BoxRec

A Very Long Count

I once asked Emile Griffith who was his toughest opponent. Almost before I could finish my question,his knee jerk response was "My mother." I had that loss of words feeling.Then ,I think,Griffith wanted to give me a more coherent response and he mumbled "Jose Napoles." My query was posed at a World Boxing Hall of Fame Banquet in Inglewood,California at the Marriot Hotel.Griffith was there with his caretaker. Griffith made sure that his aide was never out of earshot. Griffith's demeanor was very tenuous.He walked slowly on unsteady legs.His voice was weak.Fear had encompassed him. My wife and I had rented a room at the hotel on the same floor as Griffith's and his caretaker. I remember in the morning waiting for the elevator to take my wife and I up a floor to the banquet room where the ceremony was to commence. As were waiting for the elevator to arrive to our floor,Griffith and his caretaker came up beside us. Griffith put his nose up to the elevator door and began trembling.
"Where am I?"he agonoized."I'm hungry.I'm scared."
The caretaker took Griffith's arm and assured him that everything was all right.
"The elevator will come down and then we can go upstairs and you can eat,"said the caretaker in a soft reassuring voice.
Griffith relaxed his body.He didn't say anything .The caretaker never let go of Griffith's arm.

The banquet room was big and spacious. All the tables had a milieu of present and former fighters,managers and trainers,boxing scribes,fans and friends sitting around big round tables covered with starchy white tablecloths.Waiters and waitresses hurriedly walked around the room carrying platters of food that was the bill of fare for that afternoon's repast. It was a choice of chicken or salmon. My wife took the chicken. I had the salmon. I tasted a little of hers. I couldn't tell the difference. During the meal, the awards were bestowed on the inductees. For the most part,the fighters made short, sincere,sometimes emotional acceptance speeches.The writers and promoters who were on the dais ,as usual ,were tediously loquacious.They were the only ones in the room who thought that their words were synonymous with the burning bush. A lot of people looking at their watches as those egoists babbled on with boring anecdotes and humorless witicisms. But they would walk off the stage,plaques in hand,like they had just won the Pulitzer Prize.After the plaques were off the table,the fighters took seats behind a long table to sign autographs. Fighters are the most gracious athletes in the world. I've never seen a fighter ask for any money before penning his name to a scrapbook or photograph,and they'll stay to the end before leaving a fan without a signature.

Emile Griffith was at that table with "his" book. I'm sure he had no hand in writing it,probably it wasn't his inspiration either. With a stack of "his" books in front of him and his caretaker at his side taking the money with a smile on his face,Griffith would sign his name to every book that sold. When the autograph session ended,that's when I saw the vultures(the sport memorabilia people) swarm in on their prey. Bobby Chacon ,who was with his caretaker Rosie,was smothered by a lot of these crooked smiling types,back slapping with one hand,the other hand holding the sharpie in front their susceptible targets.Seeing this disgusted me.

But I don't think Bobby Chacon nor Emile Griffith felt the abuse. Griffith's caretaker deflected most of the advances. if you bought the book,you got Griffith's John Hancock and to have your picture taken with him. Oh,I guess if you pushed yourself on them you could get the autograph and the picture without spending the 20 on the book. I bought the book with Griffith's signature inside and asked if the the champ would sit with my wife to pose for a picture. Griffith's mood by this time had opened to a sunny side,a lilt of a child.

Later,after returning home,I began reading "his" book. It was kind of sad. The melancholy mood as I perused,after seeing Griffith at that banquet,was punctuated in the pages.Emile Griffith was almost unbeatable for a stretch. He fought them all,but his mental and physical faculties were pounded out of him from all the thrills he gave us in the ring,and a senseless assault by some gay bashers outside a bar. Emile Griffith died in an asylum shortly after that banquet. He was suffering and scared,lonely and lost,and there wasn't anything anyone could do for him. I just hope that someone had his arm while he drew his last breath.



Emile Griffith



My wife Maria with the champ.

Earl

I met Earl Anderson when I got a job with the County of San Diego Department of Agriculture/Weights and Measures. I was on the agriculture side of it. I didn't really have any qualifications to be considered an agriculturalist. I got a major in history in college,but in those days you could latch on with a job working civil service in a gig like agriculture not having to prove your were Johnny Appleseed. Besides, my task was driving a big rig that sprayed herbicide along the sides of the road to eradicate weeds.

Earl was in the Weights and Measures end of the building. I don't think Earl even went to college (like that would have mattered).After trying his hand at fighting,he bounced from job to job,and finally found his niche making sure all the gas station pumps in the county were calibrated correctly.

Earl was ,I'd say,had about twenty years on me. Like I said,he was a fighter once,but had to give it up because he got his retina detached in a match and in those days the boxing commissions (at least on this side of the border)yanked his license. Earl was from Texas.He looked like those prototype tall lanky Texans. I think he liked to think of himself as being handsome,and he was. A thick crop of wavy black hair,a finely trimmed mustache on copper tone skin.His beak was bent from fighting in the ring and I imagine in a few back alleys and bars. His gaze was always relaxed and he spoke with one of those slow beautiful drawls.But what you couldn't help noticing about Earl's face was all the scar tissue that crisscrossed over his eyes. Another guy who used to work with us and knew Earl for a spell ,told me not to stare at Earl's eyes if you could help it. His friend said that Earl was self conscious about it. The other physical trait you couldn't help noticing was the size of Earl's hands. They were strong looking with long fingers like steel cables. While I came to work wearing scruffy Levis,Earl came in donning a knit sport shirt, a nice sweater, slacks,and leather dress shoes. It was our interest in boxing that drew me and Earl together when I wasn't eradicating and he wasn't calibrating.

The fight topic that cemented our friendship was that Earl Anderson was ,at one time,"Irish" Bob Murphy's best friend. I think half our conversations,at least on Earl's end,was the times he palled around with Murphy. Earl always referred to him as "Murphy".The guy I was telling you about that knew Earl for a spell told me that Earl idolized the man, following him around all over,and to hear Earl spin one story after another ,I became a believer.However,Earl never said anything about Murphy getting killed in that automobile accident back east.Never mentioned his death.Making a quick rationalization,maybe it was too painful to bring up.

Earl said that he worked in the gym with Murphy when both of them were coming up in San Diego.After Earl's problem with his eyes,he said he still would spar with Murphy,and of course, go out on the town together.Earl kept bringing up one side of Murphy's character that intrigued me:Earl said that Murphy hated Italians. Earl didn't know why. He said Murphy never explained his distaste for dago blood. Earl said he was dining and drinking it up pretty heavily with Murphy ,I think he said it was in a restaurant in Bean Town,when in walked Rocky Marciano and his entourage. Earl said that when Murphy spotted the heavyweight champ,he spring out of his chair,stormed over to Marciano's table, and grabbed Rocky by the collar. A flabbergasted Marciano didn't have time to respond for by that time every bouncer and waiter had pulled "Irish" Bob ,cussing and snarling,away from The Rock.

A fight that isn't talked about much,and I've never seen any film of it,is Murphy's first fight with Jake LaMotta. Jake didn't want to come out and face Bob when bell for the 7th round rang. I talked to an old timer who was in Yankee Stadium that night. He said Murphy gave him a pretty good going over,busted a rib on Jake. LaMotta stayed in the ring against Sugar Ray to the bitter end on St. Valentine's Day,but that night in the Bronx ,Murphy wasn't giving away any hearts and flowers to LaMotta. They paired them up again at The Olympia in Detroit,LaMotta's "favorite" arena.This was after Murphy came up a cropper against Joey Maxim for the light heavy title.The 2nd fight was dead even going into the 9th frame. Jake brought his dad to work his corner with his brother Joey.I think Jake wanted all the support he could muster so he brought along his father. But rounds 9 and 10 Murphy took his foot off the gas for some reason. Decision Jake. Then it was Murphy losing 5 out his next 6. He wasn't in the gym as much as he was in the watering holes around town. It must have been pretty sad to se him go out like that.

One last Earl Anderson story about Murphy before I let you go.Earl told me that he followed Murphy to New York when he got the match with Joey Maxim,title on the line. Earl said before the fight he went inside Murphy's dressing room to wish him luck.Earl told me that Murphy was busting up all the furniture in the dressing room.His manager ,Travis Hatfield ,was cryin' and it was the worst thing Earl ever saw.Kind of looked like that scene in Raging Bull in the locker room after the Billy Fox fight.Earl asked what was the matter and all Murphy could say was to leave the room and don't say anything. The short odds were with Murphy that night. I'm sure the fellas' that bet against "Irish" Bob made a big score.You can't prevent anything like that from happening or you put your health at risk.

Before my typing finger gets stiif:this thing about Murphy hating Italians. Well,Earl was a good ol' boy and maybe he couldn't put it together. I know when the Italian immigrants first set foot on the east coast and Chicago,they settled in the neighborhoods lived in by the Irish.Those Micks didn't like having any greasers making eyes at their women. To make matters worse, most of the cops' ancestries were from the land of Erin.Just about all the Italian males growing up in the street got,one time or another,clubbed on the head by an Irish cop.

I've retold a lot of stories about Bob Murphy:when Radovich handled him when Murphy was fightin' in the amateurs,some of the bar room scraps,the nights in Tijuana. I sure would have liked to have known the guy,but then again,if he'd known about my dago blood,I'm sure he would have done more to me than grab my shirt collar.



Murphy

Ask Me For My Opinion And I'll Give It To You

I saw Carmen Basilio being interviewed,I think, by Mike Lupica around ten years ago. It was the usual questions:who was your toughest opponent,the greatest fighter you ever saw,how great was Sugar Ray Robinson, and there were a slew of the other usual queries.Basilio must have been asked the same questions countless times before. His answers to the above were Tony DeMarco(the toughest opponent),Willie Pep(the greatest),and all he could say about Robinson was that he was "tough". Carmen didn't seem too interested during the question and answer session. I'm just guessing,but I think Basilio relented to the interview because Lupica was a paisan. There were many documentaries when the boxing historians put together their pieces on the life and career of Sugar Ray Robinson.Of course,Basilio was an obvious choice to offer an opinion.I saw a few of the boxing scribes wanting to extract from Basilio admitting that Sugar Ray was "the greatest."No way Carmen was going to say that. In fact,when asked for his take on Robinson's fighting skills,Basilio would smirk,pause,and then look away and speak in a low mumble something like "he was tough" or" I beat the s--t out of him and he could take it." Forget that pound for pound the best that ever crap.Willie Pep was the "greatest" and Tony DeMarco was the "toughest". Robinson was "tough" without adding a suffix. Lupica finally asked Basilio if he thought that fighters should get a bigger pay day for what they have to go through with to put food on the table. Carmen shrugged his shoulders.
"Yeah. Sure. I hope all fighters make more money."
What the hell was he supposed to say?

Then there was that HBO documentary on Robinson. During the intro, Basilio said he "didn't give a s--t" about Robinson being dead. "He was the most arrogant bastard who ever lived "added Carmen landing another low blow. At a World Boxing Hall of Fame banquet a close friend of mine told me that he asked Basilio about an upcoming fight and what he thought about a certain fighter's prospects.
"Can't be any harder than fighting a n----r!', blurted the former champ.
My friend said he swiveled his head around to see if anyone picked up on Basilio's impression.

When Basilio's nephew,Billy Backus,arrived in LA to defend his title in a rematch with Jose Napoles,Basilio who was Backus's chief second,was asked about what he thought about the fight being on Napoles's home turf.
"I don't give a damn.I've got that dago blood in me and I can get just as hot. I don't give a s--t what these people want to do.They can go to hell!"
When the ring doc was examining Backus's eyes after being dropped twice by Jose ,there was pandemonium outside and inside the ring. A Mexican aficianado jumped into the ring and was waving his arms and yelling in celebration.He evidently got a little too close to Basilio.Basilio was angry.That dago blood was boiling.He saw that his nephew had taken a pretty good beating.Basilio turned on the exuberant fan and shoved him.I think Basilio,by that time, wanted to take on the whole crowd.

They put the International Boxing Hall of Fame building in Canastoga,New York. That's where Basilio was born and grew up. That's where he decided early in life that he wanted to be a world champion instead of being an onion farmer. After the war,serving in the Marine Corps, Basilio worked and sacrificed and eventually won that title,actually two-the welterweight from the "toughest" guy he ever fought and the middleweight crown from a guy that was just "tough." I don't think Basilio cared about compromising himself. I don't think he cared if anyone thought that he was an arrogant bastard.He just didn't give a you know what.



Carmen Basilio

The Happy Train

Sometimes when Joe Louis would travel to a city or town for one of his fights he'd charter a train,one of those big steam locomotives pulling all those Pullman coaches and ,of course ,a nice well stocked dining car so his family and friends could all have a good time. Another addition to the journey was that Joe would have a sound system hooked up throughout all the compartments pumping out music for everyone to listen to.It wasn't against the rules to pick out a lady to swing around with when a recording by Basie or the Duke was put on the turntable. Those must have been grand times. Though Joe didn't have a broad range of words to get his point across,it was that terseness laced with a boyish charm encased inside an humbleness that won people over. Sure,the promoters and the tax man took advantage of all that and the shylocks talked his wife into divorcing him telling her she could become some sort of singer or movie star.But I sure would have liked to have tagged along for a ride on the rails with Joe Louis and his entourage. After father time was gaining on him he had to keep on fighting to pay off his debts to the government,this after going into the Army putting on boxing exhibitions for the soldiers and donating his take in two defenses of his title to charity.Where was Mike Jacobs? He made plenty of dough with Louis. No one told Joe that he owed taxes on what he gave away.Why would they cut him off at the kness?Because he didn't know no better? Then it was a time to "get" Joe louis:the revenue men freezing his bank accounts,those promoters talking him into being a wrestler . Joe Louis Hollywood wrestling because he owed the government money. And then there were the times the cheap shots would sneak their coy little barbs at him making fun of the guy. Joe never would do that to anyone. I remember me and the wife one time in Vegas making a visit to Caesar's Palace and there's the most significant fighter who ever lived(no Jack Johnson or even Ali,at least not in my book)standing on the steps wearing a cowboy hat and dressed in one of those synthetic pastel colored leisure suits greeting people and wouldn't you know it,I didn't bring a camera. Joe's smilin' and has a happy look on his face and I want to say something so I ask him who he thinks the best fighter is out there and he answers "Ali", a one eighty from Joe,but maybe deep down inside Ali was like Joe. He just has to showoff all the time.And then Joe Louis asks me who I thought was the best fighter out there.Joe Louis asking me.Can you imagine that? What I should have asked him was what was it like riding on that train.



Joe Louis



https://youtu.be/x1EYOdIr-HE?t=6m14s


Jammin' The Blues. I gotta think that Joe Louis put this record on the turntable.

Mother's Day

The La Mesa Penitentiary is located in Tijuana north of Diaz Ordaz Boulevard,It always reminded me of a typical city block that they built a high wall around with sentry posts at the corners with towers manned by federales holding machine guns. I had a cab driver friend who was incarcerated there for a few years for selling meth.He was a Mexican and living with the woman who had introduced me to my wife. He was also married,but his wife would only come to see him on the weekends. The cab driver's girlfriend lived with him most of the time at the penitentiary. My cab driver friend would send his girlfriend home on the weekends,but one time the girlfriend and the wife crossed paths in the yard, and the wife who had brought homemade soup for her husband, saw the girlfriend walking towards the prison gate and threw the soup in her face. A fight ensued with a lot of hair pulling and scratching.My friend said he just watched and bemoaned the fact that he would have nothing to eat that night.

The federales let the prisoners more or less operate the prison. Aside from their freedom,the inmates had everything that was available on the outside. Depending on how much money one had,a prisoner could own a business. He could by,for example,a hardware store from a prisoner that was about to be paroled and then sell all the tools he could to the prison population. Picks, shovels,and axes were some of the standard items that were transacted. There was a barber shop outfitted with plenty of straight edged razors. Even though you might think that this kind of commercialism was dangerous and crazy,the prisoners knew their limitations,and besides these opportunities in the free market stimulated competition and lent hope to others less fortunate.There were also stores of every variety:a candy store,flower shop,mini markets,and even an ice cream stand. However,there was a monetary tribute that had to be kicked upstairs to the numerous federal officials greedy paws held open. My cab driver friend would sometimes ask me to bring him a bottle of hooch and maybe some marijuana.Everyting was taken care of because he had paid the guards and the captain their mordida.I never had a problem supplying my friend with anything he wanted. Prostitutes would arrive on the weekends to satisfy the inmates who needed sexual relief with a woman.There were also a contingent of transvestites who frequented the premises for inmates that needed that kind of stimulation. Living accommodations ranged from people sleeping outside on the ground to high end crooks who lived in houses with their wives and children and maids.The lower status prisoners would often work and run errands for the inmates who had more clout and money. Recreational activities included baseball teams,soccer squads,and yes,boxing.

One Sunday, while I was visiting my friend,there was a prisoner boxing tournament between the La Mesa prisoners and their counterparts who had been bused in from the lock up in Mexicali. The action between the fighters was crude and intense.I'm sure some of the combatants wished they had a shank stuffed inside their trunks just so they could feel at home.There weren't any specified weight categories.Each side had plenty of bodies to throw to the lions. Participating in a sport was a good excuse to get a get out of jail pass for the day.The action displayed plenty of give and take.Pride was on the line along with that macho badge of honor.The swings were lusty and the fighters tired quickly,but to throw in the towel or have the referee wave it off was unthinkable. As both teams were down to their last numbers,the score was even. The final bout of the afternoon would decide the winning jail. Both sides saved their best for last. The La Mesa man was a big muscle bound heavyweight with jail tattoos running down from his forehead to the inside of his socks. Mexicali offered a lighter man,maybe a middleweight,who wasn't as bulked up as his opponent,but looked more flexible and limber. Everybody at the prison was crowded around that ring except for the guards in the towers holding their weapons . Since the Mexicali boys had been bused in,they hadn't any fans to encourage them on.To say that it was a hostile crowd was an understatement.At the bell, the big La Mesa thug bull rushed the man from Mexicali. That tattoed monster threw him to the mat and hovered over him waiting to pounce on him like Dempsey over Willard. Everyone was going ape.No way the referee was going to explain the Marquess of Queenaberry rules to the guy from TJ. The Mexicali corner was screaming bloody murder,then the bell rang ending the first round. At the bell for round two, the big man from La Mesa tried the same tactic,but as he surged forward ,his ugly pan was out there for the picking. The dude from Mexicali then let go a lead right,straight and true,and smashed it on the point of the big man's jaw. I thought one of the prison guards had shot him. The blue monster fell to the canvas head first. The referee was pushing the Mexicali fighter to a corner,but it was only a ruse to stall for time.Meanwhile some of the rowdies had crawled into the ring trying to lift their charge back into action,but it was a hopeless effort.The guy's eyes were rolled up in the back of his head.So instead of admitting that the better man won,La Mesa's coterie decided to placate matters with starting a riot. Suddenly, everyone was in the ring and outside assaulting each other. Shanks were displayed,razors extracted,and bottles broken on the ring posts. The line was drawn in the sand. The constituents were armed and ready. The guards in the towers unlocked the safeties on their weapons. I was ducking for cover. But justwhen I thought the world was going to end,I heard a cry,then more cries until the pandemonium began to subside. The cry I heard was "Madre".Mother Teresa had arrived to La Mesa. Like an angel sent from heaven,Mother Teresa had glided down from the sky to make that mob come to their senses.It was a repentance that came just in the nick of time.

Mother Teresa was there to see the prison outcasts,the sick and lonely,the poorest of the lot,the lost souls that needed a hand from heaven. Mother Teresa provided that extended hand to those suffering. After several moments, there was silence. The rioters returned to their sanctuaries in shame. The prison guards put their safeties back on their guns. Peace had been restored.

Mother Teresa had opened a mission at the city's dump that was just up the hill from the prison. There,Mother Teresa lived with the hordes of people who also lived at the dump.The dump provided their life's sustenance.Everything that was thrown away was utilized for those unfortunates to keep on struggling. Many of them were consumed with tuberculosis and AIDS. Those circumstances provided the setting for Mother Teresa to do her work. I remember one time John Lennon's wife,Yoko Ono,was in San Diego to do a concert.Lennon was dead by that time. Ono was in one of the television studios to do a promo for her concert when she saw a short presentation about mother Teresa's mission at that dump. Ono was moved to donate ten thousand dollars to Mother Teresa to build a schoolhouse there.

I need to mention that there was another sister that worked with Mother Teresa.Her name was Sister Antonia Brenner. She was an American woman who lived inside the penitentiary. These two angels exuded a much needed serenity and compassion within those dangerous walls. As crazy as some of those inmates were,a civility would embrace their damaged souls when the sisters showed their presence. All I know is, on that afternoon of that boxing tournament,I needed a helping hand from God.



Mother Teresa

The Fear Is A Four Letter Word

I used to think that fighters kept on swinging at the very end,never conceding an inch,though maybe broken in body , they kept a will not to breathe their last breath accompanied by panic. In time, I saw that some of the bravest battlers who ever stepped into the ring had been broken by the thought of their impending mortality. They had become consumed by paranoia,hallucinations,and a sadness.Sometimes they'd awaken into a rage that was a danger to themselves and others. Because of those unpredictable mood swings,their last arena was in some stark institution. Maybe it was the effect of too many punches,a bad trip with drugs and alcohol,declining health,lost relationships,or maybe it was none of that. Every fighter who's been away from the sport for awhile that I've talked or listened to, mentions his current state of health. "So far I'm all right,but I don't know what's down the road." I've been in that presence.I think the ex pug wants you to say,"Hey, you look all right to me."And that's my standard comment.From prelim club fighters to world title holders,they can't get the thought out of their minds that they may wind up losing their sanity.

When a man begins his life's work as a coal miner,he expects that the black lung will get him sooner or later. He's seen it happen,probably if it's been a job that has been a tradition in his family and community. Older fighters talk about how they ran into a former opponent or peer and have been shocked to see that now those guys are talking "crazy." They think that condition is going to eventually box them into a corner. Maybe, just thinking about what the future holds in store for them hastens that plight.

I've talked about some of the fighters who are on that path now and some that are finally trapped inside that web as the spider crawls in for the finish. Burke Emery who owned the local bar ,with his girlfriend Shirley, down the street from where I lived was a study on that path and eventual consumption by that cold blooded creature. I remember Burke after his days as a pretty good light heavyweight born in Canada. He settled in San Diego and trained and managed fighters. Burke was all piss and vinegar. I remember him at the gym in those khaki pants and leather work shoes.the white T shirt,a towel over the shoulder. He'd snarl and you knew he meant business.He trained his fighters hard and he had all that knowledge inside his head and if you weren't taking it seriously,he'd tell you to grab your gear and get out. There was nothing abstract about the man.You didn't fool around and act the clown. He had fought hard,drank just as hard,loved the same way,and never looked back to apologize.When the fight game dried up in San Diego,Burke found himself behind a bar,serving booze to the local crowd of blue collar working stiffs. He was in his element. After his shift was over,he'd relocate to the other side of the counter. He was a man's man,old school.He wasn't a bully. A bully is essentially hiding the fact that he's a coward. But Burke wouldn't back down from no one if he was pushed,but the other guy had to start it. But let the other guy start it,and Burke would usually sign off with his signature left hook to settle the matter.Burke was a man of few words,but when he said something he'd cut to the chase.

When the owner of the bar wanted out,Burke, and his girlfriend Shirley, combined their assets and renamed the place "Champs." Burke put up some of his press clippings on the walls and some old photographs of the days when he was the Canadian light heavyweight champ. I think he did that not to pat himself on the back,but to maybe make the men who frequented the place feel they weren't in some trendy pretentious club exclusively for the "in" crowd. I never heard him talk about his pictures on the wall or his career as a fighter. Once in awhile, some guy would bring something up about boxing and Burke would go along with it. Burke was just looking for a good time. He didn't hire any hard body chicks that emphasized a hustle for big tips. I doubt if any of those types would want to work in Burke's place.The one gal they had behind the bar,and who's still there, ain't exactly a center fold,but she can handle the crowd and is not afraid to pick up a drunk's glass and show him the exit.The other bartenders are paunchy and they look like they've tasted life.

But for some reason,I hadn't ventured into Champs for a stretch. I guess getting onto the forum brought me around to see what the old fighter was up to. It was then that I saw a "different" Burke. He was on that path I was talking about. I don't think he knew it though. By that time he didn't know that something was wrong,but his girlfriend Shirley was aware,and concerned. She had to keep closer to him,make sure he still could run the place,but day by day,Burke was loosing his grip. Shirley talked to me about how Burke became a fighter. All the hard knocks were congruent to becoming a prizefighter. "No normal person would think of becoming a fighter." That's what she'd say. It was then that I told her that I would suggest his name to Don Fraser so he could be inducted into the California Boxing Hall of Fame. Shirley thought that that was a wonderful idea. It was what Burke needed,but at first he wanted no part of it. I could see the irrational fear taking him over. Then,with Shirley's coaxing,Burke changed his mind. I let Rick Farris,who was help putting together Fraser's event,know that Burke was ready.I guess Burke and Fraser were drinking buddies at one time.It looked lie everything was falling into place,but then Burke flipped back into paranoiaville. He was on the docket in LA,but never showed.I asked Shirley about what had happened.With a frown, she said "We couldn't get him to go.We all tried,but he wouldn't go." Later,when Burke's plaque was sent down to him,she said that he was very proud of he honor.

Then tragedy struck. Shirley unexpectedly died. I don't know if Burke was aware of what happened. Maybe he pushed it out of his mind,but until his very end,he thought she was still alive. At the ceremony for her,Burke walked around asking where Shirley was. When finally he had to be put in an institution,he would still ask when Shirley was going to come in to visit him.In the days just before he died, Burke became violent and uncontrollable. Everyone was told not to come in and visit him.The only person he wanted to see was Shirley.They said he asked for her all the time.

I don't go into Champs much anymore. I think his grandson or nephew took over the place. it still looks the same inside,the sign above the door still greets the thirsty,but hardly anyone mentions anything about Burke. They know he died in an institution.I don't think anyone knew to much about Burke or his career as a fighter.Like I said,Burke was a man of few words.



Me and Burke inside Champs

Lets Take A Trip Down Logan Avenue

I'll shoot this one out there for everybody,but I got in mind all the "vatos" in the southland.Whether it's East LA,Boyle Heights,Pacoima,south to San Diego in Barrio Logan,and all barrios in between,I got you guys in mind right now. You see I took my camera with me when I took a spin down to Barrio Logan yesterday and cruised Logan Avenue. I turned onto the 1800 block and drove south until I got to the Cesar Chavez Bridge,its spans crossing over Chicano Park. As I neared the park,traffic started backing up. The "lowrider" clubs were taking donations for their holiday toy drive for the poor kids. The members and their families were walking between the cars driving through the park asking for donations. The park was jammed with people ."Lowriders" were parked along the street, in the center lanes,and parking lot. There was plenty of food:tacos of every variety,burritos meat and chicken,tamales smothered in salsa,churros fried in manteca and sprinkled with big sugar granules,frozen peletas with the tropical fruits inside,and the Mexican "nieve" ice cream with its smoothness garanished with strawberries,pineapples,tamarindo,and coconuts.Large jugs with the big dippers inside stirring up of horchata,jamaica,and tamarindo Nortena bands blasted away under the spans of the bridge making a big reverberating sound throughout the park. Kids playing on the swings and monkey bars,dogs chasing each other,everything coming together naturally without any mandates. Club members wearing their personalized shirts and jackets,their heads topped with straw fedoras were enjoying the festivity drinking their cahuamas and gorging themselves with all that home cooking. But it was not a time or a place for bad behavior. The purpose was to raise money for the kids so they can have some toys for Christmas,and, of course, to show off the cars. The scene is a throwback,the music is still oldies,those guys drinking the cahuamas can talk to you about Bobby Chacon and Mando Ramos. It's a Chicano thing more than Mexican. The barrio is where most of those guys were born and raised. they might have a grandmother or a cousin I'm Mexico,but the barrio suits them just fine.They feel at home because they've been nurtured there and it's always the place that draws them back if they decide to test the waters somewhere else.

Remember that song,Whittier Boulevard?Well,here's San Diego's version. Here's some pics from yesterday.




This used to be Rodolfo Gonzalez's gym. It's a church now.Seems like all these boxing gyms and arenas eventually become churches.



Virgin of Guadalupe Church



Anyone for a paleta or nieve?



Cuatro Milpas. This place gets a workout for lunch during the week.



Chicano Park














https://youtu.be/IdKdC6bRtos

Whittier Boulevard.Thee Midniters.Check these dudes out. You know their mothers loved them

Will be off the thread for a few days. Going to Las Vegas to cash in my winnings on the Mayweather/McGregor fight. Went to see Prince Smalls fight at Sams Town Hotel and Casino in June. Bet Floyd to win on a DQ,but they boxed it with a KO and a TKO,so I win anyway,but I can only cash in my winnings at the hotel.So I got an excuse to take Maria to Las Vegas for a few days. I'll show her Hoover Dam and we'll go on a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon.Life could be a lot worse.



Prince Smalls

kikibalt wrote: ↑13 Feb 2008, 22:57 Expug's original post from the "Ernie "Indian Red" Lopez . The Lost Decade." thread that started this popular topic:

Expug wrote:Many remember Ernie Lopez the older brother of Danny "Lil Red" Lopez.
A real solid fighter in the 60s and early 70s out of L. A.
Ernie came up short in two title shots against Jose Napoles.
He had a very tough life from day one.
Born on a Ute Indian reservation with 7 siblings, his Mom cared for the kids while his Dad drank and was abusive.
The kids were taken away by Social Services andscattered about to different foster homes.
The Mother heartbroken, wound up wandering the streets.
After Ernies boxing career Lopez would work odd construction jobs and he would occasionaly disappear, hitchhiking across the country for no apparent reason.
He would always turn up eventually.
However one day in 1993 that changed.
Ernie asked his sister (who he was living with) to drop him off at the Bus station.
She probably figured he would be gone for a while , like usual.
Noone in his family heard or saw him again for 11 years.
It was not until The California Boxing Hall of Fame decided to enshrine him , that anyone was able to locate him.
That was in 2004.
He was found living in a homeless shelter in Fort Worth Texas.
When someone told him that he had been lost for 11 years , Lopez said "Im not lost, Ive been here all along".
Hes back with his Family in L.A. now.
Hes forgetfull from all the tough fights but it seems like hes doing ok.
Looking back, his Sister said that Ernie never really was able to get over his losses to Napoles.
He had put so much of his identity in being a fighter that he had a helluva time getting back on track.
Sometimes losing like that is very tough to deal with emotionaly I guess.
Although in the end it turned out ok, its still a harrowing experience for the people who cared about Lopez.
Sometimes fight fans dont realize the toll it takes on guys who climb them steps.
Im sure there are many many more stories similar to this.

His story is incredible.

kikibalt wrote:
Ernie "Red' Lopez

dagosd2000 wrote:
Hey Buddy,That was a good post. Hard luck guy. I know his brother was very worried about him. Little Red delt with his losses to Sanchez better than Ernie did with Napoles. I remember Ernie saying before his second fight with Napoles,"I've got him. He's getting old" Well Jose hit him with a right uppercut and knocked Ernie out cold. Lopez was really down after that. He said on the sports news"I don't know. I can't beat this guy" Napoles made Cokes say the same thing. Ernie went downhill after that and disappeared. It's great to have him back. His family will take care of him. He thrilled us in the Southland with his fights with Hedgemon Lewis.

Here's a good one. There's a segment on Real Sports about the lives of Bobby Chacon and Little Red after their careers were over. Well Bobby is struggling. Broke,fighter's dementia,losing his wife to suicide. He really lived in the fast lane. Was in Jail. Drugs. Little Red retired after losing to Sanchez. But these two boys were the toast of LA. They fought each other ,and Bobby really pounded Little Red. Little Red works a little construction,has a nice family,grand kids. A real gentleman. He's happy. Does some sports shows,shows up for the fights once in a while.

What do you think this idiot Larry Merchant asks him? "Little Red. After looking at Bobby Chacon now. Who do you think really won?" I don't know if Danny was playing dumb,but he looks Merchant right in the eye and says"What are you talking about. Chacon kicked my ass"

Bobby and Danny reunited in LA at a sports event. When Bobby saw
Danny, he ran over to him ,hugged him like a little kid and said"Hey you can't forget me."

Don't worry guys. We'll never forget either one of you.

dagosd2000 wrote: Hey Kikibalt,I do some painting,art work. I need to get inspired to paint. That picture of Indian Red inspired me to do a portrait of him. Great shot. He looks happy and tough as ever. That makes me happy DAGOS

Expug wrote:Thanks Dagos.
I had a feeling you might have known the Lopez bros.
I saw part of the segment on Chacon and Danny.
Very poignant.
Danny Lopez was one of my favorites back in the 70s.
He and Carlos Palomino were two guys I admired back then.
Still do.
Tough in the ring , but they also carried themselves with class.
Im not surprised that Merchant asked Danny that question.
Merchant is one commentator I really cant stand listening to.
As has been discussed before, I dont know where the hell some of these ringside experts come from . I really dont.

Art Frias, Bobby Chacon and Tony "The Tiger" Baltazar
Sept. 2007

I'm sure in your time the sport was different !! cleaner than seychas !! Thank you for a great contribution to boxing !!

Taking A Little Off The Top


Just off the top of my head:I think the most popular fighter in Tijuana today,with the exception of Luis Nery,is Kenia Enriquez. Kenia has a title and when she fights in San Diego or San Diego she has quite a fan base. Kenia is handled by San Diego promoter Bobby DiPhilippis.The gal Mexican fighters ae a bigger draw in Mexico than here. in the U.S.,there's more interest with Mixed Martial Arts with the girls. Luis Nery cut his teeth inside the rings in TJ.I don't see him sticking around as long as he stays hot. I see where he fought two weeks ago at the baseball field that's located in the east end of Tijuana. I didn't go,but I know the stadium holds around 15,000. The best Mexican fighters aren't going to show off their skills in Mexico much anymore. Canelo won't fight in Mexico again. I remember the day when the Napoleses,Olivareses,and the J.C. Srs.,after winning world titles,would return to the land of the Aztecs to work their magic for the aficianados. Now a champ,regardless of his nationality,fights maybe twice a year.The money is huge,and if he comes up short,there's a rematch. If it's two losses in a row,he's still made his money. Why take a risk fighting in a bull ring fighting against a non top ten guy and losing? The world comes crashing down. Then it's going down the rungs and ending up stepping through the ropes in bull rings and bars in pueblos throughout the interior of the republic eventually winding up with the short end of the take before vanishing from the scene.

I asked Ken Norton once if he lifted weights.He said no.When looking at his body,I thought he might have trained with the iron. At the time I was a pretty good man with the weights. After Norton broke my nose in a sparring session,i understood that the size and strength of ones muscles acquired in a weight room didn't translate to success in the boxing ring. Hollywood was also impressed with Kenny's physique. They put him that movie playing that slave Mandingo.I don't think Norton's criteria had anything to do with his acting ability.

The other day, when I cruised down Logan Avenue,I thought I'd stop by the old San Diego Coliseum. I see that they've fenced off the outside of the building and parked a lot of heavy equipment in the street. I guess there's more money putting up a high rise condo than letting the homeless sleep against the old girl's sides and then waking up to say good morning by defecating on the sidewalk. Yeah.Fire up the bulldozers.


"Judo" Gene Lebell,the oldest son of fight promoter Aileen Eaton used to be a trainer of a few of the Hollywood set. I saw him two years ago at the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame event. He's in his 80's now. He still might be showing the beautiful people how to stretch people out with his expertise in martial arts.He's got ten years on me and I know I wouldn't want to cross him.He still looks as ornery as ever. By the way,he was the personal trainer of George Reeves,TV's Superman.LeBell was lifting weights with Reeves in the early 50's when the famous television series began. I guess weight lifting was apropos for keeping the muscles toned on Superman.For me,all I could do was lift bar bells. Besides,I couldn't fly a lick.



San Diego's Bobby "D"



Ken Norton later in life



The old Coliseum ready to be torn down. Thanks for the memories



Superman

The Oasis

Victor was an all right fighter I guess. He won his first six fights.He fought mostly at the Coliseum. After he was stopped by Little Red at the Olympic Auditorium,Victor's career was off and on until at the end ,when it was always off. He won more than he lost,but he fought too long. I asked him why he kept on fighting after it was obvious that he would never work his way out of the prelims."I like fighting",he said."It beats punching a clock." But after losing badly to Little Red,it didn't look like Victor had the goods to be anything more than a club fighter,a guy who a promoter could count on to fight on the undercard. His fight with Little Red was on one of Aileen Eaton's cards. Danny was on his way up knocking out everyone that stood in front of him.Victor was undefeated,but didn't look sensational against his opposition. In his six wins, they had all gone the distance.

The way I got to know Victor was that I had worked with his younger brother,Rafael,at the loading docks at the Two Guys Department Store warehouse.If we knew that Victor was fighting either at the Coliseum or in Tijuana,we'd bust out from work,drive down to Carl's Baseball Inn that was a couple of blocks east of the Coliseum to put on a glow,and then work our way back to the Coliseum,buy a general admission seat,and settle in to watch the fights.

Like I alluded to,Victor didn't have much of a punch,couldn't break an egg like that saying goes.However, Victor was always in the gym.He was in good shape. Promoters knew about his readiness and employed him often. But Victor wasn't only fighting within his peer group,Victor was going rounds with his family,primarily his wife,Rosa.Victor was fighting for peanuts. After losing to Little Red,he never made more than a few hundred dollars for getting punched around for four rounds. Victor had two kids,both girls,and a wife to provide for.His reasoning that he fought because he "liked it" wasn't carrying much weight with Rosa. At the end ,when Victor was taking a lot of beatings,Victor parted ways with his family. Soon after, Victor couldn't get a match anymore anywhere.I left the warehouse job and thought I'd get into an endeavor more suitable to my character. That endeavor was becoming a school teacher and a football coach. In time, everything around the old Coliseum closed their doors:the Lucky Lady Club,Ophelia's Restaurant,Carl's Baseball Inn,and the last to go,The Coliseum. The area became dark and dangerous after nightfall.Winos and drug addicts walked the back areas like vampires. Businesses were boarded up. Families that could afford it,moved away.The families that couldn't migrate,put bars on their windows.I lost touch with Rafael too. I didn't see him until a few years ago.I ran into him, in the bleacher seats, at Petco Park during a Padre game.Of course I asked him about his older brother. Rafael said that Victor lived in Nevada in some small town named Piute Springs in the desert north of Las Vegas.Rafael told me that he ran a restaurant called "The Oasis."When I went to Las Vegas with my wife last week to cash in my winnings from the Mayweather/McGragor fight,I looked up Piute Springs on the map. From the 515 north it looked about 80 miles outside of Vegas. I had rented a car, so me and the wife took a spin to Piute Springs.

I've always liked that area from the Mojave desert along California and Arizona border, north through Nevada. It's mostly high desert,distant mountains,shrub and chapparal,saguayo cactus,towns small, and some with that sobriquet,"Ghost".Driving on the old paved highways that turn though the grades and then flatten out for miles and miles with signs on the sides reading "No Services For the Next 50 Miles" puts me in a tranquility that I can't discover in the city.The sunrises and their evening ebbs are paintings from God.My wife and I got an early start.There was no need for a GPS. There's not much congestion to sort through in the desert. Piute Springs was a straight shot. The turn offs were spaced many miles apart. The towns separated by wide expanses.With all that square area,there were few cars and trucks on the raod. Finally,after an hour or so,I saw the small sign "Piute Springs Next Left." I eased down and made the turn. I couldn't see anybody walking around. I passed a run down trailer park,a few pre fab houses. There was a little store with a hand painted sign at the side of the gravel road. Some dented up dusty cars and pickup trucks were parked beside the road. I saw a busted sign that had a few shotgun holes decorating its front declaring that "The Oasis Café" was at the next right turn. A couple of raised pickup trucks were parked in front of the door.i pulled along side.

My wife and I walked inside the flecked white painted structure. The inside was empty and dark with a low ceiling.A small counter with a few tables and booths starkly filled the room. A big American flag was hung on a side wall next to another flag, that wasn't as large as the American flag, that was one of those black MIA/POW banners. Pictures of men in the military of all the branches of service adorned the wood paneled walls.Behind the counter was a painted picture of John Wayne,At the end of the counter was a black and white drawing of Marilyn Monroe. A little bell was on the counter with a cardboard sign in front of it that read,"Ring For Servivce." I cleared my voice several times before I chimed down on the bell. I heard a stir in the back inside the kitchen. A stooped shouldered man wearing a blotch stained apron emerged. My eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness fully.The man ,I could see ,was squinting at me.
"Don't I know you?"he asked in a gravely voice.
"It's me Roger,Rafa's friend,"I hesitantly answered. My wife was standing behind me.
"Sure.Sure."beamed the man.
As he stepped forward,I knew it was Victor. His gaunt face was ruddy,his skin coarse.He had the fighter's nose.His brown eyes sagged below his untrimmed eyebrows. His iron gray hair was thick and uncombed. He still looked like he was at his fighting weight,but the muscle tone in his arms had dissipated.Liver spots covered the top of his gnarled hands.
"How in the hell did you find this place?",he roared."Sit down.Who's the young lady.Sit down.I'll make you breakfast."
I introduced my wife to Victor. He motioned us to sit in a booth.
"It's more comfortable sitting here.What do you have a taste for?I make the best waffles and fried chicken in the state."
"Make that two,"I said feeling more at ease.
Victor went back to th kitchen. I could hear the chicken crackling in the frying pan. In the meantime Victor came out with two mugs of steaming coffee.
"I'll be right back,"he said."I also make the best pot of coffee you ever tasted,"he beamed.
The coffee was piping hot,but was very rich tasting. After awhile, Victor came out from the kitchen with two thick white platters of fried chicken and waffles.
"There's strawberry syrup,blueberry syrup,and maple. Go with maple.I buy it from the Indians on the reservation. It's all homemade."
Victor wiped his hands on the front of his apron , pulled up a chair, and sat at the end of the booth.
"So how the hell did you find this place?"he asked.
But before I could utter a word,he said," I bet you ran into my brother."
"That's it,"I said."I saw him at a ballgame a few years ago. He said you moved out here."
As we were talking my wife and I were savoring the best chicken/waffle combo we ever tasted.The food was delicious.At first we caught up on things, and then the conversation turned to boxing,particularly, Victor's.
"I remember you and Rafa would go to all my fights,"Victor said pensively.
"We enjoyed watching you fight,"I said.
"You don't know how much that meant to me,"he said."My wife never saw one of my fights."
"She was probably afraid."
"Naw. She wanted me to take a beating so I'd quit and get a job."
"You fought a long time."
"Maybe too long. But I liked fighting.I knew after losing to Danny Lopez,I'd never be a champ and that it would be tough making a living,but I can't go back and change that."
"Do you ever see Rosa and the girls anymore?"
"I haven't seen or heard from Rosa in ages. She remarried. Some guy that owns a construction company. They live in Colorado. The girls call me on Thanksgiving and Christmas.They're both married with little kids. They came out here once to see me.They married guys with college degrees. Look.Everyone's happy,including myself."
"What do you do out here besides run this place?"I asked.
"I stay busy with the restaurant. I do pretty good with orders to go.I don't have any competition. Everyone else is gone.At Thanksgiving,I open the place up for everyone that doesn't have anywhere to go and they eat for nothing."
"That's very nice for you to do."
"Look. I ain't punchy yet.I can't stand noise and crowds.I'm at ease here in the middle of nowhere."
"You don't get lonely?"
"I married me a Piute woman. Her husband died awhile back and she's got a son and a daughter.They go to the school on the reservation.We all get along. She don't ever nag me and I don't put many demands on her ,or her on me."
"Sounds like you've found a paradise ."
"You mean an oasis.An oasis in the middle of the desert,"said Victor laughing. "By the way.What do you think of my chicken and waffles?"



Carl's Baseball Inn today all boarded up



Little Red





Danny "Little Red" Lopez and my wife,Maria.The event was a fund raiser held at a golf course in Indio,California.Not much money,but everyone had a good time.

Ange

Remember the Andy Griffith Show when Barney would get into a jovial interplay with Andy and sometimes call him Ange? I don't think it was written in the script to call Sherriff Taylor, Ange.But it worked.That term of endearment validated the respect Barney Fife had for his best friend,Andy Taylor.Andy was such a nice guy. He had a bumbling deputy that he never threw under the bus.Let him take credit for things that he had screwed up when Andy had to eventually come to the rescue to save the day. He never talked behind Barney's back.Everybody loved Andy Taylor. When Don Knotts improvised,calling Andy Taylor,Ange, the director let it go. I remember later when Andy Griffith had another starring role in the show,Matlock.They used Don Knotts in a few episodes,and again Knotts, when interacting with Griffith,called him Ange. You could see Griffith trying to hold in a smile.With the forum concerning itself with the sport of boxing,there's another personage, that comes to mind, who his pals would refer to as Ange.That Ange was Angelo Dundee.

I lost touch with boxing for a long time,but when I made contact with the coterie of boxing buffs in LA and then found the BoxRec Forum,I thought I had realigned myself.But I discovered that I didn't have my hand on the pulse like I thought. It wasn't until a few years had passed that I found out that Angelo Dundee had died. It might have been mentioned on one of the threads.If it was,I missed it. I didn't hear about his passing on any of those sports talk shows,but it had to be mentioned.I just missed it that's all.

I began reading some of the obituaries on the internet. They say his service was attended by around 600 people.His son talked about his father having lived a full life.Dundee was married to his wife for 58 years.His wife had died several years prior to Angelo's death. He died in his sleep. He was 90 years old. He was surrounded by family at the end.

Angelo Dundee certainly had a whos who list of fighters that he worked with .He said that Ray Arcel and Charley Goldman were mentors.But why did so many fighters want to have Angelo,Ange,in their corner? I don't think t was that Dundee was more knowledgeable about the sport. In a business that is stressful to say the least,Dundee brought a calm and tolerance to a training camp. If there ever was a father figure,it was Ange. Even an often caustic Howard Cosell said that if he had a son that wanted to be a fighter,Howard would have approached Dundee first. Even if one of his charges would be a wash,Dundee wouldn't talk sour grapes.The Black Muslims tried to move Dundee out of the picture after he had won Ali's trust,but Muhammad put his foot down. Ali wanted to act his role his way.Angelo was OK with that.He never tried to change him.

I witnessed Angelo Dundee twice training his fighters. It must be understood that often Dundee would come into town maybe the last week or two before a fight to oversee the training. When Ali fought Norton in San Diego, Dundee was in the back round.I don't recall much instruction offered by Dundee to The Greatest. Dundee always said that he let Ali be his own Fighter. Archie Moore tried to teach a young Cassius Clay ,not only how to fight Archie's way,but tried to instill a moral compass. Young Cassius soon left the man he later would stand over in Los Angeles. After asking Sugar Ray Robinson,Clay's boyhood idol,to endow him with fistic advice ,Clay got a thumb's down. I guess there wasn't room for two enormous egos to share the same corner.Cassius then looked up Dundee in Miami. They say the underrated great Luis Rodriguez gave more tips to embellish Clay's style than Dundee,but he didn't care. His ego wasn't of Sugar Ray's proportions. Dundee never said that he'd tinker much with Cassius. Clay flicked his jab,moved straight back when pulling away from punches.had a so so left hook,and paid no attention striking an opponent's body.Clay(by that time Ali) never let anyone in on his plan for beating Big George doing the rope a dope in Zaire.Dundee, who like everyone else in the entourage, was scared to death that Foreman was going to hurt Ali so badly( taking in regard Ali's courage)that his life might be in danger. But Ali shocked the world again. During that first round he must have thrown a dozen lead rights thinking he'd catch Big George with the "anchor punch" like the one that" landed" on the Big Bear up in Maine,but Foreman wasn't looking for a place to fall just yet.That came later when ,running on fumes,Ali pop popped a tired George on the chin and then watched him spiral to the canvas.

Angelo Dundee was welcomed by everyone in every fighter's camp. He wouldn't try to undermine a guy's confidence even if Dundee wasn't training the fighter. He wasn't a sycophant.He just knew how to bolster a fighter when his nerves got a little shaky.But Dundee also knew the right time to exert a good push. Ray Leonard, after letting Tommy Hearns get away from him ,will attest to Dundee's motivation.

I also saw Angelo Dundee in San Diego when Luis Rodriguez was scheduled to fight a championship eliminator against the tough Mexican middleweight Rafael Gutierrez. My father wanted to see this fight. I went down to the Stardust Hotel in Mission Valley to watch Rodriguez sweat. Ken Norton,who had just turned pro,was on the undercard.Again, Dundee stayed more or less on the sidelines. Rodriguez was getting up there in years.This would be his last chance to win a title.If he won,he'd fight Benvenuti. I thought Rodriguez would walk over Gutierrez. Of course my dad and me were sitting in the first row right next to Rodriguez's corner. The fight wasn't going the way I figured. The first five rounds were all the Mexican's. Gutierrez was a big ,strong, young guy. He was also a genuine middleweight. Louie ,I always thought,was a blown up welter,but stiil I thought the Cuban had forgot more about boxing than 99% of what Gutierrez knew between the ears.For five rounds Rodriguez was behind.Then in the 6th he let go with a telegraphed left hook that hit Rafa's chin and put him into siesta land.Just like that Luis would be next in line for Nino's belt. Then, like it was rehearsed,my father jumps into the ring. I saw him put his arm around Dundee's shoulder. As Rodriguez and Dundee exited the ring,my father still had Dundee in an embrace. It was like that all the way into the dressing room.I was dumbfounded.As my dad still had Dundee in his grip,I heard Dundee say,"Well Joe what do you think?"My father looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary answered,"Ange,you got your shot."

Like so many others,my dad must have thought of Angelo Dundee as a friend.



Ange

Lights,Camera,Fiction !

Sometimes I wonder if a guy like Audie Murphy, our most decorated war, hero watched war movies.He starred in two that I know of:The Red Badge of Courage and To Hell And Back.The Red Badge of Courage was based on the Stephan Crane novel about a young soldier's experience during a Civil War battle(probably Antietam).Crane was born after the Civil War.Audie Murphy ,at first,didn't want the part of Henry Fleming,the green soldier who turns tail after his first taste of incoming fire. Murphy said he wouldn't have run away like Fleming,the soldier that Murphy was to portray. To Hell And Back is a biographical sketch of Murphy's heroic deeds fighting with the US Army in World War II.The film was a huge success making Murphy a millionare and launched his career in films(though afterwards his fan appeal dwindled and eventually he gave up on Hollywood,or maybe it was visa versa).

My father ,who was an underling with the Italian mafia referred to as The Outfit in Chicago ,never watched a gangster movie more than one time.He'd give it the once over and then ,more often than not ,would get up from his chair before the ending and say,"It wouldn't have happened that way."I know he never finished watching The Godfather One.The Godfather Two wouldn't have redeemed my father's faith in the authenticity of mob movies, so he never even got to the credits with the second Godfather.My father had the same take with war movies. He landed with the first wave of Marines at Peleliu and Okinawa.He was never a fan of John Wayne, especially when The Duke would act the part of a Green Beret or a submarine captain or a Marine. A Marine.My father would ask me to get up and switch the channel when the tube was airing the Sands of Iwo Jima. My father liked Bilko.That show made him laugh. He said the military was full of guys like Ernie Bilko always trying to pry the last dollar out of some GI in a card game or some other type of scam.

I never associated with that many fighters. I helped out Archie Moore at his boys club one summer for awhile. The fighters who fought at the Coliseum like Ronnie Wilson and Denny Moyer,I'd tip a few beers with from time to time.Burke Emery, who handled a lot of the boys here,liked to play darts in his bar.Rodolfo Gonzalez likes to reminisce about his early days growing up in Mexico.Same with Gaspar Ortega. He talks about his boyhood in Tijuana.James Kinchen,a pastor at The Helping Hands Of God Church, is focused on giving a beating to the devil.I've been in a lot of boxing gyms. I've never heard a critique of Requiem For A Heavyweight or Raging Bull being discussed in a forum. Fighters fight for a living.After awhile it becomes a drudgery.On a day to day basis ,going to the gym to watch the fighters train gets old unless it was Ali who had no qualms about doing a skit for the fans that came to watch him prepare for a fight. Most of the fighters,even the legends,are in the gym to work on little things and often their efforts aren't that earth shattering.When Ali was in San Diego to get ready to take on Norton,his sparring routine would comprise of Billy Daniels punching the s--t out of him against the ropes.

But it's an easy stretch for Hollywood to take genres like war,the Mafia,and fighting and fill the scripts with dialogue of pathos and suffering accentuated with the dramatic:the famous quote,the pregnant pause,a certain camera angle or light,a full orchestra playing in the backround.Make sure a John Wayne or a Robert DeNiro gets the lead. For us that never hit the beach,were ordered to kill your "closest " friend,or get pounded on the ropes,I guess can go to the movies,or at least watch it on cable TV six months later to have Hollywood put you there. Perception is reality. A hell of a lot more go to the movies than ever got shot at in a firefight,a mob hit,or boxed in the ring.That includes myself.Hollywood glorifies episodes that the real participants would rather share those memories with their peers, or if not, just as well switch the channel.


George Raft. A lot of people thought he was connected with the Syndicate. He just knew Bugsy Siegel a little,but Hollywood will give you that impression

The Palace

I never knew the name of the old black dude that played that upright piano in Bob Johnston's Sport Palace on lower Market Street.It was a time when just about everything on that block was wearing out,too old to try to keep up appearances anymore. Just let it run its course and pass.Next door to the Palace was The Hollywood Theater,the last burlesque house left in the U.S. That was Bob Johnston's joint too. I remember sneaking in there when I was shy a few years of the legal age to enter. There was that runway probing between the aisles and those long legged girls would strut out doing the striptease shedding all the plumage but the G String and those pasties that had those little cups with the swirls covering their nipples and they could make the tassels rotate round and round like it was second nature. Johnston was married to one of the dancers who later choreographed the girls' routines. I'll never get Texas Bobbi Roberts out of my mind. Though since the war she'd kicked up her heels to the countless tunes of the pit band sticking out her fanny a million times in sync to the rim shots from the sticks of the house drummer,I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.Between the girls' act came out the comic Eddie Ware who reminded me of Pinky Lee,looked just like him with that bow tie and funny hat,but the jokes were a lot raunchier. Plenty of sailors and loads of laughs,but the atmosphere was getting darker over time. More bums and winos staggered underneath the scaffolding up and down the block. It was getting trashy and dirty.The Sports Palace was starting to give in too.

The Sports Palace must have been somethin' in its day. Charley Johnston was Bob's brother and he went back to the days of the Roaring Twenties managing fighters and wheeling and dealing,not a nine to five guy by any stretch.My father would take me inside The Sports Palace when I was just a little kid. Charley handled Sandy Saddler and Archie Moore who were among his most noteworthy charges. I've gone through the story of how one time Doc Kearns was holding court in the back room telling about his episodes with Jack Dempsey.When you're a little kid,it doesn't take on that much significance hearing those stories from a Doc Kearns,but now I wished I'd had a tape recorder.You see,those guys were on the inside looking out.My father was the oldest son to a guy who ran things in Chicago,later lived in Al Capone's house,and rubbed elbows with similar sorts like the cohorts of the brothers Johnston.He was a guy on the inside. Knew stuff others were unaware of. But we'll never get that back again. I just have some sketches left. Most of the images are of The Sports Palace. I think it outlived the burlesque house,but it slowly died in a melencholy way. That old black dude that played the upright was the metaphor.It was the way he played.I mostly saw the back of his head,the frayed jacket,as was the brown fedora.His shoulders would roll as he got into pressing down on the keyboard.The songs were the standard stuff of an era where names like Porter and Gershwin,throw in a Hoagy and a Johnny Mercer for taste,penciling in the notes on crinkled lined paper inside a cramped flat in Tin Pan Alley or the Lower East Side.When I think of that old black dude playing by himself with his back to the door,it whets a chord inside me. He sounded a little bit like Art Tatum,the blind pianist who garnished The Apple with his genius before his liver played his last coda from all the alcohol abuse.Yes,The Sports Palace on lower Market Street.I remember it well.The old black guy playing the piano. I think his name was Art Tatum.



The Hollywood Theater




When you entered The Sports Palace,this picture was hanging behind the bar.




Art Tatum


https://youtu.be/8KnptwcrbcA

Art Tatum playing Over The Rainbow

Hi guys, glad to be back, I think its been five years since I posted, hope everyone on here is well.

Was scanning the internet and found this pic of Archie Moore shaking hands with English boxing promoter, Jack Solomons. Behind them is Charley Johnston,Moore's manager,and Jim Norris, president of the International Boxing Club. Boxing is a tough business inside and outside the ring. I think tougher though for the fighters.They have to get punched in the head to make their money. The promoters, managers .and commissioners just sit back and smoke cigars as they count the money rolling in.

School's Out

My first contract with a school district was with the County Court Schools. These were kids who were either in lock up(like in juvenile Hall) or kids that were on probation and wouldn't be allowed to enter "regular" school.They attended what they called "store front schools."These were building spaces rented out by the courts that were refitted as class rooms. I taught at both. Some might think that there would be discipline issues dealing with kids who had records. It wasn't that bad. In fact,compared to "regular" schools,discilpline was not a big problem. Inside an institution like Juvenile Hall,it was a break for a kid to go to class.Life inside a jail is pretty boring. There's not much to do.Not a lot of movement.So to get out of your cell(with the kids, they were confined to a room)meant a little freedom. It wasn't a tough gig. To tell the truth,it got boring at times. There were no text books.No specific courses. As a teacher you could do what you desired. I stuck with history and English. I avoided math and science.I hated those two subjects because I always stunk with those courses throughout the time I had gone to school.

I remember for a few weeks I had been assigned at a "store front school" in Barrio Logan on Logan Avenue. Kids attending" store front schools" either lived near by and could walk to school,or they rode the bus. I don't ever remember any of them having a car to take them from place to place. My class room on Logan Avenue had two floors. It was a typical stucco building. Nothing flashy looking. Nothing in the barrio seemed very ostentatious. A lot of hand painted signs,small mom and pop joints,little Mexican cafes and taco stands,evangelical and black Baptist churches,and body and fender,radiator,and mechanic shops. Because, at that time in the 80's,Barrio Logan was the poorest area of the city(and still is),the junk yards made their presence. Junk yards do nothing to enhance property values.It was an eyesore and, to add, it made one think that junk was synonymous with the poor. The people who lived in Logan voiced their opinion about it,but it fell on deaf ears. Put the junk in the barrio.The barrio was at the bottom of the food chain,at least that's how the city fathers thought about it,but ,of course,they wouldn't openly admit to that.

The class room was on the second floor,on the first was a boxing gym.It wouldn't have been so bad,but from the class room you could look down onto the gym. The class room circled the perimeter of the inside of the building having no floor to cover the gym. Class began around 10 am.Attendance was pretty regular. You see if a kid cut class enough times,he'd violate the terms of his probation and be sent back to Juvenile Hall and be locked up.But for the most part the motivation wasn't there,with the kids and ,in short time,I was just going through the motions. Like I said,discipline wasn't a big deal. If a kid acted up,I'd inform the probation department and he'd go back to the Hall.The problem ,that arose at the school on Logan Avenue, was when the fighters would arrive at the gym. The guy in charge was Rodolfo Gonzalez,the ex lightweight champ. He had a dozen or so boys that would come in to train. On their end,there was no problem. They were there to train and aweat and maybe one day be good enough to make a living with boxing. I don't think any of them got that far,but they were putting in the effort. Rodolfo,like any trainer,was looking for that diamond in the rough.I think all he turned up were rocks,but they were "good" rocks. Much later when I met up with him again,I talked to Rodolfo about that gym.He kind of smiled and said that not much came out of it.But it was those kids that got out of control when the fighters would go through their routines.

The boys would leave their seats and lean over the railing looking down on the fighters. That was the only time those boys showed any signs of life,or to say that they found something that held their interest.There were a few girls in the class too. When the boys got up to watch the fighters,that gave the girls an excuse to move their chairs together and commiserate with each other.At first ,when this disruption began to transpire,I tried(not with much vigor)to restore order. I didn't approach Rodolfo with the matter. He was doing his job. The fighters weren't interested with the onlookers from above. I never went to the principal and told him what was going on. To tell the truth,I wanted to see the fighters train too.It was certainly seemed more productive,and a lot less frustrating, than trying to teach the kids what the principle products of New Hampshire were.



My school and Rodolfo's gym today.It's a church now.I think the building has found Peace on Earth finally.



Rodolfo Gonzalez signing autographs at the World Boxing Hall of Fame

The Time Lou Costello Tried To Make My Sister Laugh

The Del Mar Racetrack used to get a pretty good workout during its racing season. The handle is even bigger now that they've added more seating and extended the season, and by adding a second season a few months after the first one ends. But the crowd today is a lot of young people strutting around all decked out like they're all Diamond Jims,but for the most part they're placing their bets at the "show window."Sometimes they like to show off like they're an old rail bird,but wind up blowing their whole wad betting some nag on the nose,and then they walk back to their seats with their tail between their legs. But regardless how smart you think you know the nags,as long as your willing to put your money down,the track always comes out ahead.

The two lodging joints I remember where the big names used to stay during the season were the Del Charro Hotel in La Jolla,about ten miles down the coast from the track,and the Del Mar Hotel ,a mile or so south of the racetrack in the town of Del Mar. The Hollywood set like Durante,Pat O'Brien,Bing Crosby,Betty Grable,Clark Gable,and Lucy and Desi would swagger to the selling windows and bet big, as well as eat and drink a hearty helping.Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz owned a nice big Spanish style house right on the beach a short distance from the track.The sponsor of my Little League team had a house next door to theirs.I remember one time the sponsor of the team threw a summer beach party for the players and their families. Somewhere in the late afternoon we heard a gunshot.Turned out that dad Desi ,who had a few too many rum and Cokes,wanted to show an anxious beau of his daughter,Lucy Jr.,that his presence wasn't welcomed.

The other inn was the infamous Del Charro near the La Jolla Shores beach.It would get a pretty good higher end clientele like the Hotel Del Mar,but the Del Charro had more of an unsavory allure. Owned at the time by oil moguls Clint Murchison and Syd Richardson, both billionaire Texans,they had no qualms to cater to smurky types like Frank Costello,Mickey Cohen,Howard Hughes,Sam Giancana,Joe McCarthy,and J.Edgar and his shadow Clyde Tolson.J. Edgar never spent a nickel out of his pocket,except to lay a bet,while residing at the Del Charro.The two were always comped.They were like little puppy dogs waiting to get a tip from one of the mob boys about what race could line them up at the cashier window. But it was just a neat little trade off.The FBI never heard of organized crime,except when Bobby Kennedy got after them.But as long as the mob had those photographs,J. Edgar did his darndest to look the other way. One day my dad was getting a haircut in Harry The Barber barber's shop when the Mexican maids came over from the del Charro.
"Senor Jose,"exclaimed one of the women."We make up Senor Hoover's bed and we can see two people was sleeping in the bed.Then we go to Senor Tolson's room and we see that the bed is empty."
I guess the FBI does always get their man.

But now I'll skirt back to the Hotel Del Mar. It's gone now like the Del Charro. My parents liked to take me and my sisters to Del Mar because it was pretty and had an old charm still.Me and my sisters were very young then.I remember the Del Mar Hotel had this big patio outside where you could order food and enjoy something to drink. The view of the ocean was very beautiful. It was a relaxing atmosphere. I remember the day was sunny and pleasant,a slight sea breeze,a good day to calm the nerves.The tables were all occupied with guests settled down enjoying the good life. Then my mother mentioned to my father that she recognized a celebrity at a table out on the lawn.
"Joey,"she said to my father."Isn't that Lou Costello sitting over there?"
"It sure is,"he answered."Send the kids over there."
Well me and my youngest sister,Abby,weren't timid about approaching the old burlesque comic,but my oldest sister ,Kathy,I could tell had cold feet.She wasn't budging. Lou Costelo wasn't well at the time,though that was unknown to us. His rheumatic heart was giving out. I think he died the next year.My father finally raised his voice at my sister,Kathy,and then she began to follow us,very slowly. Costello saw us approach. He was with friends.He looked through me and Abby and saw my shy sister ,Kathy,hanging in the back. Kathy with that frightened face,hair in pig tails,wearing her little sun dress ,and being cuter than me and my sister Abby could ever try to be,Costello started making funny faces.Nothing stupid like Jerry Lewis,but the sad clown look.He had such a begging, wanting look on his face. He was really trying to make Kathy ,at least, smile,but my sister wasn't responding. Not even a turned up little grin. I wanted Kathy to smile too. Costello was trying so hard.C'mon.Just show your teeth for cryin' out loud,but no dice.Finally,Costello gave up. What a letdown.

That day had to around 60 years ago. I remember reading about how Lou Costello got word just before a armed forces radio show was to air that his 10 month old son Lou Jr,who he called "Butch",got out of his playpen,crawled to the swimming pool,and fell in. Costello got the news of his son's death just before the show was to start.He went through with the show because he had promised his son that he would perform especially for him that night, and then he could go to bed. Costello went ahead because he wanted "Butch" to hear his dad when he was in heaven.After the show was over,the audience was informed of the tragedy.

So OK.This is a boxing forum.What's the connection?Lou Costelo used to be an amateur fighter. He took the name,"Lou King."You see,he didn't want his mother to know that he took up a dangerous sport like boxing. That would have worried her to no end.I don't think after losing his son,Lou Costello wanted to see anyone with a sad look on their face.His mother,no one. If only my sister would have known back then.I know she would have come through.


Lou "King"



Lou Costello backstage at The Hollywood Theater
"

Face To Face

If you were like me and watched all those cowboy movies and westerns on TV,you believed that the good guys had a code that they displayed in life that exemplified what a red blooded American was all about. The good guy might have been the sheriff or marshal of a rip roaring town like Dodge City or Tombstone.He could have been a pioneer leading a wagon train load of settlers across the great divide to eventually lay claim on virgin land out west.Along the way there were redskins to fight off. The cowboy was another rough and ready type. Sleeping under the stars,eating beans and hard tack mostly,and of course,having to shoot along the way those nasty varmints,the Indians who believed that the white man was taking over their land unjustly.The scribblers back east took the trains out west as far as it the rails would go,then get on the stagecoach to some dusty little town to find a hombre that was one of those living legends,a Wyatt Earp or a Bat Masterson.Sometimes,more often than not,even the bad guys were penned in dime novels as brave bastions of embodied manhood blazing away with their six guns in the face of deadly enemy fire. Outlaws like Jesse James and Billy The Kid were just victims of a raw deal.That's how Ned Buntline wrote it.Maybe they lost everything in the Civil War:their families and homes.Now,looking for a fresh start, they came out west.Maybe they wanted to strike it rich mining for gold and silver.Ranching and working the cattle drives could earn a man some gold pieces if he didn't blow it all in the saloons or whorehouses.But what's a lonely cowpoke to do herding the beaves out on the trails for months without any whiskey to whet the whistle not to mention no purdy dance hall girls to roll around with in a soft bed?The way those back east city slickers told it ,and much later the movie studios,and finally television, portrayed the wild west as being a part of that folklore that was the metaphor for the American male. If there was any shootin' to be tended to the two adversaries would take it out to the dusty street to settle the score.It was always a fair fight.Even odds. Face to face.At least that's what I saw on the screen.A lot of us baby boomers held that code of honor to be Gospel. You conducted yourself in public with that set of values in your hip pocket.Your word and a handshake was all that was necessary.

But with the advent of events that emerged during the mid 60's like Vietnam,civil rights,and the drug culture that blew holes in the notion that there was a cowboy code that would prevail against evil.To the kids to day ,who were born a few years short of the 21st century, "cowboys" is just a dumb name.So Hollywood and the scribblers had to shift gears if they wanted to still make a living in "make believe." Today anything goes. Reading guys like Hemingway and Mailer to find out what real life is all about is for dreamers in some lit class at Harvard.Kids today have been exposed to reality before getting the pacifiers out of their mouths. So where can we witness something where men are men and there's still rules that need to be adhered to when it comes down to who's the better man in a fight? A fight.A boxing fight. Face to face. A referee in the middle to make sure there are no dirty dealings. Man to Man.The better individual gets his hand raised at the end. Ask just about any sports fan out there. Ask almost anyone on these boxing forums if they count sheep at night in bed ,or if they dream of punching Mike Tyson's lights out.Walter Mitty would have to serve coffee to the champ and his girlfriend before their exit to explore their carnal fantasies. A fighter doesn't need a six shooter. A fighter does it with his strength.He doesn't find courage with a gun.

Besides,all those gunslingers of the wild west filled more desperados and Indians backs with lead than was fired from the front.Like in war,why fight fair if you wanted to kill someone? Bushwack 'em or gun 'em down from behind. Make sure you have the bigger artillery and have the numbers on your side. Now not all boxing matches are even Steven. A loaded glove,the fix being in. But prize fighting isn't fantasized like a John Wayne western or as seeing what hell is in a war. I don't think the wishful fighters think of the money when they are under the covers before dozing off. It's that epitome of being the baddest dude on the planet,at least in a fair fight.

Well,it's getting close to my bed time. Who's ass shall I kick tonight? Muhammad Ali? He called himself "The Greatest." He'll be a good notch on my gun.


Wyatt Earp.You wouldn't want your back to him if he had it in for ya'.

I seriously doubt if there were that many head-to-head gunfights between gunslingers in the Wild West during the second half of the 19th Century. Under such circumstances, the so-called gunslingers were very likely to have very short life spans regardless of their skills with guns. Regular people living in the Wild West generally were not thoroughly terrorized by the gunslingers or outlaws as portrayed in numerous western movies or TV shows. A large percentage of the men living in the Wild West were veterans of the Civil War and owned rifles and pistols. It is also my understanding that women could live and travel in the West safely because there usually was swift retribution if they were mistreated. As a result, outlaws and gunslingers generally had to be wary of the regular populous rather than the other way around.

- Chuck Johnston

The Spit Bucket

The old guy that used to handle the spit bucket in the corner that I'd see all the time at the 32nd street Naval Gym,they called him High Spade like Jimmy Stewart's side kick in that movie Winchester 73. He was always at the gym when I used to go with Gary when he wanted to get tuned up for an upcoming fight. Gary was an amateur heavyweight,and although he never thought he was that good("I had adequate skills that's all"),he'd always give me a pretty good going over when we sparred. I wished I could have pushed him better,but San Diego was short on decent heavweights. Most were guys in the Navy,amateurs like Gary.Sometimes when Chuck Haynes(a local pro)was in town,Gary would spar with him instead. One time at the Club 21 in National City,not far from the Naval base,they put me in there in a "smoker" against one of those Navy fellows. There was no pre fight physical. No commission people around. Not even a weigh in.I didn't give it much thought until later when I read in the papers that the bar had been shut down for a period for staging non legit fights. High Spade held out the spit bucket for me that night I fought at the 21 Club.I don't think he would have traded places with anybody.

High Spade was a short bent over old guy with white hair that he was losing fast,but still combed it straight back not trying to cover his baldness by combing his hair of what he had left over to the side. His face was craggy and wrinkled and had a dry ochre color .When he talked out of his thin lipped mouth,you could see his brown stained crooked teeth. Gray hairs grew out the nostrils of a squashed nose.Because of all the unfiltered Camels he smoked everyday,he had a gargly voice.Though you wouldn't consider him overweight by no means,he had a little paunch that stuck out over his stomach. His attire was pretty standard:tan khaki pants,a frayed white T shirt,and unpolished work shoes. No one said much to him though he was always talking to someone about something. He was part of the scenery.

Like I said, he worked that spit bucket in the corner of fight. I always wondered what he got paid for that. Around the gym I could never figure out his purpose really. But like I said,he was part of the scenery. He'd gone back quite a time.Someone told me he fought amateur in the Navy. No one said how good or bad he was. He was in the war in the Pacific,and when he got his discharge in San Diego,he stayed. He lived in a little run down studio flat in National City a few blocks from the Club 21.I don't think he had a girlfriend. I know he didn't have a wife. I don't think he was ever married.There were enough girls that hung out in those sailor bars in National City if he wanted some relief. That's what those girls were there for. One day after I had worked up a sweat with Gary for three or four rounds of sparring,High Spade came up to me showing those horrible teeth.I was just putting my stuff in my bag.
"Son",he said sticking out his chest."You know you could lick 70% of the amateur heavyweights right now if you wanted."
I kind of smirked.
"I don't think so High Spade",I said.
"You handled that Navy fella' real good that time at the 21 Club."
"He was nothin' ",I said non chalantly."Hell,you could have beat him."
"No.No. You've got what it takes. You're strong.I see you in there with Gary all the time."
"Gary toys with me."
"Look,I can make you a fighter,"he pressed on.
"I gave it some thought once.I can't make the sacrifice. Fighting is nothing to take lightly."
The old guy lowered his head and frowned.All the air went out of him.
"if I ever reconsider,I'd ask you to be my manager and trainer,"I said trying to bolster him up.
The old man turned away and walked back inside the locker room. His gait was slow.He never lifted his head.

I could never figure what he saw in me as a fighter.Maybe he wanted to do something more than handle the spit bucket in some guy's corner. Maybe he wasn't so happy after all.

[IMG]http://i64.tinypic.com/mmg3za.jpg[/IMG

Sometimes Archie Moore would drop by the gym. He was always a treat to see.

Cast Your Vote To The Wind

"I didn't vote for him,"said the little man wearing the horn rimmed glasses to the other little man standing across from him.
They were almost touching noses. When one would talk the other would nod his head. The little man wearing the horn rimmed glasses had nothing distinguishable about him. His face was plain and pale.He blinked his gray eyes rapidly as he talked. His short trimmed dishwater hair was parted to one side.Sometimes he would move his glasses up the front of his nose with his forefinger as he was making his arguments. He wore a brown tailored suit and black wing tipped shoes.
"Well,you know I wouldn't vote for him if he was the last man on earth,"said the other little man.
He was like the person he was talking to in demeanor. His face was round and fleshy with tiny moles on his colorless cheeks.He was losing his hair and combed what was left down over his forehead.As he talked he'd raise himself on his toes trying to emphasize his points.He spoke with a thin nasal voice you could barely hear. Both never took their eyes off each other while they tried to reinforce their criticisms.

This conversation was taking place in the lobby of the Marriot Hotel in Inglewood,California. It was the last year the World Boxing Hall Of Fame would hold their ceremony honoring the inductees.The financial obligations were just too much. The word wasn't out yet,but you could see the handwriting on the wall.
"Just because he's Pernell Whitaker,"said the little man with the horn rimmed glasses,"what makes him think he's entitled to free air fare and a hotel room?"
"I don't see him here today,"said the other little man raising himself up on his toes."I'm mad that he got voted in."
Both little men were very smug and adamant with their reasons for not voting for Pernell Whitaker. He got voted in anyway. I'm standing to the side of these two listening to their sour grapes.

I've attended a few of these kinds of affairs. The voting committees are mostly comprised of people who never were fighters:a lot of lawyers,businessmen,sports wrirers, and wanna be types that like to get near ex pugs.But most of the time at these events the fighters find other former fighters to hang out with. A manager or a matchmaker has a pass,certainly a promoter gets in.A ring announcer is permitted friendly access. A sports writer is scanned before the fighter makes an approach. Often, sports writers take too many liberties with athletes. When it's kicking a fighter when he's down,especially when he shouldn't be allowed to step inside a ring,the caustic scribes push the envelope too far.I've sinned that way.Writers like rub elbows with their own ilk.Promoters and sports writers seem to get along. They share that license to push that envelope.

I've stay mostly in the back.I like to watch how the interaction goes.I don't ask for autographs. Some of the fighters are hard to look at now.If they have a wife,she becomes more of a caretaker as time goes on.To listen to some of the ex fighters make their acceptance speeches is bittersweet.But to see the vicarious try to get close to a fighter who represents a false alter ego is what gets me the most. After posing with an ex champ for a picture,they strut away thinking they've been in there with a peer.

But if you've read this thread enough,you'll see my mug next to the fighter with the typical fist clenched.Most of the time they want to know if they want me to be in a picture with them. They don't know me necessarily,but fighters are pretty obliging.I've never seen a fighter want to get paid for signing an autograph unless it's some memorabilia leech that promises the fighter a partial split.

You can argue until you're blue in the face about who gets into a Hall Of Fame.Just let the fighters decide.Then who on the outside would want to waste their breath and complain?

Well I'm not holding the clenched fist,but Bobby gave me a smack on the cheek



"Sweat Pea" Whitaker

So They Would Like Me

After the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame wrapped up their event in North Hollywood last October,I was standing outside the banquet room waiting for Rick Farris to come out so I could double check with him about what time he and his lovely wife ,Monica,Dan Hanley,myself and my lovely wife,Maria when we wanted to meet later in the Garland Hotel restaurant for dinner. As I was standing there gazing around,I saw Albert Davila standing by himself.It looked like he was waiting for someone.I saw him inside during the ceremony at his table with his wife and several of his six children,all grown up now.He had been inducted into the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame earlier. When he was introduced to the podium,he was announced as "Albert Davila." When I watched him fight,I always heard the announcer pronounce his first name,"Alberto."He was written up in the papers and his name appeared on all the fight posters with the "o" at the end of his first name. That afternoon in North Hollywood, he was brought up to the dais as,"Albert."

Dan Hanley ,who introduced Davila, told the anecdote of Davila adding that "o" onto the backside of his first name because he wanted the Mexican community in Los Angeles to like him more than the kind of reception he was getting in all the venues around town when he was pitted against a Mexican national. When Davila got up to accept his award, he embellished a little.
"It was tougher than you think for me to fight in this city,"he remarked with a shake of the head."I was from here,but the crowd was always pulling for the Mexican national. I added the "o" onto the end of my name,but it didn't make a difference."

Go back in time and East LA was a die in the cast Chicano neighborhood. It still is, even though more migration from south of the border has occurred in the last 40 years or so. Those Chicano kids like the Sandoval brothers,Mando Ramos,Frankie Duarte,Ruben Navarro,the Baltazar boys,Armando Muniz,and Bobby Chacon put on some great fights.Ailenn Eaton and George Parnassus,the two big wheels in the promotion business,knew they had a cash cow when the two fighters in the ring were one,the Chicano,and the opposite,the Mexican citizen.

Chicanos have been kicked around a lot.Maybe it's not as bad as it once was,but Boyle Heights has its memories. When the local Chicano kids were trading punches (and sometimes anything they could hold in their hands) with the GI's based in Los Angeles,it was the Mexican side that got kicked,literally,to the curb. The engagements were referred to as the Zoot Suit Riots.The two factions encountered each other in the downtown area. After a little drinkin',then the horny sailors and grunts making moves on some of those sweet Latinas...well you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what transpired next. Here's the bottom line:the racist LA police didn't arrest one serviceman. The Chicano brood?Well they got cracked over the head plenty by those cops.Those cops even hauled the girlfriends to jail. Later,after a kangaroo court,these kids went to juvenile prisons.

Well,that was one story. Like they said in that TV series,Naked City,"There are six million stories in the Naked City,that was one of them."Well,I don't know how many Chicanos called LA their home,but I'm sure they could write enough stories to make a television series that would run into the next century.

Getting back to Davila. As I was standing outside at the Garland,I approached him.As he saw me moving towards him,he had an apprehensive look in his eye.
"Congratulations on your induction",I said.
He still had some distrust in his gaze.He nodded a little.
"Thanks."he said still trying to size me up.
"I saw you with your family. I read in the Times awhile back that all your kids graduated from college.That must make you feel proud."
He shifted his feet and peered at me even deeper.
"Yes it did,"he said in a monotone.
"Well,again,congratulations,"I said.
I shook his hand.He had a moderate grip with mine. I turned and walked away to try to find Rick or Dan back in the banquet room.

I remember reading that article in the Times about Davila and his family. It touched on a little of everything:his growing up in Pomona,how he walked into the gym when he was only 12 and fell in love with the boxing,the Bejines fight and instead of celebrating going to the hospital to try and comfort the Bejines family,his marriage to his high school sweetheart and raising six kids,trying his hand at being a trainer,then leaving boxing to work construction. I thought I'd bring up the topic of his kids being college grads. In the article,he credited his wife for emphasizing their education.

I can visualize it now. If she'd been around during those war years in East LA,she'd been standing back to back with her novio letting loose on those smart aleck GI's like a wildcat.



Albert Davila today.
Why is it that the Mexican community often roots against the Chicano when he fights a Mexican national? Well.think of it this way. A Chicano still thinks of himself more as a Mexican than an American. It's not a derogatory slight. But let's face it. When a white guy sees a Chicano(who is an American by birthright)he thinks of him as a Mexican still.Whether you agree or not.the Chicano gets the vibes that he's apart from the mainstream.In Mexico every Mexican doesn't get that perception.Everyone is a Mexican. All the presidents,revolutionary heros,entertainers,narcos,the man in the street,the campesino on the ranch...everyone is a Mexican.The music is Mexican,the food(they put chili on everything)the neighborhoods,there's no second language,just about everyone is Catholic. There's no communities divided by race because almost everyone is Mexican. The culture is intact. There's no question of identity.As popular as De La Hoya was here in the states,in Mexico he was always thought of more as an American. He never fought in Mexico.I remember when he won his Gold Medal in the Olympics. I was watching the Mexican telecast on TV. The announcer worded it ,"The winner of the Gold Medal was Oscar De La Hoya,the American."

Albert Davila had an absolutely gorgeous boxing style. Despite the fact that he didn't have a crowd-pleasing boxing style, I loved to watch Albert fight, especially when his opponents were aggressive. I am pleased to find out that his kids have gone on to get a good education and apparently have done well afterwards.

- Chuck Johnston