BoxRec

Strange Brew

"You still go down to Tijuana?"asked Ed the bartender as he was drawing me a draft from the spigot.
"Yeah,I go down there once or twice a week,"I answered as Ed put the glass of beer on a bar napkin in front of me.
I got there inside Champs early as usual around 10 in the morning.It was just to touch bases and I know I'm no drunk because I can have one beer and that's enough for me.Champs was empty just the way I liked it.Talk to Ed for awhile and beat it.
"Are there still a lot of gyms in Tijuana?"he asked.
"If you're talking boxing gyms there are still a lot of gyms. Small ones.You see them in every neighborhood,but most of them don't do too well."
"Why you think that?"
"The econonmy.Too many gyms.Not enough guys stick with it."
"This Octagon fighting seems to be the rage,"said Ed as he opened a case of beer and began stowing the bottles in the cooler below the bar.
"The kids today think it's been around forever," continued Ed.
"I know what you mean,"I said."Try to explain to the younger ones how things were back when and they aren't listening."
"Why should they?It means nothing to them. Only what's happening now."
"If I say something about what it was like back in the day,I don't try to be very convincing anymore."
Ed finished putting the bottles of beer he had taken out of the case and put in the cooler.
"I read awhile back on the Boxrec that you went to Erik Morales's gym.How's he doing?"
"He made his money and still has it so they say. He keeps the gym open still.His family owns the little store under the gym.He gets a pretty good group of fighters coming in in the afternoons."
"Does he have any hot prospects?"
"I don't think so.His gym and the CREA are about the only boxing gyms down there that get filled up.But if a fighter makes the grade in TJ then some promoter up here will grab him and that's the last they'll see of him.They had a good fighter by the name Luis Nery fighting in Tijuana,but he's pretty good.World class. Now he makes the big money here."
"That Morales had some great fights with Pacquiao,"said Ed as he leaned his hands on the bar.
"The Mexican fighter that gave him the most trouble though was Juan Manuel Marquez."
"He knocked out Pacquiao with one punch."
"He was out cold."
"Whatever happened to him?Does he still fight?I don't hear his name mentioned anymore."
"Me neither,"I said with a shrug.
"Wasn't he the guy that said he drank his own urine?"
"Yeah."
"What did he say it did for him?"
"Something about how when you piss you excrete a lot of vitamins so he said he drank his own piss to get the vitamins back into body,"I said rolling my eyes.
"Why didn't he just take pills that had vitamins in them?"
"Who knows?All I can say that him admitting to that kind of tarnished his macho image."
"Yeah,"said Ed with a chuckle,"especially down there. You're not going to convince any guy that drinking your own urine is what macho guys do."
"Well at least it was his own urine,"I said returning the laugh.
Ed looked at my half empty glass on the counter
"You want me to put a head on that?"
"Sure.,Why not?"
"You want me to piss in it for you?"
"Go f--k yourself,"I said as I pushed the glass across the counter at him.


Manny Pacquiao

Balloons

My granddaughter,Amanda,bought a car on Craig's List,a 2012 Matrix,for 7500 bucks. It had 50,000 miles on it,one owner,but there were some dents and dings on the passanger side door.Nothing major. It looked like someone side swiped it.I told Amanda I could take the car down to Tijuana to the place I always go to and have them sand and bondo the damage and then paint the door.Up here they want an arm and a leg. They want to paint the whole car and you're looking at around 800 bucks minimum.The place I've been going to will repair the damaged area and not want to hold out for more.The place i go to is at the Parque Guerrero as you go up 3rd Street. The park is one square block,small,a typical park of the neighborhoods down there.Around the perimeter of the park you can see a lot of guys waving hammers and that plastic cellophane tint.They're hustling to get work to repair whatever needs to be done to fix your car.They'll either work on your car right there on the street or maybe they'll tell you to pull over to one of the dirt lots across the street so they can get a group to consolidate the effort. The guy I've been going to for over 40 years has a couple of sheds on one of those lots across the street from the park. His father ran the place for years but he took sick witrh a bad heart so now his son is in charge of everything..They've worked a gamut of little fix jobs on my cars over the years. I even took my father there one time. The owner and his son would always ask how my father was doing. After my father passed away and they asked me about how my father was doing,I pointed up to the sky. They didn't say anything but bowed their heads.

I pulled my granddaughter's car inside the lot and showed the son and his workers what i wanted done.The son was a spittin' image of his old man. He had a big round head with a coarse full reddish beard.His green eyes nervously moved side to side when he talked to you.When he talked with that gargled voice his lower lip dangled.There was nothing unusual about his nose except it always had a pinkish tint at the nostrils like he was battling a cold. His pasty skin on his face ,arms,and hands were splattered with grease and grime. The old T shirt with the holes and his baggy pants were covered with dust from the bondo that was sanded off the cars.We settled on a price after a little go around. I knew he'd come down a little and he knew I'd go up a little when we finally shook on it. It was always the same pattern.I never bargained too hard. He knew and I knew that it was a good deal. He told me that he'd sand down the scrapes,put the bondo on,spray paint the door,and for me to come back in three hours. Again,it was like the same pattern.

Usually I take a book to read with me across the street to the park,but this time I opted for my crossword puzzles. I found a bench,unoccupied,in the shade and settled in.before absorbing myself with the puzzles. i scanned the activity in the park.It was a sunny late morning with a slight breeze.that felt very comfortable. The park hasn't changed much. The different vendors pushing their pushcarts selling shaved ices,ice cream,cotton candy.Wagons with big jugs, with big chunks of ice inside, of lemonade,orchata,and Jamaica.Then there are the various little stands, with the hand painted signs,offering homemade ham.beef,and egg tortas,rolled tacos,and hot cakes made right before your eyes.

There's always a lot of kids playing on the multi colored iron monkey bars,slides, and swings. For the mothers in the neighborhood it's inexpensive to take her kids to the park and let them run around.Just as I was about to find a new puzzle I caught out of the corner of my eye an old man,bent over and tired looking, walking towards the bench I was sitting on. He was long in need of a shave,His eyebrows,that hung like old eaves over his small brown eyes., were a thick,gray, and bushy.A beak of a nose with hairs curling out from its bridge accentuated his gaunt face. His frame was bent over,He had on an old hat that was torn and frayed.He asked me if anyone was sitting with me.In his gnarled grip was a huge cluster of balloons of all shapes and sizes and colors.
"It's a nice sunny day,"he said to me calmly.
It's not hard for strangers to make conversation in Mexico.A park is as good a place to find that evident.
"Very nice,"I said in return."Stopping to take a rest?"I asked.
"Yes,"said the old man. "I'm a little tired."
The old man put the balloons that he was holding down by his side.
"Are you enjoying the park?"he asked.
"I'm waiting to get my granddaughter's car fixed across the street."
"Many people come here for that,"said the old man.
"I've been coming here for over 40 years."
"Do you live in Tijuana?"
"I used to when I was first married,but now I live in San Diego. I have a daughter,three granddaughters,and seven great granddaughers that live here."
"Is your wife a Mexican?",he asked.
"Yes.She was born in Michoacán."
"I'm from Michoacán,"he said straightening up.
"What part?"
"Nueva Italia,"he answered.
"My wife is from Jiquilpan. You know of it?"
"No,"said the old man."I've never been there."
The old man tied the balloons to the arm rest and took out a towel and wiped his forehead.
"I used to be a fighter when i was young.I didn't always sell balloons..I fought on the same card as Kid Azteca."
"How many years ago was that?"I asked him.
"60 years ago. He was at the end of his career."
"I think he holds the record for fighting the longest."
"He is a legend in Mexico."
The old man untied the knot and started to move up off the bench.
"I didn't always sell balloons,"he said looking across the park."I was a fighter.I fought all over the republic.I knew Kid Azteca."
The old man straightened himself up holding his hand on the small of his back.
"You know,"I said not wanting him to leave right away."I've got a lot of little ones here in Canon Jhonson that would sure like to have a balloon.How many do you have?"


Parque Guerrero

Hey Rog, see you in September at the undisputed BEST & ONLY Hall of Fame on the West Coast . . .
The West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame
September 30th
The Garland - North Hollywood!

Hey Rog, see you in September at the undisputed BEST & ONLY Hall of Fame on the West Coast . . .
The West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame
September 30th
The Garland - North Hollywood!

Somersault

When Jorge "Maromero" Paez first came into the Mexican boxing scene,I couldn't put it together right away.Here's a guy sporting a sheved head on the sides and a dangling curly Q trickiling down his forehead ala Macho Camacho.But Camacho is a Puerto Rican and that style often comes with the package. Then Paez's got the glittery trunks with the slits up the sides(more Camacho).He enters the ring swiveling and gyrating his fanny(you sure you weren't born in the Caribbean?),and then for an encore does a somersault,or as they call it in the Mexican circus,a "maroma."I ain't gettin' it,but the aficianados are behind him and I don't hear any disparaging words about if he's a "maricon."Mexico may not be like us,but because most Mexicans don't live on top of the hill,I know that they have experienced life from a different paradigm that also holds stock in this one big world's enchilada.

"Maromero" was born out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the desert in Mexicali,Baja California.Fighters on the average take to boxing because they want to reinforce that old adage of a poor man's out. Paez was no exception. I'm starting to hear the truth and now I'm warming up to this guy. In fact he's become a metaphor ,someone like the adored Cantinflas,who somehow got through life with a smile and a bittersweet hope. Even if the sun also rose,it meant he was still breathing,that was enough for him,the underdog,the waif,the clown with the painted face that hid the sufferings,troubles that concern every man,rich or poor. But the odds of predictable losers ever experiencing a drastic life change is like winning the lottery-odds slim and none. But "Maromero" had his day in that arisen sun.

Mexicali,Mexico gets so hot in the summer that you can fry tacos on the street.The dust swirls in blast furnace winds and the only way you can get into some air conditioning is to walk inside a bank. Compound the atmosphere with an economy that is 50 years behind the time and people yearn for diversions. Alcoholism leaves a mark.Then drugs hit the scene when we began recreating with the things dreams are made of. Today, there's a drug problem,like here,but the cartels are the bosses.Forget who's running for president in June.Everyone knows who calling the shots and who's firing them.

Go to any country that is poor and you see circuses,little circuses,the family owned mom and pop circuses. They're small and every town and big city has a allocated vacant lot so when the circus comes to town they have a place to set up their tent."Maraomero" Paez's worked in his grandmother's circus in Mexicali as a clown learning his acrobatic moves. That's where he and the payasos made the people, who can't afford to take their families to no place fancy,laugh a little.

Those little breaks,those troups of performers who have that life passed down through family and blood, vagabond around a country that needs a smile. For a few pesos the life inside the tent is a million miles away from the monotony of what's waiting on the outside.Sometimes there's not even any canvas to perform under. You'll see a circus group wind its way along the shore ,or in the hills.They pass the hat,or maybe it's a tin cup. "La Strada" is as natural as that sun rising every morning.

So "Maraomero" fought for awhile.He wasn't the greatest,but he wasn't that bad. He lost to Sweet Pea and Oscar.I think that was expected.But somehow wouldn't that have been something to have seen Jorge Paez doing a somersault over the prone figure of an Oscar or a Pernell? I guess you'd have a better chance winning the lottery. But let's face it,"Maromero" made us laugh. What could be more important?


"Maromero" Paez



Payaso
Javier Solis

Revelation

"So what do you think of Canelo getting suspended and losing his license for five months?",I asked James "The Heat" Kinchen before he was to go the pulpit to deliver his sermon at the Helping Hands of God Church in Southeast San Diego.
"I wasn't aware of that,"he answered as he shook my hand.
"He tested positive for steroids."
"Come to think of it I did hear something about that,"he said as he still had a good grip on my hand."Who was he going to fight?"
"Triple G."
"I heard they had a pretty good fight the first time."
"I thought Triple G won but they scored it a draw."
"When I was fighting a lot of guys were taking speed,"he said letting go of my hand.
I'd never heard Kinchen initiate a conversation with me about boxing. If I started off with the topic he was always interested,but seemed a little vague.Boxing for James Kinchen was something he did way back when before he stumbled away from it and then found the Lord. After commenting about how many fighters were taking amphetamines when he was active he began his stride to the pulpit.
"I don't follow boxing much anymore,"he said looking over his shoulder.
He didn't have bitterness or sarcasm in his tone. Boxing was something he did when he hadn't found his spirituality yet.

The little church on the corner out past the trolley tracks in East Encanto was filled with mostly the same older parishioners garbed in their Sunday goin' to church best clothes. Women dressed in brightly colored dresses and wearing big hued hats,the men attired in their best tailored suits with lots of pinstripes,and children featuring the girls sporting their braided locks tied with fancy ribbons.As usual I was the only vanilla face sitting in the pews.But it's become the fly on the wall.I feel comfortable.The flock has taken me in.There's no pretentions.I'm sure I'm liked by some more than some others.

James got up to the dais rising up and down on his toes letting go with his sermon about man can't do it alone without turning things over to God and that we shouldn't always make excuses for our failures.
"It's time that we put slavery behind us.We can't be using that for an excuse for not fulfilling our dreams. The Lord promised to be with us always so we need to look for the Lord in times of despair.Trump had a vision from the Lord so he says to lead the country,"he said straightforwardly.

After James finished the Sunshine Band began playing a medley of spirited spiritual songs that got everybody stirred so much emotionally that everyone was up on their feet swaying and clapping shouting "hallelujah" and" Praise the Lord." After a few announcements Sister Peanut got up to the pulpit.She is an enormous huge woman who has been with the Helping Hands of God for more than 40 years.She made fun at first saying that she saw too many "sad faces"sitting in the pews.
"What ya' all so unhappy about? Look at me .I'm big and fat and happy because the Lord made a promise to me to be always with me even if I'm not thinking of him and he knows that if I put myself in his hands I'll have plenty of fried chicken to eat."
The congregation burst out with "Amens" and "Hallelujahs."
"And if I'm really believing in Him,"she roared,"I'll get that big ol' watermelon."
The church erupted with that remark. Everyone was besides themselves with laughter.

That Sunday it was "Youth Day",a celebration for the younger folk. The people who are going to inherit the future. I noticed a lot of new faces-young faces,little children and teenagers. There was a group of teenage boys sitting in the back row. They talked a lot, didn't seem to pay attention to what was going on most of the time.Sometimes they'd giggle loud enough for people to hear. I wouldn't say they were gangbangers but their pants sagged and they had on T shirts with pictures of rappers on them. No one said nothing. It wasn't like anyone was frightened,they just accepted it.

After the sevice I talked to one of the pastors who I had heard say he was having some issues with his blood sugar. I suggested he look into trying taking Alpha Lipoic Acid. He asked me to write it down and thanked me very confidently.As I walked out the door I saw two of the teenage boys who were sitting in the back standing next to the door. They were eating a bag of chips. When one of the boys had finished he threw the empty bag on the sidewalk in front of the door of the church.Then the boys saw me looking at what had just happened.
"Pick that up n----r!"one of them shouted.
The boy that threw the bag on the sidewalk meekly picked it up.Then they both looked at me.
"How are you doing today sir"?one of them asked me with a cat that swallowed the canary face.
"Pretty good,"I answered as I passed them.
As I walked to my car I tried to remember if I had locked it.



James "The Heat" Kinchen

The Glory Train

Happy birthday Ella Fitzgerald. My favorite singer. I'll try to tie her B Day to boxing. Joe Louis when he'd travel to a fight would charter a train. He had a sound system hooked up so he could listen to his favorite music while he traveled.Louis liked jazz,in his prime the Basie and Ellington bands.Lionel Hampton could make the train go off the tracks. Joe loved Lena Horne's singing almost as much as he loved her physical attributes,but he loved the pipes of Ella Fitzgerald the best. What a sweet singer she was. Even her peers bowed down to her.A modest,kind lady who never yearned for praise nor admiration..An American treasure. I'm not a big fan of scat singing,but when Ella Fitzgerald scatted,it was something special.Here's one of my favorites. Ella and the Duke. This is as good as it gets. It's electrifying. It's American .It's one of its kind.



Rockin' N' Rhythm _Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington's Band

Just One More Chance

In the annals of boxing there are two fighters that are at the top, shoulder to shoulder-Muhammad Ali and Joe Louis. Now we can debate my position on a variety of levels.Sometimes i wonder if Boxrec would be visited as much as it has if they eliminated any discussion about the Brown Bomber and The Greatest.My assessment isn't entirely based on skills,quality of opposition,or championship belts. Maybe it was a couple of wars that impressed upon the world of their presence,their position in history.They were two men who were recognized everywhere,by people who lived in far away places where the sport of boxing was as distant as the places where they lived.Ali and Louis were both undisputed heavyweight champions in a sport, as George Foreman remarked,all athletes aspire to.Louis was awkward and shy,but didn't try to be anyone but himself. Ali was a braggart and knew that his rhetoric would bring attention on himself.He didn't care if he was hated or idolized.

When Joe louis was on the rise it was inevitable that a line of color would have to be erased.He didn't act like Jack Johnson,but there were still plenty out there that wanted to see him fail.Schmeling put up a speed bump,but Louis gathered himself to go on and be the heavyweight champ of the world. After destroying Max Schmeling in the most famous rematch in history,Joe Louis became something more than a prize fighter.When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor,Louis didn't hesitate to serve his country. He seemed to be the champ forever.FDR seemed to be the president for a long time,but Joe Louis outlasted him. Both mem were figures during a turbulent and transitional period in world history-a great depression and a great war.

Muhammad Ali supplemented a perfect storm,the counter culture and the Vietnam War,with his own battle against the war in Vietnam and throwing himself into the mix for civil rights legislation. He was willing to throw away millions in a career and spend time in Leavenworth,but he prevailed. His face became the most recognizable on the planet.

The stealth of these two men to ride a tidal wave and not drown, enamored them with the public across the globe. They wanted to see them last til the end of time. Americans put their faith in the hands of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. They elected him to office an unprecedented four terms. An economic calamity and a threat of Hitler and the Japs enslaving us could only be answered by a man who couldn't walk on his own,but could stand up to a diabolical enemy with unflinching resolve.But he died suddenly.People could see the progressing physical deterioration,but they thought he'd carry them on his shoulders forever.

Joe Louis was always the betting favorite every time he stepped inside the ring.We watch his fight with Marciano and ask ourselves,"Couldn't we see that he was going to lose?" He was "Old Joe Louis" by that time-the sagging flesh,frayed reflexes,the slowness in step. But we wanted to see him win.He was so important to us. He symbolized an America that emerged as the most significant country in the world. During the 30's and the war he was victorious, He was that human metaphor for an America who entered the fracas with possibilities and hope,and when it was over we were the new champs,and Joe Louis was still the best.

After Ali was put on hold by Uncle Sam for three and a half years,he fought in fight they called "The Fight of The Century."He lost,but in the hearts of his devoted he'd come back. He did.There were some close calls.Maybe he got his hand raised when he didn't deserve it,but the faithful were blind to any discussion. Then when he hewed down that monster in the Congo,he was living his own legend.Ali would now defy anything that stood as a barrier.The vicarious,the underdog that ascribed to Ali to win their battles,could envision him to go on forever. After another long layoff,he thought,and so did the his following believe that he would win another world title He almost died in the ring that night.

Joe Louis.Muhammad Ali. Time passes and I can't think of any two athletes who left such a giant footprint.They never really lost. They just needed one more chance







Just One More Chance-Coleman Hawkins

So You Think You're A Fighter

I heard Art Aragon say that to a guy ten years ago at a Father and Son Banquet for fighters at Steven's Steak House in Commerce,California. I kind of came in the middle of it.I don't know what the guy said to Aragon to trigger that response,but Aragon was looking him up and down and then scoffed,"So you think you are a fighter."

I've seen sometimes at these fighters' banquets.I'd see it sometimes in Burke Emery's Bar,Champs. Some drunk or pretentious bluffer would throw out his chest and say he used to be a fighter with the intent of trying to be on an equal plane with the person he was running his spiel on-a Burke Emery,a Art Aragon.Now if I hear this smoothe talk,I'm OK with it because I was no fighter so it's just a lot of hot air. I give 'em a nod and say,"Is that so?" But to try to pull it on a real fighter,especislly with a guy who's been in with some pretty good boys,he's leading with his chin. Maybe Art Aragon was looking to make a comeback that afternoon at Steven's Steakhouse because he wasn't going to let that faker slide with getting away with it.

Art Aragon attended the event with his son Audie,the kid he named after his pal,the most decorated war hero of the second one.Audie Leon Murphy. Art was in Murphy's "platoon" in that big movie "To Hell And Back" back in the 50's. it was the story of Audie Murphy up to that time. Maybe the flick took some poetic license,but I believe it was the highest grossing film of 1957.

Audie Murphy grew up sharecropping in Texas supporting his mother and siblings. When the war broke out he tried to get into the Marines,but was rejected for being too little. Ditto with the Navy.
But the Army was taking warm corpses and i guess Murphy qualified because he still had a pulse. Murphy figured he send more dough home to his family being in the Army than what he was earning on the farm.

So Murphy winds up in the infantry and does what he knows he has to facing the circumstances and after campaigns in Italy and Europe he comes back to the States with more poundage of medals around his neck than his bodyweight. Some of the Hollywood Stars want to break him into the movies,fellow Irishman,Jimmy Cagney ,for one. If you remember "To Hell And Back" they wrote the script saying that Murphy got red tagged from West Point because of his war wounds,but that ain't what happened.Murphy decided that he did his duty and it was time for someone else to get in the batter's box.He knew he was no Clark Gable,but he rolled the dice. I thought he held his own. I especially liked him in "The Red Badge Of Courage" where he played the green young soldier,Henry, who "ran" when he was confronted by enemy fire for the first time. Murphy was reluntant to take the part because he said he wouldn't have high tailed it,but everyone in the movie theaters knew that.Hey,it's only a movie.

When they casted "To Hell And Back",the Golden Boy,the very popular Art Aragon wound up putting on a uniform. This Aragon was a damned good actor. Did you ever see him in "Fat City"?,the John Huston film. He played an ex pug who trained Stacy Keach.Come to think of it,I think fighters make pretty good actors.I say that because they're not really "good" actors,so what you see is the real thing,if you get my drift. But during "To Hell And Back" The Golden Boy and the Medal of Honor "winner" became everlasting pals. Notice I put the word "winner" inside exclamation marks.I used to work with a former Marine who served in Korea and Vietnam by the name of Gunny SergeantJimmie Howard.I was coaching football at the school and this old guy with a gammy leg was the equipment manager. He was getting eaten up by diabetes that eventually got him. Everyone called him Sarge.I think he's been in the service and was a sergeant,or maybe he was a private and everyone called him Sarge. Anyway, another coach on the staff(this guy was a colonel in the Marines in Nam)tells me off the cuff that Sarge got the Medal of Honor in Vietnam,His outfit was the most decorated during the action over there. When I asked Sarge if he "won" the Medal of Honor" he politely corrected me.
"You don't win The Medal of Honor",he said."You earn it."

Art Aragon knew what he went through to be the kind of fighter he was. When he stood next to Audie Murphy,he could sense what it must have been for the son of a sharecropper to have the President of The United States put that emblem around his neck. Aragon's fight with Jimmy Carter would be on the under card




Audie Murphy

In A Neutral Corner

Anybody who knows how to put a sentence together can call himself a writer. If he knows how to write,then he can say he's a writer. Some people don't like to write anything unless they have to. Most of the time it's because they can't spell very well.How many times has someone asked you how to spell a word you'd think any dummy would know? Often the asker is embarrassed by his unknowing.A personnel manager picks up a job application and comes across a few misspellings and flips the application into the round file.

Sports writers,especially the reporters of pugilism, honed stringing their sentences together working for the school paper maybe.They went to college majoring in journalism perhaps,caught on with a newspaper,a magazine,felt the momentum and knew that this was a way they wanted to make a living.But there are a lot of scribes out there.The competition to emerge noteworthy is as intense as the jock who wants to come in first all the time.Often for the scribbler to get recognized he stirs the pot so to speak. If he continually writes just the facts 'maam like Joe Friday wanted it,he can take his pad and pen to the corner and write in the dark. To make him self known,have the light shine on his smug face,he takes the easy way out-he sensationalizes.It's like the stand up comic who can't get a chuckle from the crowd so he tells a dirty joke.

But the writer who starts a rumor or the comedian who uses the F word to excite a laugh knows he'll have plenty of ears. The listeners want to be stimulated and just reporting the facts might fit into a Dragnet script,but who wants to watch Jack Webb when they can see Clint Eastwood play Dirty Harry? Who wants the data when the myth creates the dream that's so satisfying?

When the super star reaches nova proportions,the scribblers try to out write their contemporaries with a furious hand. But the time eventually comes when that star burns itself out,sometimes slowly flickering to an ember,sometimes falling into a black hole. It doesn't matter to the scribbler.He can just as easily kick a broken body with a smirk of the pen that's not that far away from the curb

Someone asked me once if i go back in the thread and read my past. I never go there. Sometimes I'll stumble on something that I wrote down.I'll begin to read a few words and click the "x" at the upper corner of my computer screen.I don't read what i wrote yesterday.I won't go back and read this after I've posted..I may write something tomorrow.I've got a lot of ideas-facts that I can sprinkle stardust on.But when I write this stuff I feel I'm in a neutral corner writing in the dark.

Taking A Little Off The Top

Just Off The Top Of My Head:A few weeks ago my pal Dan Hanley remarked about Hedgemon Lewis. Dan said that he wasn't an advocate of the fighter that dangled his left hand,but with that said,Dan said that Hedgemon Lewis was a pleasure to watch in the ring. By the book you have to agree that a fighter should never drop his left."dropping your left" has become synonomous with "letting your guard down." You don't want to do that.But some fighters get away with carrying their left low. Eddie Futch trained Lewis and Futch also worked with Ken Norton,another fighter that held his left to his side. You'd think a man like Futch,who knew his business with the best of them,would have broke Lewis and Norton of that habit. But Futch believed there was a certain advantage about keeping lefty low. A fighter ,when sizing up his opponent in the ring,has his eyes on the other guy from the shoulders up most of the time.If that left glove is somewhere below the belt line,,then in a way, it's hidden from the other fighter. When I reluctantly stepped into the ring to be fodder for Norton in a sparring session,my eyes were looking at Kenny's pan when suddenly his left hand blocked out his face and then Norton jumped it into mine smashing my nose into smithereens.He started his left from way down.I never saw it coming.Ali would dangle the left hand. So did Tommy Hearns. So I guess it's not too dangerous to stand in the center of the ring with that left hand low if your name is Lewis,Norton,Hearns,or Ali.

If you scan the record book of fighting in California and look up bouts at the turn of the century,you'll see that a lot of the fights were staged in the burg of Vernon,California. I looked it up and Vernon,Californis is still an incorporated city located five miles south of LA proper. There are pictures,moving and stills,of a few fights in Vernon.Sam Langford,Ad Wolgast,and Stanley Ketchel were some of the better boys who went to war in Vernon. The old grainy black and white images reveal a rural backdrop of eucalyptus trees, orange groves,and barley fields. Barns and silos dot the landscape. It's a good place to have a picnic. Today, Vernon,California is mired in an old commercial smog ridden array of factories and warehouses.I was reading that lead contamination and arsenic leakage from a battery plant caused serious health hazards to the area.I can think of better places to go on a picnic.

When I spoke the other day of fighters turned actors after they hung up their gloves,one of my favorites was "Slapsie "Maxie Rosenbloom.He was in a ton of movies type casted as the punchy ex pug who could throw out one liners and then get countered with laughs from the audience.Watching all those movies ,I thought Rosenbloom really wound up a little sketchy after the final bell. But one time I saw him on that popular game show Stump The Stars,where they gave a guest a saying on a card where the celebrity then had to communicate in pantomime to the others what was written on the card. The stars then had to guess what the saying was."Slapsie" Maxie was one of those guests that had to convey the saying to the others sitting on the couch.He was unreal!He was as animated and convincing as he was slapping his opponents around in the ring. In a few minutes the other stars figured out Rosenbloom's gestures. He could have earned an Oscar.

I remember when Robert DeNiro caught everyone's attention in the role of Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull.DeNiro alluded that he had "boxed' as a youth growing up in the Apple. Tony Danza,who co starred in the popular sitcom.Taxi,,challenged DeDiro to a boxing match. Tony was a pro fighter once. DeNiro declined the challenge. I don't think DeNiro would have been able to say "you never knocked me down" after Danza would have got done with him.



"Slapsie" Maxie Rosenbloom

No Place To Take A Lady

"Thinking too much will make your head explode,"said Henry Brown to me laughing.
"That's why I have to stay busy,"I said.
Henry was my mentor teacher when i was starting out in the profession. I had an option of choosing where I wanted to do my student teaching.I opted for Juvenile Hall because I knew Henry Brown worked there and he would have no problem if I asked him if I could learn under him.
"Well you'll be plenty busy here,"said Henry.
Henry Brown hadn't changed much physically since I had last seen him. I played on the Ghetto Messenger football team with him in Southeast san Diego.Henry was always lean and sinewy.His wide smile was one of warmth,but never masked anything soft about his character.Henry had kind eyes below a high forehead. When he talked to you sometimes he'd flutter his eyelids and the words would sputter out of his mouth,but that was when he was being serious.I never heard him raise his voice even when I knew something had upset him.The calmness of his voice reflected his demeanor. His nose was wide and he had high cheekbones and his skin was very dark.He carried himself,I thought like a minister or a prophet.I never heard him swear or tell a dirty story. If he saw a pretty girl,he never said anything lewd.

I was the only white guy on the team. He had called me one day and asked if I'd want to play with the Ghetto Messengers. We had been on the football team at City College,the team that went to the state finals.Henry was the quarterback on that team and also its leader.He assumed that place without petitioning for it.The team and the coaches expected that leadership from Henry. He had a lack of self righteousness and inherently knew the difference between right and wrong so being the leader was no weight on his shoulders.

When I approached Henry about him being my mentor teacher,he didn't say too much. In fact he gave me the evaluation forms and said that when I had finished I could write my own report and he'd sign it. By that time Henry was in a stage of his life that was very spiritual. He never preached what he had going on with his religion. He never said what it was. I know he went to a temple of some sorts. I thought maybe it was an eastern religion like Zen Buddism or he was a Hari Krishna because he would always be chanting.Now don't ask me what the nuts and bolts are of being a Hari Krishna or a Buddist.I don't know. I don't even know if Henry was one of those two. All I know is that he was always chanting.

Though I knew Henry as being a good athlete at one time,he never talked sports,at least not with me.He seemed like the only teacher at Juvenile Hall that wanted to reach those kids. They assigned him to be charge of the "Improve Unit."That's where they put the kids who were high risk. Instead of being in group quarters,they were put in their own individual rooms.You never knew when they would act out,explode,get out of control.They were of all ages. It's sad to say,but to me they were already institutionalized. They would always be going in and out of some jail until they wound up getting killed.But Henry always was looking for some saving grace with them,but it wasn't like they appreciated what Henry was trying to do for them. They were crazy.They were a danger to themselves and others. The word" sociopath" fit their personalities.

One day me and Henry were sitting in the staff lounge between classes. I was thinking about the time Henry was a pro fighter. I remember his career was short,but I couldn't understand why he gave it up.I know when he left boxing he had never lost a fight.
"Henry,do you ever look back and wish you had stuck with boxing?"I asked him as I was nurturing a cup of coffee.
"No,",he replied."I have no regrets."
"You were pretty good.You could really box."
"I just got married.I was pretty good,but my manager was taking most of my money. I had to go to work.Besides Linda was pregnant."
Henry had married an Italian girl.I met her a few times. She was very pretty and quiet. They had a son I remember. Henry went back to school to study to be a teacher.When he got his credential he went to work teaching at Juvenile Hall.I read in the papers that his son had got arrested when he was a teenager for armed robbery. He was put in Juvenile Hall while his father was working there. Because the kid was a minor,he only served six months,but after he got his release he hooked up with a gang and continued to rob. His next beef was after he had turned 18. This time he went to county jail. At the trial,the judge made an "example of him" and gave him ten years at San Quentin. If he hadn't have used a gun I don't think the judge would have been that hard on him. When the kid went to jail I heard that Henry's wife left him.
"You never lost a fight did you?"I asked knowingly.
"I've never lost a fight," he said impassively.
There was a moments silence while I digested what he had said.
"Remember when I went to see you fight on the undercard of Ken Norton's fight?"
"I remember,"he said. "What happened that night?I remember there was a fight in the stands."
"Someone threw beer on some guy's date and a fight broke out. There was more blood and action with that than what happened between Norton and the stiff he was fighting ."
"I heard the guy's date had to be taken to the hospital in an ambulance."
"I remember her being carried out on the stretcher,"I said shaking my head.
"That goes to show you that a boxing match is no place to take a lady."


Ken Norton

Under A Blanket Of Blue

The last time I was in the Coronet Bar was when I was teaching school in San Ysidro just on the U.S. side of the border.The Coronet Bar was next to the entrance of the hotel by the same name, just off Revolution Street a half block west on 9th Street.The Coronet Bar I see is still there and the hotel. I drive by it as I go to Canon Jhonson to visit my daughter ,grandkids,and great ones.The hotel and the bar are pretty modest looking,but clean and presentable,and had a charm when you walked inside. In my bar hopping days I'd stroll inside the Coronet Bar and have a drink. The bar was small with the bar to the left with five or six stools. Against the wall to the side were four richly upholstered black leather booths. The place was always subdued,low lights,a juke box that I never heard playing.I don't think I ever saw anyone else in the place when I was there. What caught my attention when I first went in there were four very beautiful oil paintings of fighters nicely framed hung above each of the booths on the dark blue wallpapered wall.. Small ornamented lamps casted amber lights on each of the paintings.

I remember the fighters,in their fighting poses:Manual Ortiz,Jose Napoles,Archie Moore,and Lauro Salas. The paintings,I could tell,were done with meticulous skill.The detail must have taken a long time to do. The faces were exact and exuded sensitivity. I couldn't find the artist's signature on the front of them.All I knew is that I wanted those paintings to add to my collection.

The woman behind the bar was also the owner.Her husband,she told me,had recently passed away. She was very dignified looking.Middle aged with flowing combed auburn hair draping in front of her shoulders,dark eyes that opened up,large cheeks,and a soft roundness of face.Full lips when she smiled showed perfect white teeth. Her skin was medium and fresh,Her body, you could tell by looking at her smart dress, amply fleshed.Her hands were small,a little plump,yet delicate.When she looked at you she was very calm and relaxed and let you do all the talking unless you asked her something. I remember bringing up the paintings with her at the bar after some small talk.
"Those are very beautiful paintings,"I said to her broaching the subject.
"They belonged to my husband,"she said smiling with a soft tone of voice."I'm glad you like them."
"He must have liked the fights,"I said.
"He used to go all the time with his friends.He had these painted.They were his favorite fighters."
"I see Archie Moore up there."
""He was very popular in Tijuana. He fought here once at the bullring.He was a very mannered man.Mexico loved him and he loved Mexico."
"You have my favorite fighter on the wall.Mantequilla Napoles."
"He was beautiful to watch in and out of the ring.They called him' maestro' ".
"Manual Ortiz goes back a long ways."
"He held the world title a long time. He used to come in here once in a while.He drank too much. The drinking finally got to him."
"And Lauro Salas?"
"He was the first Mexican national to become champion since Juan Zurita."
"You know a lot about boxing."
"My husband was the expert,the aficionado. What I learned, I learned from him."
"You wouldn't think of maybe selling the paintings?",I asked hesitantly.
"Oh no. I would never sell them. They remind me of my husband."
I looked at her,the calmness,the way she held herself.Her depth was deeper than any prettiness.Like the paintings on that blue wall,it was hard to take my eyes off her.


Lauro Salas




Under A Blanket Of Blue-Coleman Hawkins

Who's On First?

Boxing is a sport that was offered in the schools.before World War II it was a part of some physical education programs and nobody thought nothing of it.It was expected that boys should know how to protect themselves.There was no Little League or Pop Warner football. if a kid wanted to find a place to workout,boxing gyms were traditional in the neighborhood. It wasn't like there was a big quest for kids to go to the gym and want to become professional fighters.Talk to about every old timer and he'll tell you how he used to go to the gym and put on the gloves.Seemed like a rite of passage of those times. All the races frequented boxing gyms.There was an arena in every burg.The fights were front page news in the sports section.but it's different now.

Nationally televised fights were on the tube three nights a week.Television was nurturing itself with sports and in its early days ,boxing was the biggest event. When there were just world champions and not all these multitude of weight classes,title fights were broadcast free to the public. But I remember it started to change when D'Amato's Floyd Patterson won heavy crown in that elimination scrap with Archie Moore.The really big fights ,if you wanted to see them, you'd have to shell out a five spot and go down to the movie theater. Half the time the image on the screen was blurry or sometimes the projector wouldn't work and there'd be nothing showing except maybe a riot..Patterson wouldn't fight the top boys.Cus D'Amato knew that Folley,Machen,and Liston(this was during the 50's)could whip Floyd so Cus matched him up with the likes of Cut and Shoot,Rademacher(with no pro fights)and the Brit,Brian London. Then we saw Benny Paret die in the ring. The white kids were not going to the boxing gyms anymore.They were playing football on the 'ol gridiron and finishing school.America looked for a White Hope,but there wasn't anyone who resembled a Dempsey or a Marciano on the radar. It took a very white Swede to to change the complexion of the title when he bounced Patterson off the canvas seven times in what Cus D'Amato thought would be an easier go of it than relenting to the public demand having to sacrifice Floyd to Sonny Liston. That would come several years later after the rubber match with Ingo Bingo,all shown at your neighborhood theaters. Then the trial of facing the Bear was before Patterson and with the public venue again being the silver screen we got, for around ten bucks, less than two rounds of swooning from Floyd.

But Cassius Clay ,later Muhammad Ali,came along and wupped the champ with the paradoxical name of Sonny.Clay upset the world when Liston said he got a boo boo on his shoulder. The rematch, in a high school gym in Maine,was equally disappointing when Clay,who had gone to the county clerk and changed his name to Muhammad Ali,flicked his wrist at the Bear in the first round and " ruined boxing" with those old timers who used to go to the neighborhood gym before WW 2 to learn the art of self defense and saw Joe Louis around longer than Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

It seemed like after the Ali/Liston fights,you were either still an avid fan of the sport or you put boxing on the pay no mind list. Now it's different. There are still not many white American fighters making any headlines,but the Eastern Europeans have brought their presence to the forefront. The Brits have some good fighters there too. i remember when the English rep wasn't considered very highly. "They stood straight up and just used their jab."

I don't know if the term "White Hope" holds any water anymore. All those old timers lamented for something more pale of color after they gave good 'ol joe Louis a pass.The "X" generation,the milleneals,whatever the young people are referred to today, don't think much about what the skin tone is.The immigrant explosion to America has brought the impact of soccer,more properly "football", to the "other side."Americans aren't the best boxers anymore and they certainly aren't the premier soccer players.Soccer?More popular and plated than all the other sports put together. When they talk about baseball having a "World Series" that's a misnomer. Soccer ,when they play the "World Cup" includes all the countries on the globe.

When I used to go down to the old San Diego Coliseum and the 32nd Street Naval Gym to workout with the fighters,once in awhile I'd ask if one of the pugs wanted to go to a baseball game. San Diego had just gotten a major league franchise.I got turned down every time. I don't think those boys cared that much for any other sport.They were games.Fighting was a hard way to make a living.Baseball was recreational,a diversion. Boxing was no game.

I once saw Muhammad Ali on the Mike Douglas talk show, Somehow baseball got into the discussion. Ali said he didn't know how many men were on the playing field.It got a laugh,but I wasn't too surprised.But on the other hand,ask the average American baseball fan how many men play on the pitch.
"The pitch? You mean the diamond of course. Well,there's three outfielders,a first baseman,a second and third baseman,and the shortstop,and of course the pitcher and catcher.Nine."
Everybody knows that except Muhammad Ali.



Who's On First-Abbot and Costello.




"I think the pitch is when the pitcher throws the ball to the catcher."

The Other Side Of The Story From The Other Side

As I was walking along Revolution Street in Tijuana a few weeks ago a poster on a building caught my eye,and almost poked it out. It was a political poster. Mexico is going to have their elections this summer. It wasn't until around 20 years ago the same political party,the PRI,would "win" just about everything on the ballot.Since after the revolution ended in the later 1920's, the PRI party had their way,and it was their way or the highway. Every president of Mexico was affiliated with the PRI. They said the elections were on the level,but there was never a bipartisan group that counted the votes. Most of the ballot boxes would be taken to the local army base,and behind locked doors,the slight of hand would go sift through the ballots. Same 'ol same 'ol.The PRI guy would win again.The senators,governors,and of course the presidential candidate.Then there were all the so called small time aspirants:mayors,councilmen,just about all the political flunkies would wanted to dip their hands in the till.

The common man had to buy it.If they put up too much of a sqauwk,there would be consequences with bad intentions. Then something happened that turned the world on its head. In 1971 Nixon took the United States dollar off the gold standard. After the war,the Bretton Woods agreement made the U.S. dollar the world standard.At 35 dollars an an ounce,currencies could be redeemed in gold. After Vietnam the United States had an inflation problem because of all the money we had borrowed to fight that war.Foreign investments and banks that had gone in with us on that war decided to redeem their loans with gold,that the FED supposedly had in reserves,to get their money back. Gold was safer and more secure than paper money.It never came out,but we didn't have the gold to match the debt anyway.So t
Tricky Dicky(I'm sure taking direction with the honchos at the Fed and the mega banks)said to just take the dollar off the gold standard. Now our money was backed by nothing,just floating around.It enabled the banks now to loan money at any rate and any amount they wanted knowing they didn't have to back it with gold. Inflation hit every country.The countries that got hit hardest were the poor Third World countries. Mexico fell into that category.

I remember overnight the peso went from 12 to 1 U.S. dollar,then to 20 to 1. Mexicans(and a lot foreigners including Americans)who had stowed their money in Mexican banks lost half of their value and more. For the first time I saw on the faces of the Mexican people,who usually took a crisis in stride,panic. The spiral reached 100 to 1 and then they didn't keep count anymore. It was during this financial crisis that Mexicans wanted to get to the U.S. anyway necessary. There wasn't the security that there is now.Very few fences,immigration officers,no technology to speak of. Smuggling became a big overnight business. Forged documents were easily available. But after 911 the U.S. cinched the screws on the crossing lanes. Now everybody has to show IDs.You just can't say when asked about where you're from that "I'm a U.S. citizen." So smuggling people across became a really big enterprise.But it got to the point, with the advent of beefed up security along the border, that the price for a "coyoteto" to take someone across was too high for most.But our state department was stil pretty lenient when it came to granting Green Cards and visas.People with green Cards(remember someone with a Green Card is not a U.S. citizen)were sponsoring reletatives,friends,students, just about anyone in Mexico that could show some collateral.Non citizens,illegal and not,were having babies in the U.S. "Immigration" became a hot political issue.Then Trump got elected.

Let me tell you, the Mexican press rips him a new you know what.The papers,the TV,the pols,all put him on an equal with Adolf and Papa Joe.I guess you could throw in Chairman Mao too.

Maybe I got caught up in this recitation.It has nothing to do with boxing I know,but I want to get back to that poster that's still on that wall on Revolution Street for everyone to see, including all the American tourists,I thought you people who live in Maine(hey Buzz) and across the pond should see it. I'm sure there are plenty of others that decorate the landscape.



This is the communist party's poster.At the top it reads "Death To Trump". I wonder how long a poster would stay on a wall in the U.S. that said "Death To The President Of Mexico"?Imagine what our media would say? Makes you think.

First Class

Again ,growing up in an Italian neighborhood,the talk was that every Italian was OK,something special.Whether he was an Italian/American or an Italian/Italian,he(and sometimes she)was a cut above the others.A few of the accolades:the Roman Empire was the mightiest empire in history,DaVinci the greatest artist and genius,Enrico Caruso was the best opera singer who ever sang a note,Toscanini waved his baton better than anyone else on the podium,the other Enrico,Fermi,invented the atom bomb,Mussolini made the trains run on time,Capone was the biggest of the bigshots.Italy had the best food,the best clothes,the best cars,the most beautiful women. Of course sports was a vital topic. DiMaggio had no equal in baseball,but it was boxing,the manly sport,that Italians excelled. Marciano never lost so he was the greatest heavyweight.Willie Pep had no equal pound for pound.No fighter could put LaMotta on the canvas. You could make good arguments defending the merits of the aforementioned pugs,but the paragons of Italian fighters would not shrink just because maybe someone else thought that any validity was threadbare.


With this said,you might be wondering what did the dagos that hung out in the pool room have to say about Primo Carnera.Well,I was too young to shoot pool with those fellas.(BTW:Willie Mosconi could win all the hustlers' money without working up a sweat),but I heard enough about Da Preem around the Sunday afternoon dinner table to think that he was right up there with Dempsey and Louis as a heavyweight. If I had any doubts about Carnera's merits,I was shouted down because I didn't know what I was talking about. No kid at the dinner table was to question greaseball logic. ("Put another meatball in your mouth and shut up")

I saw on one of the threads the question of whether Carnera should be inducted into the IBHOF.Probably in the annals of the sport,Carnera's record is the most infamous.Was he controlled by the mob on his way to the championship? All those one round knockouts over "tomato cans" in those tank towns in those smoke filled little arenas. They even talk about the time he beat Sharkey to win the title. Looking at the film you can't see the "uppercut" that put the Irishman to sleep. Then there was the Schaaf incident. When Max Baer knocked Carnera to the deck with anything even resembling a punch,the myth came apart. Then it was Joe Louis's turn to take Carnera apart. It was talked that Carnera and his manger Leon See thought that everything was on the level prior to the championship fight with Sharkey. Carnera ended his fistic career in Italy.After the war he donned wrestling togs and though grappling was "Hollywood",everybody was OK with it. Even Carnera was in on the gag.But when ex fighters turn to wrestling,especially ex heavyweight champions,they ought to make a law against it. Joe Louis was hard to see going through the pantomime. Carnera was more acceptable. He probably should have started off in that direction.

In 1956 Humphry Bogart starred in his last film,The Harder They Fall,portraying a down and out sports writer who is hired to build up a big lug that the mob wants to groom to be the heavyweight champ. In the movie the big guy gets his shot for that heavyweight championship,but the fight,this time, is on the level. The heavyweight champ in the movie is played by,of all people,Max Baer. The pathetic figure is beaten to a pulp and winds up going back to his homeland with 60 bucks in his pocket.

When I was a kid I liked going to the wrestling matches at the old San Diego Coliseum. On one of the cards, in the main event ,was Primo Carnera. I forget who he was going against. It isn't important anyway,but I remember one of the local scribes interviewing Carnera on television before his match.This dummy asks Carnera if any of his fights were fixed. It got Carnera's goat. He'd been asked that question a million times before and never obliged with an answer. Carnera looked down on the scribbler with a scorn on his face and tone in his voice and said in very broken English," I no talk about anything but my match."
The wanna be sportscaster, thinking he was going to scoop the world, shrunk before DaPreem.


If you ask me I don't think Carnera should be in any boxing hall of fame.It wasn't really his fault. He probably thought he was a pretty good fighter and all those fights were on the up and up. The last time I went back to Chicago to "see" the old Italian neighborhood,everything was gone. "Diamond Joe's" house was razed,broken wine bottles and used needles were strewn on the trash laden streets. Bonfires in empty oil drums kept the hands of the homeless warm. There were no more Italian delis on each corner. The street lamps were broken.Slow moving shadows lurked along the walls of the boarded up structures. There were no more 'goombas". There was no more talk about Primo Carnera.




Primo Carnera

Coffee With Sugar

I like having a hot cup of coffee when I'm pecking away at the keyboard posting my stuff on the forum.I might have something particular in mind when I start,then I may sway off to something else,and end up somewhere that I had no idea I'd be wind up at when I began. If the topic isn't what I had originally planned,I'll get it next time,or maybe the time after that.My inspiration is pretty much spontaneous. I don't go back and try to revise too much. I might add something I forgot,but that's done within minutes after logging off.


I like painting on Saturdays.I try to paint what also inspires me,but since I'm adding to a boxing forum,I want to get my share of fighters on canvas.Not the ring canvas,but the artist's.Buying art supplies are costly,for me at least. Paints,canvases,and brushes have risen in price like everything else. I'm beginning to put gesso over some of the final renditions that I feel haven't been my best efforts. It saves me some money if nothing else.

I put the brush to Sugar Ray Robinson this morning. I like to use the brush strokes on fighters that pique that inspiration inside me:Ali,Louis,LaMotta,my guy Jose Napoles,Jack Johnson,The Manassa Mauler to name some that come to mind. So now I've got Robby drying on the porch.What am I gonna' do with him? As I turned on the computer and clicked onto the forum,I saw a new post about why Ray Robinson is ranked higher than Ezzard Charles. Don't get me going on ranking fighters,or movie stars,or presidents,or any of those other hypothetical questions.Sometimes I look at the start of something on the forum that begins as a debate,but often when the opposite point of view doesn't want to concede-well you know it can get real personal. I stay away from that stuff. You got your opinion and I got mine. I just like to say "so and so' is one of my favorites and let let go at that.

So now I've got my cup of coffee in front of me and an itchy forefinger(I'm strictly hunt and peck).I got Sugar Ray Robinson in my head,now let's see where he's going to take me.


I was just a kid when I saw Ray Robinson fight on TV. Hell,television was new then,and Ray Robinson had been away from fighting for more than two years. I remember sitting in the livingroom in front of the big Philco with my father and my Uncle Joe. It was the Tiger Jones fight. Well,my father and my Uncle Joe didn't want Robinson to win,not because he was black necessarily(Jones was just as black),but because Robinson had made a living beating up on Italian fighters.But Robinson beat up fighters of all different hues. When he finally passed out at the feet of Joey Maxim in Yankee Stadium,Robinson had only been on the short end twice in a career of over 120 fights.LaMotta beat him(the wine was flowing on the Southwest Side of Chicago that night)and Randolph Turpin (I like saying "Randolph".The Brits called him that)did the trick in jolly 'ol England. That night in front of the television set Ray Robinson never got out of the gate against Ralph Jones. The announcer,Russ Hodges,kept saying he'd never seen Robinson take so many punches. He was sluggish.He loaded up on everything he threw at Jones,but couldn't keep the Tiger off him. It was then that the boxing public started saying that Robinson had" lost his legs."Once you lose them ,you don't get them back.


They kept wanting to make Robinson fight "up" in weight. He could make the welterweight limit with his clothes on. When LaMotta beat him ,Jake had nine pounds on him. But Robinson had gone through the welters with ease. Zivic,Docusen,Armstrong,Kid Gavilan twice.But if he beefed up just a little to take on the middleweights it would be bigger fish to fry, Robinson always thought that a lot of the middleweights had "heavyweight" chests. That's what he said about Randolph Turpin's pecs. Robinson was in there now with broad shouldered boys.But Robinson tired out a drained LaMotta on St, Valentines Day in Chicago and now was on top of the middleweight division. Sugar took his entourage to Europe to find some easy pickens',but spent more time in the cafes in Paris than he did in the gym.When he got to jolly 'ol England,he left the continent without his belt.He found nothing funny about Randolph Turpin.

But Ray got the crown back in the U.S. at the Polo Grounds in the return.After that Robinson went through Bobo and flattened another "goomba",the middleweight Rocky.So let's see if you can eat just a teensy weensy more and see what you can do against Joey Maxim. Joey didn't have a big chest. He was a boxer,a pitter patter guy. He couldn't break an egg. Robby wouldn't have to be worried about being ruffed up by Pal Joey.But it was a hot night in The Apple,very very hot. The referee Ruby Goldstein had to be relieved.In the 14th round Robinson relieved himself.he was ahead on the cards,but the heat and JOEY MAXIM beat Ray that night. Robinson was cooked,literally.He'd had enough of fighting.He retired he thought for good.


Sometimes when someone is a "genius" at something,he thinks he can be a "genius" at something else.Michael Jordan thought he could stop the world on the baseball diamond. He was a mediocre Class A baseball player in the minor leagues.So it was back to playing hoops. Sugar Ray thought he would wow them in show business. Because he displayed that fancy footwork in the boxing ring,his dance steps would translate to the Palladium and the Silver Screen. The novelty wore off fast. Like his son said."He was no Fred Astaire."

So Robby,broke and out of the limelight,came back to boxing.That's when I saw him. He was on TV a lot.He was fighting genuine middleweights.His legs were on the wane.the reflexes were slower. He couldn't get out of the way like he used to.He took some big shots.But you know this guy was never stopped.Only the Maxim fight ended prematurely. But this Robinson dude was determined.He got the title back knocking Olson head over heals He hit Fullmer with the text book left to win the title back from him. He exchanged it again against Basilio. But now Robby is wading into his 40's. There's no PEDs to keep him rejuvenated. He's not fighting on TV like before. He's out of dough again so now he has to settle for matches in Omaha,Richmond,and Honolulu. I saw him fight in the bullring in Tijuana.The local product,Memo Ayon,crudely beat a tired Robinson in a fight Robinson should have won,but what the hell? By the time another pitter patterer named Joey Archer knocked him off his feet in Pittsburg,we didn't want to see Robinson go out there anymore.


Robinson, long after he had hung them up, was in San Diego to see Luis Rodruguez fight I was with my father at the Stardust Hotel where The Nose was finishing up his preparations. In walks Sugar Ray Robinson. He looked sharp in a blood red sweater,pressed slacks.a bright shine on his shoes. He didn't walk in like anybody,he glided in. it was rhythmic. His hair was all slicked back with that lye job. His pearly whites gleaming.He was magnetic,couldn't take your eyes off him. He was the champ again. The flair.That satin look. Sugar Ray Robinson. Try to improve on that name.

Then my father bolted towards him.
"Hey Sugar!" yelled my father.
Robinson stopped,squinted at my dad,then showed the pearly whites.
"Joe Esposito,"beamed Robinson. "What are you doing here?"

My dad didn't answer the question.
"Remember that time in front of the Meadowmoor Dairy?"
"Do I,"laughed Robinson."I thought those guys were shooting at me."
"We had to take care of that snitch lawyer.We wouldn't hurt you,"said my dad joining in the laugter.


My father had told me that after Robinson won the welter title,the Outfit boys wanted him to "carry' all his opponents when Robinson fought in Chicago. They didn't want him to go into the tank. He wouldn't have anyway. Just carry the other guy the limit so we lay down a few bets.


So I'm done with my cup of coffee,and I'm done pecking away. But i'll never be finished thinking about Sugar Ray Robinson.



The Great Sugar Ray Robinson

Missed Calling

Yesterday I mentioned when my father bumped into Sugar Ray Robinson and Robinson brought up the time about how he thought he was going to get killed standing in front of the Meadowmoor Dairy in Chicago when a car carrying gun toting goons started to open up shooting.But their guns weren't pointed at the champ. The bullets quieted some lawyer that didn't want to go along to get along( said my father to Robinson in so many words).Robinson had been asked to sit down with Meadowmoor's execs that afternoon to discuss putting Robinson's name on a future product-something like went down with Joe Louis.Though the "Joe Louis Punch" didn't make people forget about Coca Cola,maybe Robinson's name on chocolate milk might catch on.Nothing ever transpired about a bottle of milk with Robinson's face on the glass. Robinson ,a hard bargainer,probably was asking for too big of a swig.


Meadowmoor Dairy was originally,believe it or not, an Al Capone enterprise. Capone figured that people were making babies as fast as you could say" another bun in the oven every nine months" and those little darlings would need to lap up plenty of the bovine brew if they were to grow up to be big and strong.Besides,Capone knew he could run the other mom and pop dairies out of business by selling his own moo juice if he brought in enough of it from around the outlying areas. He could undercut his small time competitors and corner the market on milk like he finally did with bathtub beer after having it out with Bugs Moran.But the small dairies went to the union wanting some kind of justice so Al had the union boss kidnapped and now everybody got in line.

But here's an interesting twist. Al Capone decided he was going to make sure the milk he was selling to all the mothers was quality stuff. There were no regulations on the making of milk and that precipitated some babies to get sick,and even die.Now in those days the Mafia,or to be more precise,the Chicago Outfit, had a code. "We don't harm women or children." So Meadowmoor Dairy became a paragon for producing milk that was tested for bacteria and labeled honestly.That's what my father did at Meadowmoor Dairy:he was a milk tester. To hear him tell it,he thought he was another Louie Pasteur.But he was very proud of his job. It was more honorable than what he used to do for those made guys later on.

That's also how my father got to know Sugar Ray Robinson.After my father got out of the Marine Corps in World War II,the wise guys had bigger projects for my father than holding test tubes to a light. Three months on Okinawa carried enough juice for my father to graduate to carrying a gat instead of a M1.


But in the end all that promotion did was get my father in a jamb.The story made all the headlines in the Chicago papers with plenty of photographs. He's lucky he didn't go to jail.But the mob had plenty of good lawyers and district attorneys and judges in their pockets that my father evaded the Gray Bar Hotel. But my mother had had enough of growing up gangster. She told my father she was going to leave him and take us kids away from the Southwest Side. So my father loaded up the U Haul and motored us out to Sunny California.


But once you live that life,it's hard to change your thinking. You like being part of a crew that has the muscle and you can do and get away with just about anything you want.However,the Outfit's boundary never reached passed the Mississippi. They tried to get to Hollywood and control the unions in the motion picture industry,but it brought the heat when the mob reps absentmindedly brought along a couple of snitches into the deal. Frank Nitti had put the operation together and when the feds busted things up,Nitti,who called himself The Enforcer,had to enforce his code and that meant he could have one of the underlings shoot him in the back of the head or Frank could save a bullet for himself. Nitti had a bullet in his revolver with his name on it.


So while my dad pined for the good 'ol days of living on top in the underworld,he mostly was on the phone to Chicago talking to his old pals. Once in a while they'd come out to visit(after they left our house the FBI would come a knockin' on the door).It was that way almost to the end of his life.His pals were gone.He told the same stories about Capone,and Nitti,and Sam Giancana,and of course his father "Diamond" Joe.He should have written a book. He could have mentioned that time he ran into Sugar Ray Robinson out here on the Coast.


Al Capone

The Beautiful Blue Danube

I've walked by this gym in Tijuana it seems like a hundred times,but it's always closed.The gym is located just down 3rd Street from Revolution as you approach Calle Madero.The gym is on the second floor above a dentist's office. The metal door on the street level is always locked when I pull on it thinking that it might be open and have some activity upstairs. But I'm always in that area of the city in the morning. Boxing gyms don't open that early. In the afternoons is when the fighters straggle in.Maybe one of these days, if I'm around later in the day, I'll pull on the handle and the door will open. There are little gyms like the one I'm talking about scattered throughout Tijuana.Every colonia has a gym.Every gym is that opportunity for a guy or a gal to find another road to get on an upward course to find something better in life. It's a real long shot,but trying to move up in Tijuana keeping your eyes to the ground and not risking anything,is a distance beyond the stars.

I've been to a few of these gyms in Tijuana. They're similar to the gyms in San Diego.Oh,the gyms in San Diego are bigger and nicer,but the level of instruction is familiar. The difference is that there are more gyms in Tijuana and the souls working out in those rundown gymnasiums are not in there just for the exercise. They train because for a few bucks they can be on one of the cards at the equally rundown bars around town that feature boxing as a draw to bring in customers. Some of these poor devils have never won a fight. Whatever consists of their managers and trainers have a common thread.It's all for a few pesos.It's steady work. Stepping back,it's like looking at a surrealistic play.Fellini could derive inspiration from looking at the incongruity.It's nothing to laugh at.The irony is rife,but there's no laughter.That's because the outcome, when it's over, is dark. You can just wait for the final fight,weigh the positives against the negatives,and be grateful hopefully that that there's no permanent damage. But that's a wait and see proposition.

I'll be taking a hiatus from the thread for two weeks. My wife cashed in enough bottles and cans recycling to make enough money so we can travel on a river boat on the beautiful blue Danube. Only in America can you pick through the trash and fly across the Atlantic and lounge on the deck of a cruise ship gazing at the castles on the hills above the quaint little towns,listen to a Strauss concert in Vienna, and bathe in the baths in Budapest, I'll be drinking beer at some café in Prague and savoring dumplings and sampling Wiener schnitzels.But I know after having too many hot mulled wines,I'll give a moment's thought to what's going on in that little gym on 3rd Street in Tijuana.

A Taste Of Havana

"Laszlo Papp?Of course I know of him.He was the greatest fighter ever in Hungary. He was the best in the world but the Communists wouldn't let him fight in the United States,"said the old man sitting on the bench outside the bar along the Danube riverfront where all the longboats where docked for the night.
My wife and i had eaten in the ship's diningroom and i decided to leave the boat to take a stroll beside the river.We were on one of those Viking riverboat cruises along the Danube.We began our trip in Prague,stayed there three nights,then by chofered bus went to Passau,Germany,continued to Linz,Austria,then Krems,a layover in Vienna,onwards to Bratislava,and ending in Budapest. That's where I sat down next to the old man on the bench on the riverbank and he told me of Laszlo Papp.
"He could have beaten everyone they would have put in friont of him but they never gave him the chance,"the old man went on.
It was a warm evening and his short sleeved shirt was open at the collar.His wrinkled face was oblong and pink,his small blue eyes stared at he ground as he talked. His nose spread across above a mouth with tight lips. White wavy thin hair combed back and up made him appear worn and tired. He slumped his back against the bench as he talked looking at the ground.

"When I was a kid they always talked about how he would do against the professional fighters,"I said."I know there was a lot of talk about it."

"He had won three Olympic gold medals before the Communists let him fight professionally outside of Hungary,"said the old man with a sigh."He didn't fight his first professional fight until he was 30 years old."
"Wasn't he to fight Giardello for the championship?"
"It was all arranged but the Communists wouldn't let him go to the United States .They revoked his visa."

Near the bench where we were sitting was a night club,one with a tropical décor like you'd find in the Caribbean:a thatched hut,a wood deck dance floor,multicolored lanterns,sand chairs,hammocks all imbedded in a white sand.
"You know I saw a similar bar like that one over there in Linz,Germany,"I said to the old man.
He looked over at the bar.Above the bar hung a carved sign,"A Taste Of Havana."
"They've become very popular with the younger generation,"he said.
"I wonder where they got the sand?"
"They import it from Sweden,"he said with a smirk.
Just then the ramped up sounds of Reggae music pounded the air.The kids,mostly barefooted leaped out to the wood deck and began dancing. The best I can describe it was like they were f---ing standing up still having their pants on." There were a couple of black dudes with the Bob Marley dreadlocks dancing with every girl they could get to rub their crotches against. The girls looked like they were anxiously waiting their turns.Empty beer cups and napkins littered the sand. plastic cocktail glasses filled with liquors of every hue in the rainbow sat atop the round tables surrounded by high bar stools.The sun was beginning to set.The music intensified.I had to raise my voice so the old man could hear me.
"Those kids look like they're having a good time,"I said to the old man.
"It will get even louder.It will go on until morning,"he said looking into the melee of contorted bodies.
"In a way I wish I could join them,"I said,"but you know I've been there and done that.I just don't have it in me anymore."
The old man turned his face to mine. He began to waver.His face became more flushed.
"I bet not one of those a--h---s knows who Laszlo Papp was or even cares."
I didn't know what to say to him.The old man looked very upset.
"Those Reds never let him fight the best.He had to settle for second raters. He could have beaten Sugar Ray."
Now I didn't want to say anything. I just let him go on.
"Look at those a--h---s,"said the old man turning his attention back to the gyrating torsos. "And to think they had to name that bar after one of those no good Commie countries.



Sugar Ray.He fought them all except Laszlo Papp, and Charley Burley

Feet First

When i was lending a hand at Archie Moore's club for boys,Any Boy Can,I never heard the old champ toot his horn about his illustrious career or even mention any of his matches unless someone asked , then it was always a short courteous response.Archie Moore was there to bring what he had inside his head about puigilism and pass it along to the kids.And,I may add, he was also always preaching about how to grow up to be a upstanding young man in this world. That,I think,was even more important to Moore than learning how to defend yourself. One of Moore's boxing lessons was to impress upon the kids that if you're going to deliver the telling blow your feet have to be in the proper position to elicit maximum effect.
"You can put all you have behind your punch,,"he'd exhort,"but if your feet aren't right then you'll either be swinging at air or the punch will be just a pat on the back."
I'll always remember that advice. Archie would have the kids work as hard on moving their feet as throwing a variety of punches.For example, he'd take two kids in the ring and have one of them move around and the other kid would have to respond trying to catch up,setting himself at the right distance so he could get max leverage on what he was going to throw.,But Moore didn't ask for any punches delivered quite yet until he was satsfied that distance was understood and the feet were set properly.
"Think with your feet first,"he'd repeat over and over.

Skipping rope,shadow boxing,and balance were fundamentals as important as what you did with the upper half of your body.Moving the head,slipping side to side,cutting off the ring,feignting;if that wasn't progressing then you wouldn't get much time in the ring with the others who were comprehending.


This aspect of boxing with "feet first" is something I see lacking in a lot of the fighters today.Maywether did it. That's why he was so successful.Juan Manual Marquez said that Mayweather was the most intelligent fighter he ever faced. That's because Floyd was in a position to strike and then not to get struck back.A fighter moves on his feet. The great ones like Mayweather,Robinson,Ali,,Pep had great footwork. They never ran with their punches.My favorite fighter Jose Napoles exhibited that efficiency.Of course this list could be addended They could control the fight in the middle of the ring.

This Lomenchenko fellow is a model for getting his feet under him.He said his dad stressed the importance of having your feet in the right place.Then you have the upper hand.The other guy feels the pressure.


"Feet first." Yes,I'll never forget those words. I'll always ,with a sigh, remember when Sugar Ray,Muhammad Ali,, Willie Pep,and my guy Jose Napoles lost that skill of relying on those those beautiful steps to keep them out of harms way.Mayweather got out in time.Robinson,Napoles, and Pep needed to fight past their primes to pay their debts(or in Jose's case have enough dough to bet the nags).Ali thought he could pull the rabbit out of the hat one more time.He craved the adulation.


Boxing is the bitterest sport to belong to when the legs go.It's not like baseball when a hitter can't get around on the factball anymore or when a pitcher's arm gets too sore and his fastball dips into the 80's.A football player tears an ACL.A hoopster loses a step on his drive to the basket.But a boxer starts catching too many shots.I can't think of anything worse than getting punched in the head.


Archie Moore

dagosd2000 wrote: ↑30 May 2018, 20:52 Feet First

When i was lending a hand at Archie Moore's club for boys,Any Boy Can,I never heard the old champ toot his horn about his illustrious career or even mention any of his matches unless someone asked , then it was always a short courteous response.Archie Moore was there to bring what he had inside his head about puigilism and pass it along to the kids.And,I may add, he was also always preaching about how to grow up to be a upstanding young man in this world. That,I think,was even more important to Moore than learning how to defend yourself. One of Moore's boxing lessons was to impress upon the kids that if you're going to deliver the telling blow your feet have to be in the proper position to elicit maximum effect.
"You can put all you have behind your punch,,"he'd exhort,"but if your feet aren't right then you'll either be swinging at air or the punch will be just a pat on the back."
I'll always remember that advice. Archie would have the kids work as hard on moving their feet as throwing a variety of punches.For example, he'd take two kids in the ring and have one of them move around and the other kid would have to respond trying to catch up,setting himself at the right distance so he could get max leverage on what he was going to throw.,But Moore didn't ask for any punches delivered quite yet until he was satsfied that distance was understood and the feet were set properly.
"Think with your feet first,"he'd repeat over and over.

Skipping rope,shadow boxing,and balance were fundamentals as important as what you did with the upper half of your body.Moving the head,slipping side to side,cutting off the ring,feignting;if that wasn't progressing then you wouldn't get much time in the ring with the others who were comprehending.


This aspect of boxing with "feet first" is something I see lacking in a lot of the fighters today.Maywether did it. That's why he was so successful.Juan Manual Marquez said that Mayweather was the most intelligent fighter he ever faced. That's because Floyd was in a position to strike and then not to get struck back.A fighter moves on his feet. The great ones like Mayweather,Robinson,Ali,,Pep had great footwork. They never ran with their punches.My favorite fighter Jose Napoles exhibited that efficiency.Of course this list could be addended They could control the fight in the middle of the ring.

This Lomenchenko fellow is a model for getting his feet under him.He said his dad stressed the importance of having your feet in the right place.Then you have the upper hand.The other guy feels the pressure.


"Feet first." Yes,I'll never forget those words. I'll always ,with a sigh, remember when Sugar Ray,Muhammad Ali,, Willie Pep,and my guy Jose Napoles lost that skill of relying on those those beautiful steps to keep them out of harms way.Mayweather got out in time.Robinson,Napoles, and Pep needed to fight past their primes to pay their debts(or in Jose's case have enough dough to bet the nags).Ali thought he could pull the rabbit out of the hat one more time.He craved the adulation.


Boxing is the bitterest sport to belong to when the legs go.It's not like baseball when a hitter can't get around on the factball anymore or when a pitcher's arm gets too sore and his fastball dips into the 80's.A football player tears an ACL.A hoopster loses a step on his drive to the basket.But a boxer starts catching too many shots.I can't think of anything worse than getting punched in the head.


Archie Moore

Jack Hurley, the great all-around boxing man and an extremely colorful character, use to spend a tremendous amount of time teaching his boxers proper footwork right from the beginning. Recently, I bought The One Is Jack Hurley, a massive three-volume biography by John Ochs. During his career as a boxing man which lasted from 1919 to 1970, Hurley seemed to excell at every facet of the fight game, including when it came to managing boxers, promoting boxing shows, matchmaking, training boxers and acting as a cornerman and being a publicity agent. Ochs describes Hurley's life and his times in great detail. I can't think of a finer work on the subject of boxing history.

- Chuck Johnston

The Other Ringo

They say Oscar Bonavena got the nickname,"Ringo" because he had the same haircut as the guy who played the skins for the Beatles. Aside from the hairdos I can't think of two people so far apart on the opposite ends of the personality spectrum. It was Bonavena that exposed to the world that Muhammad Ali wasn't the same fighter after coming back from banishment for 3 and a half years. We couldn't tell really with Ali's first fight on the comeback trail against Jerry Quarry. Jerry's eyes came undone,as happened in so many of his fights,and Ali then focused his attack on Jerry's bloody lamps. The fight ended early,but we couldn't tell really. Had Ali lost his edge or was he still floating like a butterfly?


I'm sure Muhammad and everyone in his camp believed that "Ringo" Bonavena would be a good workout and target practise on his way to unifying the title against Joe Frazier.Early in his career Frazier fought "Ringo" in the Garden and Smokin' Joe almost got inhaled in the second frame when the big Argentinian had Frazier on back twice. One more knockdown and the three knockdown rule would have gone into effect and that would have screwed up the works leading up to the "Fight of The Century."


When "The Greatest" stepped into the ring with "Ringo" Bonanavena in New York,the boxing world(and the faithful Ali sycophants that still thought Muhammad was in his prime) were sure that a big lug like "Ringo" would at least get his puss slapped off. But "Ringo was no pussy that night. He stumbled in like a bull of the Pampas,Firpo style,but garnishing a tougher beard. Ali didn't know what to do with him.For the first time we saw the Ali holding tactics,the sagging against the ropes,the loss of floating footwork. Howard Cosell was befuddled like all of us watching the event on live TV'
"Was Ali Ill?"
Sort of reminded us of Ray Robinson's comeback against Tiger Jones. Ali was getting mugged by a guy who plodded into harms way like he had on a suit of armor.I wasn't scoring the fight.If I did,I might have had Al.i behind.But in the 14th round(of some phony title fight)Ali caught the clumsy "Ringo" with of all things,a left hook,something Ali rarely displayed. Down went Bonavena like a gored toro."The Fightof The Century "was still on course.


But the KO that put "Ringo" away for good involved his relationship with mob boss,Joe Conforte's, wife.The Alpha male testosterone laden Bonavena and the mob moll, who was 25 years "Ringo's" senior, was a recipe for the perfect storm. Let me start out by saying that the mob had always a long arm inside the fight business.Mobsters think they are above and smarter than everyone else.It's a contempt that keeps their lifestyle going,but in the end the Feds or another gangster does them in.The people who control fighting,most of them,think fighters a just a meal ticket,and afterwards the ex pug might get throrn a bone employed as a goon or a shakedown guy,maybe a bodyguard. When Bonavena got himself involved with Conforte's wife,he would have had better luck fighting Ali again. Sometimes these gangsters' wives are looking for a young stud to sate their libidos.What in the hell can both of them been thinking? Well "Ringo" Bonavena took a slug outside a cathouse in Nevada when he persisted in his quest to win over Conofrte's wife. I'm sure his wife got punched around for her indiscretions.


Like the old adage,"Dames and fighters don't mix." That's not always the case. I've seen some pretty beat up fighters at the end of their ropes. All they have left in their corners is "The little woman."



"Ringo" Bonavena

We are the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame - the "Best" in the West!

Check this out, the "Art of Boxing" . . .
Rick Farris/WCBHOF History

WCBHOF wrote: ↑01 Jun 2018, 21:53 We are the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame - the "Best" in the West!

Check this out, the "Art of Boxing" . . .
Rick Farris/WCBHOF History

Rick
Thanks for posting this.Jun Aquino always knocks me off my feet with his art.Looks like Archie Moore will be well represented. see you guys Sept.30.Rog