him. There were no referees or anyone from the commission inside the dressing room to oversee the shenanigans. That can only mean the promoter and the gamblers controlled the way things operated.


A few month ago I wrote about the influx of Haitians that came up from Brasil(Brasil offered the Haitians refuge after a hurricane destroyed much of their country.Then Brasil's economy tanked and the Haitians had to go),transversed through Central America,finally winding up in Tijuana.Their purpose,originally,was to get an appointment at the American embassy hoping to get granted a visa to live in the United States. But then Trump got elected and the Haitians are now "stuck" in TJ. There are an estimated 3 to 5 thousand Haitians living in Tijuana. In fact there are thousands more scattered throughout the rest of the republic.(My wife even told me that there are Haitians living in her home town,Jiquilpan,Michoacan).At first I thought this situation wasn't going to work out,but I was wrong. I noticed that the Haitians weren't begging in the streets. They weren't stealing or getting mixed up with organized crime. They didn't get drunk,at least in public.They looked for work ,and you see them now selling newspapers,candy,or gum on the street corners. They offer to sweep the front of the businesses,take out the trash,wash dishes in restaurants. I don't see their women working in the streets or cantinas.I've never seen them fight in public.They've advanced to the point that they don't sleep in the streets anymore.They want to learn Spanish(they speak French).They mostly stay to themselves,but lately I've see some of the Haitians with Mexican partners of the opposite sex. They've realized that their "American dream" is just that,a dream,so they now want to make their new start in Mexico. They even want to be seen as "Mexicans!". Mexico is their country now. They don't want a handout.There's no government assistance for them anyway. But here's the beauty of this:Mexico has embraced the Haitians. Mexico feels proud that the Haitians want to be identified as "Mexicans",and the Haitians' pride swells when they feel that their love is being reciprocated.I guess I learn something new everyday.

https://imgur.com/0wlePIV

James"The Heat" Kinchen

The Bus Terminal

Sometime back Brian Higgins asked me if I could paint a picture of that scene in the movie "Fat City" when Lucero(played by Sixto Rodriguez ) steps off the bus in some town in Northern Californis,let's say Stockton, walks through the bus terminal carrying his suitcase,then goes to a Mexican pharmacy and buys some medicine for his damaged kidneys.Lucero is alone inside the terminal walking steadily, wearing a brown sport coat,tan slacks,dark leather shoes,topped off with a brown fedora on his head.It's a straight forward walk. A walk he's made dozens and dozens of times in all the out of the way small towns that have a boxing arena. Lucero,the promoter's fighter,who'll take a fight on short notice,will give the hometown favorite all he can deal with,and win lose or draw, will walk back to that bus terminal with that same steady gait.It's a bittersweet ritual. Whether the bus ride back is to Sonoma or Sonora, the trip is a metaphor for a journey that provides not only a living,however modest,but coincides with a struggle of eking it out in life. A life that's perhaps uneventful,but embodies a stoic dignity.Though there's no dialogue in the scene,it is thought provoking.Words would be superfluous.

Brian,who used to be a regular on the thread and is head of security for the NHL Chicago Blackhawks,said that "Fat City" was his favorite "boxing movie". I go along with that. At that time director John Huston hadn't had a hit in a long time. "Fat City" belted one over the fence . I tried to capture Lucero in that bus terminal,but I didn't have the skill with my brushes to do it justice. The end result I soon painted over with gesso so I could try something else. I don't want to get into a synopsis of the movie. All I can say is that "Fat City" is as close to the truth as any movie I've seen that works pugilism into its backdrop. So I'll let you be the critic.i want to focus on that scene at the bus terminal.It was short,had no significance with the plot, only a window of how so many fighters get on that bus , ride to some other guy's neck of the woods, and have to buck the odds.

Gaspar Ortega told me once that he fought in some dusty pueblo somewhere(I forget the name of the town)in Mexico. He rode the Norte De Sonora bus, like Lucero in the movie, carrying the one suitcase.He said when he got off the bus he was greeted by a teenage kid who was supposed to be his guide and liason.The kid was responsible for getting Ortega a room at a hotel and make sure he got fed. The kid was also going to help work Ortega's corner.Gaspar told me the morning of the fight he was sick to his stomach.He struggled to get out of bed. The kid never arrived at the hotel to take him to the arena.Gaspar had to flag a taxi. When Gaspar finally climbed up to his corner,there was the kid across the ring in the other guy's corner! Gaspar said that he only had enough strength to last a round or two so he kicked in everything he had and polished off the other guy in the first round.He went back to the hotel,packed his suitcase ,and got back on the bus.

I was sitting at a table with my wife at a California Boxing Hall of Fame banquet. It' was a good crowd. Fighters are, generally, good people,very humble,very gracious. I was sitting at Louie Burke's table. Louie's cousin,Randy De La O,put two tables together for Louie in honor of his induction. Louie was training Austin Trout at the time. I thought I'd surprise Louie with one of my artistic efforts,a portrait. I thought it would pass muster. When I presented Louie with the painting,he was struck with emotion like lightening had hit him. Later,he sent me a very nice letter of his appreciation and some of his personal memorabilia and that of Austin Trout's.He said the painting was hanging over the fireplace and that anytime I passed through he would put me up.

At another table next to Louie's two tables,was sitting a very amiable fellow. It was Alvaro "Yaqui" Lopez. I'm not sure if he was being inducted. He might have already made it,but he was there with his wife and kids having a ball. He was wearing a brown T shirt and a LAFD baseball cap. As Louie was admiring his portrait,"Yaqui" got out of his chair,went over to Louie,and shared in the appreciation. Any pretensions vacated my attitude. "Yaqui" then turned to me and said,"Man I wish I could do something like that!I wish I could be an artist." All I could say was "Thanks". It was probably the best thing I could have come up with,it was honest at least. I asked "Yaqui" if I could take his picture. He said" it would be an honor."

Driving back to San Diego after the banquet was over,i was giving thought to "Yaqui" Lopez. He had a bit part in the movie "Fat City". So did Ruben Navarro,Curtis Cokes,Art Aragon,Al Silvani,along with Sixto Rodriguez. I thought of Lucero walking through the bus terminal. It's a lead pipe cinch "Yaqui" Lopez made those kind of trips . Maybe it didn't mean anything much to him. But it hit a nerve with me. Something incidental has a greater meaning sometimes. "Yaqui" Lopez and all the pugs in the world leaving their footsteps echoing on the linoleum floors in those bus terminals.I can hear those footsteps now.Sometimes the better artist isn't necessarily doing the painting.

https://imgur.com/jQMb4Au

"Yaqui" Lopez

https://imgur.com/mxLkyOm

As nice as they come."Yaqui" Lopez

Fish And Chips

This Sunday is the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame banquet in North Hollywood up in LA. It will be held at the Garland Hotel on Vineland . That's where it belongs,in an old part of old Los Angeles not far from the movie studios,and the canyon neighborhoods Coldwater and Topanga where the streets were seen with the stars of the Golden Age driving their sleek convertibles. Lemon and cream two toned colored automobiles with wide whitewalls soaring down the avenues.Tanned celebrities wearing big sunglasses ,scarves unfurling behind their necks.The lore of Gable,the Duke,Tracy,and Hepburn,John Ford , Jean Harlow,Bogie and Bacall spoken by people who were only kids back then. The only ones left now that saw and remember. Maybe today's stars will be thought of as legends,but I won't be around to say anything. The neighborhood is a bit tooth long and the Garland needs a fresh coat of paint,but maybe that's the way it should look. The Garland hotel built by Beverly Garland's husband.Beverly Garland one of the understated gems whose talents graced celluloid for decades, and actresses like her who were the soul of film noir. The local movie houses and the big box Philco TV's played her image so often that someone like me,whose mind is getting on the slippery side,can catch another glimpse on the old movie channel and again ignite a spark. With hope, I might see an old pug at The Garland that knew her or had a drink with her in the lounge,maybe had a bit part in one of her movies,but I wouldn't know that unless I saw it for myself.Art Aragon passed away a few years back.He was no stranger to the cinematic crowd. I remember an old Dragnet episode,the ones with Ben Alexader as Detective Smith.He's talking to Joe Fruiday and in their conversation they mention "The big Aragon fight" that was probably going to be held at the Olympic. That was pretty heady stuff in LA in those days.Last year I saw Gene Lebell.He's in his 80's now. He rubbed elbows with some of the Hollywood set. He kept TV's Superman,George Reeves,in shape.I bet he could write a book.

Rick Farris,who I have a head start in years,was not only a boxer,but a boxing historian and grew up in the movie business working as a lighting technician in the studios. He's semi retired now,but tells me he still enters the lot and offers his services(at union scale)when they need a guy with his backround. Last year, after the final bell at the banquet,Rick and his lovely wife Monica,and Dan Hanley,and myself got a bite to eat at the dining room at the hotel. I always listen carefully about his recollections about boxing and "The beautiful People."Of course the Jose Cuervo sets up a mood that's fitting for a walk down Hollywood Boulevard and inside the locker room at the Olympic Auditorium. It's a unique combination:fighting and film making.

I think any star struck tourist who ventures to Los Angeles cranes his neck hoping to catch a glimpse of a J Lo or a Pitt. I'm not that up with what's happening in the entertainment business. if they were to step on my feet no spark would light. Today, it's flash and special effects,15 second scenes,blow em' up car chases,and guys getting whacked with rapid firing cannons. Dialogue? No Pulitzers typing at the keyboards, not to say that sometimes a good effort gets through,but it usually can be found on the Made For Netflix category on your Roku.

Last year I went to Boston. I'd never been to Boston. On my bucket list was a trip to Fenway Park to see the Red Sox.With Wrigley Field in Chicago,the two oldest ballparks,classic in form,a heritage remaining.The footprints of Babe Ruth and Ted Williams are somewhere engrained in the Fenway outfield.I would keep buying tickets to those playing grounds if those teams never won a game. My hotel was on a peninsula outside of the city in Nantasket.The wharves,the old wood houses,the sailboats, were beautiful.My hotel was across from the beach.it was old and classic and stood with a dignity. One night I went to the dining room and ordered fish and chips and then took my meal to the bar.The bartender was as salty as the sea,a fellow with a round face and skin with a pinkish hue,his eyes a pale blue .What he represented for a nose looked like a blob of reddish clay. His sandy hair was retreating from his forehead combed back.He wasn't what you would call a trendy type.He relished in the fact that he had a paunch and rolled his shirt sleeves up exposing his hairless arms. Good looks weren't in his repertoire.A thick New England accent punctuated his demeanor.
I saw that he was giving me the once over and could tell, through his years of working behind the bar, that I was not local.Behind the bar was an picture of Tom Brady signed,"To Charley.Best of luck,Tom Brady."
"So where are you from?"he asked me with a towel over his shoulder.
"San Diego,"I answered as I chewed my Atlantic cod fish.
"That's too bad,"he said with a crooked grin.
"Ever been to San Diego?"
"No I haven't."
"This is my first time to Boston.I'm enjoying myself.Is that your picture of Tom Brady?""
"It is.He came in here one night to eat.So what are you doing to kill time?"
"I'm going to Fenway to see a game.I see you guys finally won a World Series.
"We've won three in the last in the last few years. That's more than I can say for those Yankees."
"I guess you don't like the Yankees,"I said chewing my food.
"I don't like anything about New York.We beat them in football too. All three of their teams. They're a joke."
I decided to scoop some French fries into my mouth.
"You people in San Diego don't win anything,"he went on.
"No.Not much."
I was getting tired of this guy by now.
"Isn't San Diego near Hollywood?"he asked toning down his voice.
"It' about a hundred miles south."
He then put his hands on the bar and leaned over.
"Tell me,"he said earnestly."Have you ever seen a movie star?"
"Yeah.Clint Eastwood is my next door neighbor."
The guy released his grip on the bar and walked to the other end of the counter. I got to thinking. I should have said that Beyonce was my neighbor.He probably would have given away his autographed picture of Tom Brady just to brush against her rear end. I've got to tell that one to Rick Sunday evening.

https://imgur.com/jCwJwSb

Joe Friday

Just the facts.....Jack Webb....legend...


Excellent piece by the way.


I'm about 40 miles from Boston these days.....you've probably been there more often than me.

Now San Diego? Been there a hundred times. Played a place about 40 years ago (several times) called the Quad, I hear it's still up and running.

Terrible Acoustics there...but they paid us at the end of each week.

BoxBuzz wrote:Just the facts.....Jack Webb....legend...


Excellent piece by the way.


I'm about 40 miles from Boston these days.....you've probably been there more often than me.

Now San Diego? Been there a hundred times. Played a place about 40 years ago (several times) called the Quad, I hear it's still up and running.

Terrible Acoustics there...but they paid us at the end of each week.

Thanks Buzz

The only place that I know that's called The Quad is located in the Gaslamp district downtown. Never been there though.

Sweetness

Rick Farris was nice enough to seat my wife,Maria,and I at his table near the front of the dais at The West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame Banquet. This was Rick's third event,the second at The Garland Hotel in North Hollywood, and each year it gets bigger and better. Last night I was sitting next to Michelle Chong.She's a writer who enjoys putting her pen to use describing the nuts and bolts of boxing. I asked her what piqued her interest with the fistic sport. She answered that first of all her fiancée,who was seated beside her,is a boxing trainer. Michelle also emphasized that the old fighters and venues should be remembered.With hope ,events like the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame event, and ones similar,with the efforts of journalists , will continue a deserved legacy.There's no argument,at least from where I sit,about that reasoning. But there's something that runs deeper with this sport.A sport where the object is to hit the other guy in the head and body with blows that are more meaningful than what his opponent can dish out. Sure,one of the sobriquets of the sport is "The Art of Self Defense",but a fighter has to land something,and the more he lands, the more likely the referee will be holding his arm high in ring center of the ring when it all comes out in the wash. In a time when the National Football League is putting the clamps on any player striking another player with his helmet, or aiming a block or tackle at the head area, is grounds for fines,ejections,and suspensions.The rules now pertaining to head strikes could fill a book.

Boxing is an effort where the fighter seeks that opening,a drop of the left hand,a counter over a missed timed right, so he can throw one of his own to pop a guy on the noggin. In the heat of the action it's a mute point that the brain is slammed against the inside of the skull. The" punch count numbers"add up to hundreds of blows that hit the target. The NFL is bracing for a slew of lawsuits involving dementia to ex players resulting to getting their bells rung.A four pound helmet lined with a one inch thick material they use for bulletproof vests is what the sports engineers have designed for football.This state of the art design is supposed to dissipate the pounding it gets from the guys wearing the different color jerseys.

The professional fighter wears no helmet. Even if he did,it wouldn't "dissipate" that much. A headgear is more of a preventative against cuts. But this rationale of concussions doesn't resonate very well with boxing. I don't think the fans think about it much. The promoters?They have no qualms about putting together mismatches. So who worries about this health problem? The fighters and their families.

At these boxing events I sink into a limbo.Many of the honorees who receive their plaques are beginning to enter the abyss. Some are already lost in the maze. Some are so incapacitated that they are unable to attend.Usually,it's a wife, son or a daughter who makes a poignant acceptance speech. Some of the awards are posthumous,a life hastened to a ten count caused by damage amassed inside the ring.

So you might ask,if this bothers me why don't I turn away from boxing? The reason is that boxers are the the most humble, genuine athletes on the globe. Dick Enberg,the sports announcer,got a non boxing award last night. Enberg used to announce the baseball Padres here in San Diego. He'd won awards for sports announcing and journalism.He's covered and announced just about everything from Wimbledon to the Super Bowl. He's played golf with all the presidents. Every time I've seen an interview with Enberg,he makes sure he's sitting under a picture of himself and a guy like George H.W. in a golf cart. Dick Enberg announced the Thursday night fights live at the Olympic Auditorium in 1968.It was an inaugural year for Eileen Eaton's shows and rapidly developed a cult following. Mickey Davies was his "color man." I always thought Enberg didn't quite fit with that rowdy Olympic crowd.He didn't seem comfortable. Fighters are rough around the edges too.I don't think many of them sit in golf carts riding along with a President of the United States. At the end of the year Enberg moved on to major league baseball and football.

When Engberg got uo to the dais to receive his plaque,I had my tongue in my cheek. But that tongue soon slipped to the back of my throat. I don't believe Dick Enberg had a planned acceptance speech in his hand. If he did,I think his soul bared an opening,a vunerable side I'd never seen in the man,at least when regarding sports. Enberg's words touched me.I can tell when the impact resonates because the end of my nose gets a blood rush. A warmth comes over me and my body lets go into a tranquility.You can knock me over with a feather.

Paraphrasing what he said,Enberg talked about Joe louis.When he was kid he sat around the big mahogony radio with family and friends that was centered in his family's living room.It was a rural area of the Midwest and Enberg's family had the best sounding radio in town. The fight everyone was tuned into was the second Louis/Conn fight.Though all the listeners were white farm folk,Enberg said to a man they wanted Joe louis to win. I could tell Enberg was speaking from his gut instead of a script by now. His hands clenched the podium. He feet shifted as he revved up his dialogue. He said that everyone credits the force Jackie Robinson made breaking the color line in baseball,but that Joe Louis did more for making white people reconsider their opinions about African Americans. He served his country. Louis wasn't an angry man.He was uncomplicated and nice to anyone he crossed paths with unless it was in a boxing match,and then when it was done with,Joe was your friend. Enberg pointed out the way Joe Louis felt about Max Schmeling.There was none of this "Nazi" against "Truth Justice And The American Way" propaganda to be believed,at least between those two. They remained friends forever. Joe Louis,fighters in general,went on Dick ,are from his experience with all the work traversed in his memory, are the the nicest guys in the world.Then he paused.He got a little choked up. He said they have a "sweetness" unlike any other athlete.When he finished,he got a standing ovation. I'm glad I saw that yesterday. I saw the real Dick Enberg.


https://imgur.com/WeAKUKZ

I wish I had this poster



https://imgur.com/rqo8Qsd

Monica Farris and my wife,Maria



https://imgur.com/2f6ZjKH

My pal from Chicago Dan Hanley and the brains of the West Coast Boxing Hall,Rick Farris



https://imgur.com/3Hy5WZ6
Here I am with ex champ,Paul Banke. I didn't want to press up against anyone wanting to get pictures during the ceremony. I saw Paul outside the dining room after the event was over. The Farris's,Dan,and Maria and I were ready to strap on the feed bag and have drink or two. FYI.Paul Banke has lived a tough life after boxing, He wound up inside that abyss. With family and friends and his faith he's coming out of it. He works with troubled youths.He trains kids how to box and has his own gym. All those adjectives Dick Enberg were using apply to Paul Banke.

The Sentry

The West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame banquet was to begin around 11 AM last Sunday. I'm one that can't sleep in.I'm up around five. I like to go for a walk,then go for a swim in the pool, or ,during the summer,in the ocean. Because I was staying at The Garland Hotel in North Hollywood,I decided to do my exercises in the hotel pool. They didn't open the gate to the pool until 6 AM so I decided to get a cup of coffee in the hotel lobby before going for my swim. The lobby is located next to the banquet room where that afternoon's festivities were going to take place. As I was sipping my coffee,I noticed that the hotel's work crews were stirring around getting the banquet room ready for the ceremony. Workers were carrying in chairs and setting up tables inside the side door.Orders were being shouted and the work kept moving at a steady and organized pace. At the side door, where most the equipment was being moved in,I saw what appeared to be a homeless person talking to the crew chief. They seemed to be having an amiable dialogue. After a few minutes of speaking,the homeless looking person squatted down against the building with his knees propped up. He was a disheveled looking sort:hair uncombed,dirty face,and wearing tattered jeans with holes , a grimy T shirt,and worn tennis shoes with a hole at the toe. I'd say the guy was in his 20's. He had a concerned look on his face,but he seemed alert. A swarthy complexion highlighted a fairly good looking kid despite his outward appearance. He rested his arms on his knees.I noticed that his left hand was wrapped like a fighter's. After finishing my coffee,I went to the pool,walked around in the water for 30 minutes, and then sat in the jacuzzi for ten minutes. No one else was around except for a couple of workers straightening out the area. I toweled off and started walking back to my room. On the way ,my curiosity told me to pass by the kid sitting by the door. Our eyes met. He gave my a little wave signal.He looked pleasant enough. Though he looked awful,he was unmoved.

My wife and I later went down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. I noticed the kid was still at his position beside the side door. We exchanged glances. When the event commenced,I noticed he wasn't there beside the door . I gave it little thought. The ceremony ran smoothly and everyone had a good time.I touched bases with Rick Farris and Dan Hanley after it wrapped up. We decided to regroup,clean up,and meet for dinner in the hotel restaurant. Rick's lovely wife Monica and my better half,Maria, kept each company while Rick,Dan Hanley,and I talked about boxing. Monica was born in Brazil,Maria in Mexico.Boxing wasn't on the top of their agendas.That was fine with the men at the table. Half way through plates of hor d'oeuvres and mugs of beer and shots of tequila,Rick brought up the kid that was sitting beside the door.
"Did any of you see that guy at the door earlier?,"asked Rick.
"Yeah,"I said,"What was up with that?"
"He used to be a fighter. Fought some four round prelims. Now he's homeless. Lives in the street."
"What was he doing at the door?"I went on.
"I use him once in awhile. I told him to not let anyone in the side door except the hotel staff."
"He seemed OK,"I said.
"Oh yeah, He's all right. He did a good job. I told him that when dinner was served to come inside and sit at the table in the back that was set up for the workers to eat. I told him that he is one of us."
"What happened to his hand?"
"He told me that he broke it hitting some guy that tried to roll him."
" I saw his hand wrapped up."
"Can you believe that?,"said Rick."He breaks his hand and instead of going to the clinic to get a cast put on,he wraps his hand like a fighter's."
And I wonder why I can't give up on the sport.

https://imgur.com/gk1Shrq

Dan Hanley,Rick Farris,and me. West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame banquet. The Garland Hotel.October 15.2017

https://imgur.com/IK60zIG

A few years ago at the 4 Points Sheridan Hotel. This is supposedly Johnny"The Bandit" Romero who fought Archie Moore in the 30's.Boxrec has him born in 1910. Passing Away in 1978,age 68. Beside this guy is Bobby DePhilippis.

https://imgur.com/AfaeGgl

Johnny "The Bandit" Romero who fought Archie Moore

Is anyone out there having a problem editing a post? I keep get sent to a page that says there's a "general error". I have no problem posting,just editing. I've PM'd john and he asked me when this happened. About 2 hours ago. I wonder if someone hacked into my computer and wants to sell me a security system. Let me or one of the administrators know. Thanks.Dagos


I just went back to edit this post and it worked. However my post from 2 days ago gets jammed. What you're reading in the 2nd paragraph is an edit that has obviously gone through.

The Lucky Lady

Sometimes I'd go to the fights at the Coliseum by myself.I'd do the same thing a lot of times,like when I'd go to the ballgames by myself. I'd offer an invitation to someone if they wanted to go with me,but if the answer was "no",it wasn't a big deal. Besides,I used to like going alone. Same way now. I can go and come as I please. Less hang ups.

When Tagasuki's old man had the Orient Bar on the corner of 4th and F ,I'd sometimes go there before the fights and see if anyone wanted to tag along. Randy,Tagasuki's son,would sometimes go,but this kid was a full time pool hustler who found more to his liking taking all the sailors' money before the B girls and the card rooms had a chance. After the fights, sometimes I'd go back to the Orient Bar,but then sometimes, for a change, I'd walk east on 14th Street from the Coliseum to 16th and find my into the Lucky Lady Club. The Lucky Lady Club ain't there no more. They tore it down and put up a store that sells uniforms to cops and security guards. As I was tellin' ya' 16th Street has turned into a refuge for the homeless in that area that they call East Village. They started building luxurious condos there, and for the life of me I don't know what they were thinking.The homeless weren't going to budge. Now you have all these million dollar condos and the new ballpark and the new library cordoned off by a circle of homeless people. Now don't be calling me insensitive.I told you I was a volunteer at Father Joe's Homeless Village(Village.That's a good one).Most of these homeless are on the government dole.I've seen the checks.These decrepit souls are receiving government checks anywhere from 750 to 1200 dollars a month.The cash flow in that area is incredible. If they move into one of the six shelters in the area they have to cough up most of that money to the shelter and have to obey the rules and regs:no drugs,alcohol,fighting,and bringing in your friends from the street. So most of them prefer to live in the street where they can spend the taxpayers money on things that put them IN the street in the first place. It wasn't like that when I was goin' to watch the fights on Tuesday nights at the Coliseum.

Sure, the area wasn't exactly Park Avenue,but it was clean and safe and a lot of bars and restaurants were worth frequenting if you wanted to have a good time. When the boxing matches concluded, I'd like to make an appearance at Carl's Baseball Inn on the corner of 16th and Island. It was a hangout for blue collar sports nuts,mainly baseball. Before the big league Padres opened up in town it was the old Pacific Coast Padres that was the talk inside the place.The joint was small,but old fashioned,nothing fancy.Beer and whiskey were the usuals orders taken. It was a noisy crowd,but there were no drug addicts or fights(at least ones with knives or guns).Carl kept the place respectable. All the Padres, old ones and current players, had a black and white picture hanging on the wall in back of the bar.There was a jukebox,but the sound was turned down low as were the lights.A couple of ceiling fans circulated the cigarette smoke around. A few tables and booths along the back wall,a row of bar stools.Plain and simple is what was modestly required.I'd usually get me a couple of those Budweiser long necks and maybe a bourbon chaser. There was always a conversation you could strike up either with one of the bartenders(I never saw one of those hot babes or any females working Carl's)or the guy sitting next to you.

It wouldn't take much alcohol to loosen me up. It really didn't take anything to get my mind refocused from fighting to seeking out those people with the higher voices. When my mind went in that direction,I'd backtrack my steps down the street a block to the Lucky Lady Club. It was like some sort of anomaly. It didn't belong in San Diego. It was a dive you'd see across the border in Tijuana. It was like someone smuggled the place across one day.The Lucky Lady had that low ceiling,a dance floor in the middle of the room,and no seats at the bar.The girls would sit at the small round tables with a blank look on their faces fixing their make up in those little cosmetic mirrors. But let me tell you,that Lucky Lady Club was the spot if you wanted to dance with the women and maybe negotiate for a something on the side later.They always had "live" music and the Nortena bands would play good and loud,not always in tune,but I don't think any Nortena band hits the right notes. I remember Poli Chavez and his Coronados,I think he was the house band. I'd see them play sometimes at local weddings and 15 Year Olds. The women were all Mexicans. They lived around the neighborhood. I wouldn't say they were Playboy centerfolds,but guys like me that tossed their money around weren't in the category of Playgirl centerfolds either.What's the saying?After a few drinks everyone looks good. It was a buck to drag those dames around the dance floor. Some were into dancing more than others. Some were friendlier.I know this:those girls didn't like socializing with drunks. Same way in TJ:just because those women were in those places to make a few bucks,they didn't like it when some guy would get fresh. If that behavior persisted the cops would intervene. Usually,I'd blow most of my dough on drinking and dancing before I could make my pitch to one of those women to find a "no tell motel". I'd have just enough money left in my wallet to go across the street to Ophelia's ,that liitle Mexican joint that stayed open after the bars closed,that served tacos and burritos with liberal amounts of Manteca.Ophelia's with the neon light sign outside with half the bulbs burned out. The lard they used in cooking would seep through the thick flour tortillas,but the food tasted wonderful. The manteca brought out the flavor. Ophelia.the owner,was one of those Mexican gals that was beginning to show her age,but she still thought she was sexy and had something to offer.She'd wear bright colored mini skirts and a lot of make up on her thin face especially around her eyes. Her jet black hair curled down over her shoulders.She wasn't fat and her walk had a lively gait. She was always smiling,but wasn't a flirt or acted foolishly. She was a strong woman that exuded a presence that you knew not to get smart with her or she'd throw you out.But she knew how to handle drunks.I never saw a drunk get out of line with her.Ophelia knew that I would keep my distance with her. She was married and had a bunch of teenage kids. I'd take out the trash for her to the alley and she wouldn't charge me for the food. It was understood.

But all that's gone now. The Orient Bar,Carl's Baseball Inn,The Lucky Lady Club,Ophelias,and the Coliseum. The footprints are disappearing and I can't hear the music of Poli Chavez and his Coronados anymore.


https://imgur.com/VCkIODf
The block on 16th Street where Ophelia's restaurant was.

https://imgur.com/WDNa7u1

The old box office of the Coliseum

https://imgur.com/U3eO9SV

This used to be Jack's Island,at the end of 16th Street. Another old watering hole. Now a tattoo parlor.

https://imgur.com/iUmaT42

Old Lane Field at the foot of Broadway.The PCL Padres played there and Archie Moore would throw some leather there too. They tore it down in 1960.

https://youtu.be/1s5PRZvtllw

Poli Chavez and his Coronados

Rog, here in Chicago we had to get used to the term, 'gentrification'. A modern term for 'we're taking this property, ripping it down and building condos for yuppies, gen x'ers' and whatnot. The old town really loses its flavor when the Chicago Coliseum and International Amphitheatre came tumbling down (not that they might not have come tumbling down anyway without the help). Like San Diego, it's a bit disheartening when you recall what it was like and try to explain to those younger. Never felt it as much as when I visited the Olympic. Wow, that was a real bummer. Not that it wasn't being used for something good at least. But when you remember what it was.

In regards to the highly visible presence of homeless people in many American communities, one important factor is that a large percentage of them have a serious mental illness such as schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. Sixty years ago, many such people would have been institutionalized.

With the advent of psychiatric drugs, many people with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder have been able to live normal lives and even hold down jobs. But for many other people, such drugs have little or no effect. That means there is still a need for some mentally ill people to be institutionalized. But in this day and age, it is far more difficult to institutionalize people because of legal obstacles and the lack of enough institutional space.

Even among people who are helped greatly by psychiatric drugs, there has to be a variety of programs, which are sadly lacking at the present time. Yes, it is expensive to have such programs, but they are far less costly that putting people into institutions.

- Chuck Johnston

scartissue wrote:Rog, here in Chicago we had to get used to the term, 'gentrification'. A modern term for 'we're taking this property, ripping it down and building condos for yuppies, gen x'ers' and whatnot. The old town really loses its flavor when the Chicago Coliseum and International Amphitheatre came tumbling down (not that they might not have come tumbling down anyway without the help). Like San Diego, it's a bit disheartening when you recall what it was like and try to explain to those younger. Never felt it as much as when I visited the Olympic. Wow, that was a real bummer. Not that it wasn't being used for something good at least. But when you remember what it was.

Dan,San Diego was considered a whistle stop at the end of the line back in the day. With the inner cities back east decaying,many packed their bags and moved to California. Also,there was a large migration from the south and mid west. Once they came out here,they knew right away that they'd never go back.The city people from places like New York and Chicago saw their neighborhoods being populated by blacks,Puerto Ricans,and Mexicans. Eventually property values fell and the general well being of the neighborhood declined.So it was either moving to the suburbs or head out west. With those inner cities deteriorating,then came the gentrification.But it was planned out that way.The developers and realtors,not to mention the politicians made a big score.With San Diego it backfired. That old area around the San Diego Coliseum wasn't so bad,but with the advent of the homeless population,they are trying to do the gentrification by erecting a new ballpark,library,and high end condos. Something has to give in that area,but if it comes to having to relocate the homeless,they will just be a drudge on some other neighborhood. Then that neighborhood will see a flight and lose property values.Then you'll see more gentrification. It's a well thought out plan.Without a certain element wrecking the neighborhood,you can't have the realtors and politicains making money from this.

Now I'd like to respond to Chuck's last post that's connected to this one.

Chuck1052 wrote:In regards to the highly visible presence of homeless people in many American communities, one important factor is that a large percentage of them have a serious mental illness such as schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. Sixty years ago, many such people would have been institutionalized.

With the advent of psychiatric drugs, many people with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder have been able to live normal lives and even hold down jobs. But for many other people, such drugs have little or no effect. That means there is still a need for some mentally ill people to be institutionalized. But in this day and age, it is far more difficult to institutionalize people because of legal obstacles and the lack of enough institutional space.

Even among people who are helped greatly by psychiatric drugs, there has to be a variety of programs, which are sadly lacking at the present time. Yes, it is expensive to have such programs, but they are far less costly that putting people into institutions.

- Chuck Johnston

Chuck,you are right about many people having mental illness. But why has this been such a recent epidemic? I don't remember people being schizo and homeless like it is today. I've worked with these people and it's not a secret that their issues are caused by drug addiction. The main culprits:heroin,meth,crack,and now a plethora of synthetic drugs. There isn't a country in the world that tries to rehab addicts like the U.S. These people on the street get government stipends. They have the opportunity to get into shelters. Most don't want to go that way. As long as they can get their drugs(now it includes prescription meds that many sell in the street)that is their purpose. I've known homeless addicts who've been sent to rehab(sometimes a half a dozen times as terms of their release)and when they get out the first thing they want to do is find a pusher. Take a walk down 16th Street someday and you'll see that most of these people are too far gone.They are violent and unpredictable.They don't want to be helped.Some try,but once they get cleaned up,they go right back to the neighborhood where it all started:the street. Call them schizo,bi polar;they're crazy,and a danger to society. No one would feel safe walking around there, including themselves. You mentioned "psychiatric drugs." That's a big racket that the FDA and Big Pharma has pushed off on us. It isn't working. A guy whose brain has been fried, makes insufficient progress towards being a productive citizen by taking those pills that the tax payers' Medicaid money goes towards,let alone getting his head back on straight. So the bottom line is obvious:rid the country of drugs and you won't have drug addicts,but it's all a sick play. Next to oil,drugs(legal and illegal) are the biggest money maker around. The government is in on it as much as the cartels. Get people hooked on drugs and there's money to be made.The docs,HMO's,the penal system,the insurance companies,gun manufacturers,,not to mention all the pay offs to the pols and people in the DOJ. The money is astronomical. The Mob used to get rich on selling illegal booze during Prohibition,gambling,and prostitution. Small potatoes compared to drugs. Get a guy hooked and you have a market for life. So where did they go first with distributing drugs? The poor neighborhoods. Coupled with trade agreements that closed down the factories in their neighborhoods,they flooded the area with crack. Now kids instead of working at a factory(that is now in Mexico)and refusing to work for minimum wage at Jack In The Box,he joins a gang and sells drugs and shoots people. That's another thing. There weren't the multitude of violent gangs today if it hadn't been for a drug trade that keeps the huge cash flow coming into the gang. Where do you think they get the money to buy those fancy cars and wear all that gold?

So when I hear about rehabbing programs,I shake my head. Do you really think the spin doctors gives a damn about helping a drug addict get well? A meth head or a crack freak provides an eternal source of income to the untouchable creeps at the top of the food chain who put this calamity together in the first place. Oh,they'll throw a Chapo or a Escobar under the bus to make it look good.But they'll just be replaced by another sinister dude until it's decided that it's his time to be scratched off.

I think I need a Prozac or move to Arizona City

The Mountain Empire

I should have talked to more old people when I was younger.Near the end I talked to my parents a lot.By then they were in their 80's,but I should have began those conversations earlier;asked them questions,not necessarily about themselves,but what it like living back when you were young.Now that I'm turning into an antique,there aren't many people out there that I can approach to ask about historical occurrences. Most old timers that are still around are either tone deaf or becoming simple.So now the younger generation should be coming to me to ask questions about what was it like back in the day. But today the kids could care less about what happened fifty years ago ,let alone five years in the past. I tried to impart the knowledge of history to those little buggers when I had the nom de plume "teacher" printed on my credential when I was working at the school district.I don't think I inspired one of those little rascals to go on to study or be history majors in college,if they had the desire to further their educations. When I finally threw up the white flag,I never thought of myself as being another Mr. Chips.

But besides probing the brains of my parents, there were still oplenty of old timers who could remember the days of radios and silent pictures,when you wore a coat and tie to the ballgame,and when your mother scrubbed you down with soap and water after swimming in the public pool thinking that would wash away the polio germs. You've read my posts about when turning the wonderful age of 21 I could now go into a bar and rub shoulders with the grown men and have a drink,a real drink:a whiskey straight up or a beer that wasn't crafted in the suburbs. The Arizona Café was the bar to go to in my burg if you wanted to hang with the rough and ready. It was a man's bar.It had been around since the early 40's when George Radovich's old man moved to Ocean Beach in San Diego from Arizona. After pops died,George kept up the tradition of straight talk and no frills. It was red neck as hell and the only black guy I ever saw in there was Willie the Shoeshine Guy who polished footwear at Woods News Stand at the end of Newport Street. Since Willie was kind of a fixture in Ocean Beach he was "OK" with the white customers. Willie knew better to try to hit on any of the bar flies. He'd get a snoot full and start talking big,but it all wind and smoke. But if you wanted a detailed history of what it was like in San Diego when it was a sailor and blue collar town,the regulars at the Arizona could give you all the first hand information you wanted even though that info might have stretched a little with the aide of some literary license.

If you've been reading my stuff,you know that Radovich managed Bob Murphy when the Irishman decided that he could make money with his fists instead of getting the satisfaction a coming out on top in a barroom brawl and having the boys at the bar keep him in drinks for the rest of the night. After George let Murphy go and Travis Hatfield,who owned a sporting goods store took over,Murphy could not get George nor the Arizona out of his mind and would often drop by to say "hello." But the antics of Bob Murphy in the Arizona were way before I became of legal age to bend elbows at the Arizona. But I would pry away at the clientele who remembered Murphy. I've told those tales on the forum,and I certainly hold them to be "Gospel." But another character of similar ilk,an alter ego to "Irish" Bob, was a another fighter who could fill an old watering hole with lore. Ever hear the name of "Shorty" Hogue? His real name was Willis and he had a twin brother,Willard who they nicknamed "Big Boy." But I'll keep my focus here on Willis,I'll stick to calling him "Shorty" from now on.

I don't think anyone's around that remembers too much of "Shorty" and his brother anymore. I heard Radovich say one time that "Shorty" gave Archie Moore" a hard time" in the ring. "Shorty",according to George, wasn't one of those scientific boxers.but would come in swinging wide, not rueing whether his punches landed north or south of the beltline. He beat Moore in their first to scraps.Archie finally caught up with Mr. "Shorty" in his last fight when "Shorty" was literally a last minute substitute for his brother "Big Boy" who was supposed to fight the "Mongoose" at old Lane Field. They say "Big Boy" got a big bruise,as he was going to the dressing room, injuring himself in the parking lot bumping into a car. Sitting at ringside was brother "Shorty" half drunk who hadn't frequented the gym since who knows when and had stayed out all night giving his last dollar away to some of the ladies of ill repute(that's the way George told it).Well, when Arch got the news of the switch,I imagine he began salivating. Instead of "Shorty" thinking he was up against it,he probably figured he had Moore right where he wanted. But in his last fight as a pro,after going down hill for some time,Moore gave "Shorty" a frightful beating in his finale.George told me after that fight,"Shorty" Hogue started to slip fast on that slope to Palookaville. He died at the age of 50. He didn't even recognize his family and friends.

As far as Archie Moore goes,I did hear him mention "Shorty" once while I was helpin' out at his ABC Boys Club on Federal Avenue. Archie alluded to the fact that he thought "Shorty" was a racist and didn't want to lose to a black fighter.That's why "Shorty" threw caution to the wind. But back then,white people and fighters thought that way:a blow to one's manhood to lose to a "darkie."But when "Shorty" was matched with Charley Burley,that's when "Shorty" lost his edge for good.He took a shellacking. Look at the record book.He lost more times than he won after the Burley fight.

The Hogue boys were born in a part of the back country in San Diego, in the foothills,in a little town called Jacumba. Jacumba is in the Mountain Empire District of the county. The town is right on the Mexican border though you can't tell because there's no fence or border crossing separating the two countries. When I worked for the county agriculture department sometimes I'd ride the truck out to Jacumba to get away from everything.There's a hot springs out by the hotel that's along the asphalt road of old Highway 80 that twists and turns through the valleys of the high desert . Cactus,sagebrush,and rattlesnakes ,and a population of around 50 back country people are all that's noticeable.There's a little store and a P.O, Box inside for the sunbaked residents who call Jacumba their home. When they built the new freeway,it bypassed Jacumba. Now if you want to get there,you have to take the turnoff from the freeway and drive several miles into the valley to get to Jacumba.By the way.I remember when I was a kid and my parents would sometimes take us by Jacumba. There was a big billboard sign next to the highway that read "Impeach Earl Warren."

A few years ago when I drove out to Ciudad Juarez to find Jose Napoles,on the way back to San Diego,I took that turnoff to Jacumba. The place hadn't changed much since I'd last saw it. The old hotel was still there. So was the little store. There was a dented pick up truck and a dirty car parked in front of the store, I got out and went inside the store to buy a Coke. It must have been over a hundred degrees outside. You could see the heatwaves rising off the asphalt road. Hot wind gusts blew the dust around. All I could near is a dog barking somewhere. I asked the guy behind the counter if he had ever heard of the Hogues.He just looked down and shook his head and said "No." He must have known with that inquiry that I wasn't from around there.

As I drove back to San Diego,I got to thinking:What in the hell do you do in Jacumba?"I guess the only thing "Shorty" Hogue could come up with was to fight and raise hell.

https://imgur.com/DgyLstw
Downtown Jacumba

https://imgur.com/qORVxID

"Shorty" Hogue

One of my favorites died yesterday,Antoine "Fats" Domino

https://youtu.be/f1m4RY67vBc

I think this song summed up his life.Not a bad way to look at things. RIP Big Guy


https://imgur.com/M5Ysod6

Taking A little Off The Top

Just off the top of my head:When James "The Heat" Kinchen was telling me how he saw some of the trainers in the dressing room in Tijuana wrap their fighters' hands with wet towels laced with plaster of Paris before their matches,James also added,when he was fighting word was getting around about how Panama Lewis was doctoring his fighters' gloves by cutting a slit underneath,inside the palm,and then with his fingers,remove some of the padding.James said there were gyms that wouldn't let Lewis nor his fighters(and that went for Aaron Pryor though James said Pryor was unaware of what was going on?)train in their facilities.This gets back to the point of where were the commission people and the referees?I can't believe a trainer would take this on by himself if he wasn't being protected. It wasn't until Billy Collins' father,after his son's defeat from Luis Resto,shook hands with Resto to congratulate him that the dad felt the thinness of Resto's gloves. The New York commission followed through on the beef and found out the gloves had been tampered with.Makes me think of Pryor's fights with Arguello.Also Sugar Shane's scrap Margarito.It was Moseley's people that dropped in on Tony in his dressing room and saw the plaster of Paris being applied to his wraps.I'm sure they had suspicions.Makes me think of Cotto and Cintron.Boxing is brutal enough.To have these felonies going on and getting away with it...well,like I said,I wonder why I don't give up on the sport.All I know is if some guy fought my son with cement in his gloves,I'd be writing these posts from a jail cell.

I was watching ESPN's classic fight series the other night on the tube.The fight was the first Foreman/Peralta match at the Garden in New York.Johnnie Addie,as usual,was doing the introductions.Before the fight,Addie brought retired champ Carlos Ortiz into the ring.With that thick New York accent Addie spoke into the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen.I want to bring into the ring the retired lightweight champion of the world,Carlos Ortez.Carlos Ortez ladies and gentlemen. How about a big hand for Carlos Ortez."
Now I know that Addie knew he should have pronounced Ortiz's name with the Spanish accents,but no this is how we say the Latin fighters' names in New York in the Garden and it's "Ortez."To bad Johnnie couldn't have landed a gig south of the border. He would have been known as"Joanee a dee A"


Charlie "Bad News" Austin was a pretty fair middleweight at onetime.He was what you call a "promoter's fighter": a guy that took fights on short notice or would walk inside the lion's den to take on a rising star in his home town.Austin was in San Diego helping get Luis Rodriguez in shape for his fight with Rafael Gutirrez. I overheard Austin mention Carlos Monzon.Earlier in the year he had fought Monzon on his home turf in Argentina.Austin said at the weigh in,Monzon had his "own" scale.I guess Charlie was in one of those lion's dens.

A few months ago I drove up to Carlsbad CA on the coast and had a man sized breakfast at "Big John" Haedrich's German deli/ reataurant,Tip Top Meats.I wanted also to see if "Big John" was still up and at 'em.Sure enough. There he was holding court at "his" table in the back of the deli section."Big John" goes about six foot six.He's in his 90's now but you wouldn't know it.He's got one of those personalities that instantly makes you feel at home. Walking out of there,you think you've known him all your life."Big John" was on Germany's Olympic boxing team during the '52 Olympics.He'll be more than happy to talk to you about how he sparred with Max Schmeling or what Germany was like during the war.After migrating to the U.S.,he opened up his Tip Top Meats.The breads,pastries,prime cuts of meat,and of course all the bratwursts,knackwursts,liverwursts,weisswursts and the best of all the other wursts, have put Tip Top on the top of everyone's bucket list.Not to mention all the German imported beer!San Diego is the capitol of the micro brewing world,but you can drink that stuff.German beer is my favorite and the one that turns me on is called Augustine Helles. I was swigging it down in Munich with some of the locals a few yeas ago. The brewery is in Munich.It goes back to the 1300's. They have all these rules and regs about making beer.It pays off. For me, it's the best."Big john" makes sure to have plenty of it on the shelves. I can't help but love the guy


https://imgur.com/aI4RBfG
Billy Collins after the Resto fight




https://imgur.com/lSTN7Kf

Carlos Ortiz at a World Boxing Hall of Fame event


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Carlos Monzon

https://imgur.com/vPHrA9I

"Big John" holding court

Hallowed Walls

The last time I saw a fight at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles was in 1973. They were building it up as a toe to toe slugfest consisting of Armando Muniz and Thurman Durden. But it was like Armando had stepped on Thurman's toe ,and it was all over in the 2nd round. However, the surprise treat for me was a exhibition match between local middleweight,and pretty good boy,Mike Nixon, and Sugar Ray Robinson. The Sugar Ray Robinson who was, and probably is considered by all that is left that saw him in the ring,as the greatest pound for pound fighter who ever was. Even a man who gave himself the moniker The Greatest,that egomaniac heavyweight who predicted outcomes with crude poems,humbly and was straight forth with announcing that Sugar Ray Robinson was boxing's greatest bard in a boxing match. The 52 old former champ sidestepped,dodged , feinted, and moved with the fluidity of an Astaire, all the time looking out to the throng ,waving ,and flashing that Ray Robinson boyish smile. Mike Nixon couldn't have been voted in for dog catcher.He never laid a glove on Father Time. But that was almost 45 years ago. I got myself married soon after that fight at the Olympic. My frequency attending boxing matches slowly waned.I still watched a fight or two in person,but only in San Diego. There was the advent of cable TV coming up on the horizon.The local arenas had a tough time filling up all the seats.The weekly televised fights from the Olympic were hit and miss. Arlene Eaton left us.Her son, Mike, tried to beat a dying horse.Las Vegas became the big venue west of the Rockies.Even the multitudes of quality Mexican fighters were beginning to dwindle. I didn't take much notice nor cared. The Olympic Auditorium eventually gave way to music(if you want to call it that)concerts showing noisemakers with names like Suicidal Tendencies,Circle Jerks,Wasted Youth,and Dead Kennedys(you bet I had to look those names up). Wrestlers like Freddie Blassie and Andre The Giant even had to find another mat somewhere to body slam a torso. But like I said,it made little difference to me. It probably had similar affect on most fans of The City of Angels. In 2005 the torch extinguished.

Wasn't until I got active with the boxing events in LA that I knew what had become of the Olympic Auditorium. It's a church now:a Korean/American Christian church. You can still see the old building with all that hieroglyphics painted on the its side from the Santa Monica Freeway.My buddy Dan Hanley posted up the page about what things have turned into today. You know:those footprints that are eroding away with time. A history that you can only decipher from a book or an old timer who can still put two words together. I don't know Dan. The Olympic was going the way like old Ebbets Field in Brooklyn that was home for The Bums.Attendance was down.The neighborhood was decaying.So it was out to Tinsel Town.But even a star studded burg like LA couldn't drop star dust on the old Olympic. So now it's out to the Staple Center,the Stub Hub Arena,the Indian reservations,and for a REEEALY BEEEG SHEW,Las Vegas for a REEEALY BEEG fight.

But when reminiscing, it's always, for the most part, about the glorious times.The Olympic surely had those memories within its walls. All the greats from Pascal Perez through the weights to a Cassius Clay,the Mexican battlers like El Puas,the Chicano ala Bobby Chacon,the Indian and Little Reds, legands like Armstrong,The Mongoose, and The Golden Boy.All the money thrown into the ring after one sensational battle after another.It's all in the history books,or like I say,the old timers who still remember. Try your luck on YouTube.You can hear Jimmy Lennon's voice ,microphone in hand, above the crowd's noisy stirring.

But also left inside those walls are the tragedies:Kiko Bejines frantically trying to regain his balance after his head hit the bottom strand of the ring rope like what happened to Davey Moore.Or Johnny Owen fighting his heart out and finally being carried on a stretcher to an ambulance outside to the street. As the paramedics were struggling to get Owen out the door,someone thought it would be cute to lift the wallet from one of the bearer's back pockets.

Dan,you alluded that the old building still has a useful purpose.It's a place of worship. No more shouts of profanity. No more tests of super human effort. No one winding up with dementia from leaving his chin open.No more men being hoisted on the shoulders of screaming fans.It was a mixed bag of the good with the bad.Perhaps,the old war horse is wanting to repent.

I remember standing outside the Olympic waiting to buy a ticket. Above the main entrance there was a huge painting of a fighter. That fighter was the first big draw at the Olympic Auditorium.The fighter's name was Bert Colima. He was a local product from the streets of Whittier. He gave his fans plenty to cheer about. He was the Olympic's first hero.

I saw a recent photograph of the former fight arena now a house of the Lord. The walls,that footprint is still there,but I saw that they took down Bert Colima that was the trademark above the entrance. I wish they could have left him up there.If anything,I bet he was a Christian.

https://imgur.com/nIvMycK

The Glory Church of Jesus Christ aka the Olympic Auditorium

https://imgur.com/3fycNLy
Bert Colima

My Old Radio

I remember listening to a few fights broadcast on the radio:when Carmen Basilio moved up in weight to fight Ray Robinson for the middleweight title.Carmen hated Robinson for snubbing him one time when Basilio was climbing up the ranks.Ray was already an icon.Carmen was with his wife and wanted to introduce himself to Sugar, but Ray splashed vinegar on the Basilios, and Carmen held a grudge after that he wouldn't let loose of. I don't think Robinson ever recalled the chance meeting ,yet alone had anything against the former Marine and onion farmer. My father and I huddled around the old Sylvania to listen to the blow by blows. I don't remember who the announcers were who described the action,but I was on the edge of my seat the whole 15 rounds.It was almost like being there. After the decision was announced ,my father was prancing around the living room,waving his arms to the heavens,and yelling epithets in Italian. Within the Italian community,Carmen Basilio stood along side the Pope that night.

I remember listening to the radio, the first Johansson fight with Floyd Patterson at Madison Square Garden. Every time Floyd hit the canvas,I was hoping that a miracle would be performed by his guardian angel,but I guess that spirit was in the Swede's corner .

Then there was Cassius thinking he could slay a bear in Miami.Listening to the fight on the old Sylvania was confusing and chaotic. Clay could thank Angelo Dundee for telling Clay to "run" while the ointment in his eyes evaporated along with Sonny's stamina.Think of what Ali's legacy would have been if Angelo would have let his cocky fighter sit on his stool and not come out for the bell? We saw Sonny not get off the seat of his trunks ,spit out his mouth piece,and remain inert on his stool shortly before the 7th round tolled.I wonder if Angelo could have motivated Liston to stand on his feet? I doubt it.

Listening to these radio broadcasts left me with lasting memories. To have the pace,vocabulary,and eye to describe a fight on the radio has got to be the most difficult task in sports broadcasting.Now I know where they got the term "blow by blow "description. Today,watching a fight on TV and listening to the announcers is like a stroll in the park,if you closed your eyes. You can name all the TV guys ,and for me, they never had the magic. That magic that they couldn't pull out of a hat was that they lacked the talent to put it across.The blow by blows. Listen to some of those old radio broadcasts. The words were laced with adrenaline. Who in the hell would listen to the radio if there were big gaps between the descriptions?

In the modern age of today where everything is supposed to be better:everything from automobiles to boxers,fight announcing is a bore. I usually watch a fight with the sound off. Sometimes I pretend that I'm describing the action,the blow by blows .I'm on the edge of my seat. The crowd is standing and screaming. And you listeners at home,listening to the old radio,would be prancing around the living room and waving your arms.And if you knew a few words in Italian, i'm sure the next door neighbors would hear it.

https://youtu.be/2LNzWHuygpw

Joe Louis/Max Schmeling II.Clem McCarthy calling the action.We'll never hear the likes of this again.

https://imgur.com/prZ3cQS

Joe Louis

Day Of The Dead and Cavities

In Mexico people go to the cemetery to be with the souls of the departed who come back once a year to visit their families. In the U.S. October 31st is Halloween when the kids dress up and go out trick or treating, and that's about all there is to it. It's a big money maker that's marketed heavily. They sell a lot of candy and booze around this time. Bars promote costume parties, and not to be left out,people must shop for something "unique" so they have another way of drawing attention to themselves.The cash flow runs in torrents.In Mexico people don't have that kind of money to be spending on gobs of candy to hand out to others for free. Today is Holloween in the states(Oct. 31st). Me and the wife will be crossing into Tijuana to visit our great grandchildren. I told my wife that we need to get in the line coming back early because there'll be a flotilla of cars loaded with little Mexican trick or treaters(with their parents)all wanting to score big flooding the gringo neighborhoods getting that free candy from the nice Americans. It works out OK except sometimes the little imps stay out too late because they're greedy and people run out of candy and want to turn off the lights and go to bed. In Mexico the ceremony is different. The families go to the cemeteries bringing whatever their departed had a yen for when they walked the earth.

My wife doesn't have any family in the graveyard in TJ. When we go back to her hometown in Jiquilpan,Michoacan, she brings offerings to her mother and her two brothers. She always buys a big floral bouquet for her mother. Now her mother liked to cook,but if she brought something like tortillas,the animals would come at night and disrupt the grave.So it's a lot of flowers. For her two brothers,it's the standard:a can of beer and a pack of cigarettes.We go down there maybe twice a tear and I always get a little upset when we go to the cemetery. I can tell no one has been their to visit her mother nor her brothers. The flowers are dried up and the can of beer and the cigarettes are covered with leaves and dirt. She's got a brother that lives on the edge of the cemetery,but I know he never goes to visit,let alone clean up the family plot. My wife has another brother and three more sisters in town and I don't think they even know where the cemetery is.I told my wife if she goes before me I'm not going to put her in the ground in that burg.

Sometimes I wonder about the Mexican fighters who are no longer with us. On the Day of The Dead,what is deposited on that hallowed ground? I'm sure it would take an engineering feat to bring the cantina through the cemetery's gates.



Children dancing to the Day of The Dead. Jiquilpan,Mexico

The Greatest And The Not So Greatest

I don't know how it got the name "Greatest Jazz Concert Ever",the concert at Massey Hall in Toronto on May 15th,1953,but if you shop around for CD's of that memorable night,most of those discs' will have that accolade printed on the packaging. The musicians were legends of the Bebop, new wave jazz that evolved inside the little smoky clubs primarily located in New York, in Harlem, and on 52nd Street. The musicians wanted to break free from the traditional swing and New Orleans style of playing that they felt constricted their artistic creativity. They heard something inside themselves that they wanted to translate through their instruments.It was a mantra that most of the traditional jazz listeners didn't understand at first. Many never understood it and reacted with derision.Much of the ridicule was shouted by jazz musicians. Louie Armstrong,a bedrock of New Orleans jazz,was one the loudest protesters. The five musicians who performed on that stage in Massey Hall were groundbreakers of this unique sound. Charlie Parker had to borrow a plastic alto saxophone when one of the pads on his his Selmer sprung a leak. Parker never flinched. By the time he arrived on stage,he was his normal self-high on whatever. Bud Powell was at the piano. It was apparent that he would have flunked a toxicity test. Max Roach,the drummer,was steady. Charlie Mingus,the bassist, who had helped assemble this entourage that night was fuming. Trying to bring this cast together took nerves of steel.Mingus was an ornery sort anyway, and coaxing a cohesiveness with this group became a Alphonse and Gaston routine.Oh,by the way,Dizzy Gillespie was the trumpet man.His focus was more on something else than what he was paid to do that night.-Gillespie's attention was on the rematch of the Marciano/Walcott fight.He kept ducking back stage to listen to the fight on the radio. Most of Toronto had that same thought because Massy Hall ,that could seat 2700 paying, wasn't even filled to a third of its capacity.

By the time all those musicains felt their "chops" were ready,the championship fight was over. Gillespie ,I'm sure,could have chucked the gig.He was sure that Rocky had caught Jersey Joe with a lucky punch in that hard luck round in Philly.When the rematch was over almost before it started ,Dizzy was feeling like his nickname. Looking at the replay of that two minute enigma,has boxing buffs arguing to this day about what really happened.In the first fight when Rocky,drawing from his super human will,finally landed his "Suxy Q" on the jaw of Arnold Raymond Cream,it wasn't a moment too late. A confident Walcott was sure he could box the trunks off of Rocky and land at will. He chopped Rocky to the canvas in the 1st,had him bleeding and hurt,and was winning the fight before all the Paisans could draw a sigh of relief after seeing Joe's jaw shake hands with the back of his ear in the 13th frame.As Rocky saw the destruction ,he clipped a left hook on the top of head of the unconscious Walcott. Rocky sprinted to his corner. He could have ran to Hoboken.They could have counted Walcott out with a calendar. But because of the drama of that battle,a rematch was needed. This time Joe would get another crack at the Chicago Stadium. The world was ready.Dizzy Gillespie was anxiously waiting for the title to exchange hands. If it was anything like the first fight,the scribes would have broken their typewriters running out of adjectives. The only guy who didn't follow the script was Jersey Joe. I remember watching an ESPN documentary on the greatest one punch knockouts of all time. I don't have to tell you who won top prize. But that second fight left a lot of people scratching their heads. Fight fans will always go back and forth about what transpired in Lewistown,Maine. How many times have you heard the word "fix" when that fight is brought up in the local bar?Ditto with the second Marciano/Walcott whatever it was. Inside,Rocky landed an uppercut,Joe did the Fosbury flop ,got to a sitting position looking at his corner,sprang to his feet ,but Frank Sikora waved the fight over.Everyone was looking at each other. Jersey Joe was walking around the ring shaking out his arms and if I read his lips correctly,he was saying "Shucks " and "Darn It." Walcott's manager,Felix Bocchiccio, waved his arms in Italian protesting to all the booing customers that his charge was the victim of a quick count. The next day he tried to make it look good by filing a protest. Joe retired to resurface with his next boxing profession.He becomes a referee. It was Joe as the third man in Lewiston that night taking direction from Nat Fleischer who told him that Sonny Liston was on his back for 18 seconds, like the outcome would have been different. if Walcott would have shoved Sonny at the Greatest the comedy might have lasted a few more seconds.

So we go back over 60 years to "The Greatest Jazz Concert Ever" and a championship fight that came up a cropper. I don't think the music that was being played at Massey Hall would go down in the annals as the nonpareil of jazz musicianship. The musicians would be first to shrug that night off.It was the sound quality on the recording that was remarkable more than the playing. Jazz in a concert hall with aisled seats is kind of a drag. Jazz comes to life inside those low lit clubs on those dark streets away from the mainsteam.Besides,those cats don't get into their grooves until the sun is working its way towards the horizon. Too bad that second fight was a broken record.




Rocky Marciano









Charlie Parker

https://youtu.be/wRvQ8UPOKpY

Marciano/Walcott II.Don Dunphy calling the blow by blow