Classic American West Coast Boxing

[kikibalt]

My painting of gato being presented to the Director Conrado Leyva by my granddaughter Amanda. Cultural Center Jiquilpan, Michoacoan.

Dago

[Rick Farris]

You know, Rick, I really appreciate the invitation and all the friendliness exhibited toward this old Okie by all the regulars on the West Coast thread. But I will either be in New Zealand or getting ready to depart for New Zealand at that time to visit my son (and Bob Fitzsimmons' ancestral home in Tamaru.) Can I have a rain check for next year?

No problem, Tom. As long as I am associated with the WBHOF you will be welcome to join us. By the way, my grandfather was an "Oakie". He was born on Indian territory in Bartlesville, Ok. in 1900. He was half Cherokee and after WWI returned from Europe with my grandmother (whom he'd met in England) to work in the oil fields, where he also was boxer. They came to California in 1920 and started a family.

My grandfather and I were very close and it was he who made it possible for me to box. I might also ad that shortly before the depression in 1927, he went to work for Warner Bros. Studios which had just been built in Burbank. He did pretty well for an orphaned half breed Okie, becoming a legendary figure in the film industry, winning two academy award citations, and designing lighting for films such as "Casablanca", "Rebel Without A Cause", "The African Queen", "Who's Afraid Of Virginia Wolf", "The Great Race", "My Fair Lady", to name a few.

In 1967, I fought in the annual Jr. Golden Gloves tournament, and drew a boxer named Claude Durden in my first elimination bout. The bout was held at Hawaiian Gardens Teen Post and Frank Baltazar made the match. Durden was a powerful young kid who was knocking kids out left and right. Before the match, Durden's trainer Billy Mitchell came up to my grandfather in the dressing room and told him, "My boy Durden is gunna knock your boy out". My grandfather looked Mitchell in the eye and reached into his pocket for his wallet, answering "well, how much money you want to bet on your boy?" Mitchell, a guy with a bully nature just blinked and started to laugh, "I like you" he said, but it was good for him he didn't take my grandad up on his offer.

In the first bout of the 86-95 pound eliminations, I dropped Claude Durden flat on his back in the opening round with a right, then proceeded to easily win a three round decision thus advancing to the quarter finals. I was really proud of what my grandfather did and, needless to say, he was kinda proud of me that night. And just for the record, a few months later we fought in a rematch at a hod carrier's Union Hall in Santa Ana. Once again, I easily decisioned Claude Durden, Hey Frank, do you remember that?

-Rick

Rick, that was a great little story and it really touched me. You seem to appreciate and realize what a gift it was to have had your grandfather in your life. One of my life's biggest regrets, or perhaps sorrow would be a better word, is that I never knew my paternal grandfather, Santiago De La O. I was a year old when he passed away in 1955. He was 69. I have heard so many stories about him while I was growing up, that I almost felt like I knew him, almost but still, it wasn't the same as really knowing him. He was a scrapper though from all I've heard. My grandfather, who was an alcoholic, worked on the rail roads, he would get his paychecks, and head for the saloons, in Las Cruces, New Mexico, drink until the roosters came home and then he would walk home.

One day, as he was walking down the street, two men, were waiting in an alley, they grabbed him at knife point, intending to kill him and rob him. It cost them their lives. He owned a stiletto and knew how to use it. He slit both their throats and left them in the alley. He was hard. But from all I've heard he was also a kind and generous man.

My mother's father, Auggie, died just before I left for the Navy Boot camp, in 1972. I only saw him about three or four times in my life. he was a traveling man. He would jump the trains, or hitchhike across the country, live somewhere for few years, live with a woman, and move on. He was also an alcoholic. He died in jail cell in Los Angeles. He was found beaten to death. my mother took it hard.

My own father passed at the age of 57 in 1981, my oldest daughter was two weeks shy of three. My other kids never knew him. I try to make up to it by being the best grandfather I can to my own grandkids. My only grandson Nathan passed away in 2001. I didn't mean to go on and on, it's just that your story about your grandfather just kind of hit home.

Randy[/quote]




Randy . . . My grandfather was also an alcoholic, as were many who worked in the film business back then. When I broke into the business, I would hear guys tell me, "your grandfather lit more film sets drunk than most have done sober, and did twice as good a job.". I didn't like hearing that, because I never saw my grandfather drunk. A couple years before I was born, my grandmother, a very strong woman whom he loved more than anything, gave him an ultimatum, "stop drinking, or I'm gone and will never come back." Somehow, thankfully, this did the trick and he just stopped drinking. As a kid, I was kinda restless. I was also small and this made me a bully target. I never backed down and found myself fighting all the time. I discovered that a bully turned into a bitch when they felt a little pain and this taught me something about life. As it turned out, I was fighting all the time, and I wanted to learn how to do it right, because when you fight a lot, you are going to get your ass kicked now and then. I started to watch boxing on TV and immediatly wanted to make that my life's career. I was about ten at the time and nobody had any intention of allowing me to realize that dream. My father was a workaholic and was never around, but when my grandfather retired, he could see that I was heading for trouble. We had been watching boxing together for a couple of years and knew I wanted to be a boxer. One day, after pulling me out of the principal's office for fighting, he made me an offer I couldn't refuse: "You want to box, so I'll take you to where you can learn to box, but you have to do something for me also, and if you don't I won't support your dream to be a boxer." He told me that I'd have to promise to avoid street fighting and to get my grades up to an acceptable level. I jumped at the chance, and within a month, I was not only boxing, but also studying. I had looked up the phone number of a promising young heavyweight named Jerry Quarry, whom I asked where I could learn to be a fighter like he was. Jerry referred me to Johnny Flores and that's where it all began for me. My first bout took place early in 1965 at the Teamsters gym. My grandfather was present at every fight and gym workout I would have for the next four years. In 1968, when I was 16, my grandfather was striken with a ruptured aorta while sitting next to the ring at the Johnny Flores Gym. Johnny rushed him to the hospital, where he died a couple of weeks later. I was 16 at the time, and suddenly alone. We buried my grandfather on a monday, and four days later on a friday, I stepped into the ring at the Eastside Boys club for the first time without my grandfather watching from ringside. Johnny Flores was not there that night, off to N.Y. with Jerry Quarry who was fighting Buster Mathis, so my dad worked my corner. Frank Baltazar matched me with a kid from Stanton AC named Billy Enriquez. The only instructions my dad gave me in the corner before the fight was "Go out and win this for your grandad." And that is exactly what I did, the fight was stopped in the final round. To this day I miss my grandfather, and I wish he could have seen me fight as a pro, and could see me today doing what he used to do, lighting film sets, and even picking up a couple of Emmy citations along the way. By the way, my grandfather used to talk about lighting Betty Davis back in the fifties. In 1983, I became the last person to light Betty Davis before her death, on the pilot for an Aaron Spelling TV series, "HOTEL". Miss Davis made the pilot, then her health prevented her from doing the series. Ironic, huh? Sorry for this trip down the lane of my memory, but . . . whatever.

-Rick

[dagosd2000]

The final night was a party at my house. All the family on both sides. Friends and neighbors. There must have been a jillion kids running around. Between dancing and chasing after kids,I think the women were pretty tired at the end.

My wife made green pozole with corn,my sister in law made birria,and her husband brought the sweet tamales he sells off his scooter. They call these types of tamales"chepos." Beer and tequila to wash it all down. After eating ,it was music and dance time. I remted a machine that has like 30,000 songs,but the selections were the basic Mexican stuff. Start out with some Nortena,then working up to cumbias and salsa. We moved the tables against the wall,the women cleared the tables except for the "hooch',and it was let the party begin.

Well I don't drink like i used to. The fun was going out of it. But this crowd was still in its prime. i'm nursing a beer and i'm starting to get some funny questions.
Rogelio,you're not having a good time?"
"Rogelio,you don't like us?"
"Rogelio,you don't want to dance with the pretty girls? What's wrong Rogelio?"

OK assholes,now you're pissing me off. You want to drink? You want to drink tequila?
I see you like to drink tequila with soda pop. You're all a bunch of lightweights. You drink tequila with water or soda water back. Some lime,and now we're off to the races.

I grab a glass and dump it half full of booze. No I don't want Squirt you maricones. Panco Villa. I can see him now putting Squirt in his tequila. They thought that was funny.

Well my sister in law brought her two daughters,Chucha and Fabiola. It's no secret in that burg that I've been chasing Chucha for years. But she says to me that she loves me,but has too much respect for her aunt,my wife. Chucha has a husband who's a pollo in New york who drops by every other year,knocks Chucha up,and goes back to the Apple. I'd like to see this guy face to face and have him serve me twquila in front of his wife.

I'm starting to feel the efffects of the agave and I'm out there dancing and manuverin' between all the girls. I make sure I'm spending time in front of Chucha. Now this girls has had 3 ninos,but her figure is still all there. She's boppin' her butt to the music hands above her head smilin' at me and turnin' around so I don't miis a curve of what's insinde her tight white pants. I'm rubbing her shoulders and going down in front of her dancing and then moving up. I wanted to throw her down on the table with the birria and pozole and make a baby with her in front of everybody. I could see my wife looking once in a while,but I was at a point of no return.

After about 4 hours of hip swinging,it was time to come around to singing. Drunk people singing expose a lot of non talent. The mike was being passed around and all the guys did their best impressions of Jose Alfredo. By this time I'd showed the wimps who was the tequila champ. I felt macho and more powerfull than these sentimental cry babies.

I'm trying to get closer to Chucha and keep one eye on my wife. Then chaos. I heard the voice. A woman's voice.

"Cuca ruca coooooo,Paloma. Cuca ruca cooooooooo,Pakloma."
I snapped my head around. It was Chucha's little sister,Fabiola. She was around 25. Yeah she had a kid. Her husband died a drunk. Forget that now. The voice. The voice.

I never paid much attention to Fabiola. Didn't see her much. Kind of non talkative. Head always down,you even you might say dumpy lookin'. But now she was singing.

Fabiola's chin was turned up. Her smile covered her face. The beautifull deep voice coming through from inside. Her chest heaved as she brought out the words. She was letting out all the beauty in her voice that ahe couldn't show when she wasn't singing. I was overwhelmed.

She was done with that song. I sat next to her.
"Fabi ,cantas como un pajaro."
I told her she sang like a bird. That she had just won my heart. I never heard such a beautifull voice. Fabi lowered her head and blushed. I told her I would never be satisfied if she wasn't a part of my life.
"Pero, Chuchi."
Fabi looked at her sister.

No I said . It was over with her . I wanted you,Fabi.She smiled again. I told her I don't lie. Never. I said to her to sing. Don't stop. Sing every song. And she did. Her appearance changed when she sang. She was elegant and wonderfull.

When the party ended,I told her to see me in the morning. I made her promose. She said she's come by. I was in a dream.

The next morning Fabiola never came by. Chucha did. To say goodby. I was very happy to see her. I said to her that she understands me and that i'll always have place for her in my heart. She smiled and said that she knew.

I got the family in the car and drove to Gauadalajera airport. All I could think while dring was "Cuca ruca coooooo,Paloma."

[bennie]

My painting of gato being presented to the Director Conrado Leyva by my granddaughter Amanda. Cultural Center Jiquilpan, Michoacoan.

Dago

NICE moment.

[scartissue]

Hello gents.
Been on vacation for the past week.
Playing Cowboy at a Ranch in Michigan with the Family.
Great time.
I see things are rolling along beautifully here.

I'm just getting back in town as well, Pug. Man, we need the old R & R every so often to recharge the batteries, don't we?

Scartissue

[bennie]

Hello gents.
Been on vacation for the past week.
Playing Cowboy at a Ranch in Michigan with the Family.
Great time.
I see things are rolling along beautifully here.

I'm just getting back in town as well, Pug. Man, we need the old R & R every so often to recharge the batteries, don't we?

Scartissue

Good to see you back, boys. Nothing has changed. Larry Holmes is still bouncing up from those heavy knockdowns...

[scartissue]

Randy . . . My grandfather was also an alcoholic, as were many who worked in the film business back then. When I broke into the business, I would hear guys tell me, "your grandfather lit more film sets drunk than most have done sober, and did twice as good a job.". I didn't like hearing that, because I never saw my grandfather drunk. A couple years before I was born, my grandmother, a very strong woman whom he loved more than anything, gave him an ultimatum, "stop drinking, or I'm gone and will never come back." Somehow, thankfully, this did the trick and he just stopped drinking. As a kid, I was kinda restless. I was also small and this made me a bully target. I never backed down and found myself fighting all the time. I discovered that a bully turned into a bitch when they felt a little pain and this taught me something about life. As it turned out, I was fighting all the time, and I wanted to learn how to do it right, because when you fight a lot, you are going to get your ass kicked now and then. I started to watch boxing on TV and immediatly wanted to make that my life's career. I was about ten at the time and nobody had any intention of allowing me to realize that dream. My father was a workaholic and was never around, but when my grandfather retired, he could see that I was heading for trouble. We had been watching boxing together for a couple of years and knew I wanted to be a boxer. One day, after pulling me out of the principal's office for fighting, he made me an offer I couldn't refuse: "You want to box, so I'll take you to where you can learn to box, but you have to do something for me also, and if you don't I won't support your dream to be a boxer." He told me that I'd have to promise to avoid street fighting and to get my grades up to an acceptable level. I jumped at the chance, and within a month, I was not only boxing, but also studying. I had looked up the phone number of a promising young heavyweight named Jerry Quarry, whom I asked where I could learn to be a fighter like he was. Jerry referred me to Johnny Flores and that's where it all began for me. My first bout took place early in 1965 at the Teamsters gym. My grandfather was present at every fight and gym workout I would have for the next four years. In 1968, when I was 16, my grandfather was striken with a ruptured aorta while sitting next to the ring at the Johnny Flores Gym. Johnny rushed him to the hospital, where he died a couple of weeks later. I was 16 at the time, and suddenly alone. We buried my grandfather on a monday, and four days later on a friday, I stepped into the ring at the Eastside Boys club for the first time without my grandfather watching from ringside. Johnny Flores was not there that night, off to N.Y. with Jerry Quarry who was fighting Buster Mathis, so my dad worked my corner. Frank Baltazar matched me with a kid from Stanton AC named Billy Enriquez. The only instructions my dad gave me in the corner before the fight was "Go out and win this for your grandad." And that is exactly what I did, the fight was stopped in the final round. To this day I miss my grandfather, and I wish he could have seen me fight as a pro, and could see me today doing what he used to do, lighting film sets, and even picking up a couple of Emmy citations along the way. By the way, my grandfather used to talk about lighting Betty Davis back in the fifties. In 1983, I became the last person to light Betty Davis before her death, on the pilot for an Aaron Spelling TV series, "HOTEL". Miss Davis made the pilot, then her health prevented her from doing the series. Ironic, huh? Sorry for this trip down the lane of my memory, but . . . whatever.

-Rick[/quote]

Rick, I don't know what it is when you tell a story, but I somehow end up in the story. Like the one of you LA Golden Glovers on your way to Kansas City...the way you were telling it, I was on the bus too. You really envision them in great detail. The next time you detail one of your old fights, I'll probably have a Q-tip sticking out of my mouth and a towel over my shoulder, working your corner.

Scartissue

[kikibalt]

[bennie]

Funny, my grandad was also an alcoholic, and he got nasty when he was drunk. They basically kicked him out of Clonakilty in County Cork and he settled in Catford in south London.
He was soon barred from every pub in the place.

[bennie]

Lloyd came over to Blighty and dished out a pasting to one of our top boys. Jack Solomons didn't believe in protecting his fighters.

[kikibalt]

With me it wasn't my grandad, it was my dad who was an alcohlic, he was a drop dead drunk, I used to fine him passed out in alleys, streets, etc,etc, I remember my mom sending me out to look for my dad in the local bars, when I would fine him I would have to help him home as he was to drunk to make it on his own, he was what we uesd to call back then a "Wino".
In 1950 I was the only boy of 5 siblings, and in 1950 my mom gave birth to my one and only brother, Mando, I remember my dad been drunk as usual telling my mom that, that was his last drunk, that he had taken his last drink, as it turned out it was, my dad passed in 2000 without having a drink for 50 years, I alway used to tell my dad that he was my hero for doing that.

Love you dad....

[scartissue]

Lloyd came over to Blighty and dished out a pasting to one of our top boys. Jack Solomons didn't believe in protecting his fighters.

Bennie, are you referring to Marshall's bout with Freddie Mills? I wonder if Solomans figured Marshall was getting on and ready to be taken. He must have been receiving poor intelligence from over the pond. Of course, how many other times has this happened? I remember when the Canadian Shawn O'Sullivan was being pushed and they put him in with Simon Brown. I must have been one of the few screaming, "What?! Brown's going to eat him up." Or the time a Venezuelan welter by the name of Jose "The Threat" Baret was banging on the door and they put him in with Marlon Starling. After the fight they were calling him Jose "Not yet" or "No sweat" Baret. Remember when Herol Graham defended his British title against Rod Douglas? Even Boxing News was acclaiming Douglas' manager Mickey Duff as the man who instinctively knew when a fighter was ready for the taking. Man, they had to have egg on their face after that fight. Wasn't Douglas severly injured in that fight?

Scartissue

[kikibalt]

Here is a painting of my dad done after his death by my cousin Marty Arriola.

[kikibalt]

From the Los Angeles Times
Shawn Estrada, left, battles Britain's James DeGale in their middleweight boxing match in Beijing.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
August 17, 2008
Steve Lopez:
Boxer Shawn Estrada fights in the ring, while his father fights for his life
August 17 2008

At 2:30 p.m. Thursday, Juan Estrada was lying in bed at St. Vincent Medical Center telling me it would be pandemonium in the hospital the next night when his son entered the boxing ring in Beijing.

"His mother screams a lot," said the retired garment cutter, wondering how the other patients would handle the noise.

He had awakened that morning unable to walk, his feet as fat as boxing gloves, and now he was waiting for dialysis and a blood transfusion.

But if he could just recover fast enough, Juan said, maybe he'd be able to watch the fight at home in Maywood, where the family could raise the roof as 23-year-old Shawn went at it with a middleweight from Great Britain. Juan had already seen Shawn make mincemeat of an Argentine in his first Olympic bout, and with two more wins, he'd be boxing for a medal.

Juan Estrada was a boxer, too, back in his day. At 64, he's still fighting, but now the battle is to stay alive. Eight months ago, doctors told him he was done. His heart, kidneys and liver had been failing for years, but Juan was determined to make it long enough to see his son box in an Olympic ring.

Juan told me he knew when Shawn was 5 that the quick and tough little kid had the moves. He coached him, worked out with him, maybe pushed a little too hard at times. "Focus," Juan had implored when Shawn briefly drew away, weary of his father's unrelenting expectations. "You choose your path in life."

Now, all these years later, the son was fighting for his father, and the reverse was true as well.

OK, I told Juan. I'll be back Friday night. Either here in the hospital, or in the family living room, I'll watch the father as he watches his son on TV.

But on my way out of the hospital, a nurse told me Juan wasn't likely to go home any time soon. On Friday morning, I got a tearful call from Juan's daughter Ursula.

"My father's taken a turn for the worse," she said. "We're on our way to the hospital now."

Some time before noon, Juan's heart stopped. Doctors brought him back, but now he was on a ventilator. They moved him to critical care, and with all the beeping, flashing monitors, Room 401 looks and sounds like a medical arcade when I arrive Friday night.

When Juan realized weeks ago that he was too sick to make the trip to Beijing, he made a video to send to China with relatives. His son watched it at the Olympics, Dad telling him he knew Shawn would come home a winner. The family decided not to tell Shawn that his father was in the hospital. This was no time to distract him.

All day Friday, hospital administrators tried to wire the hospital for cable, so that if he was conscious and well enough, Juan could watch his son's fight live on CNBC just after midnight. When the cable hookup failed, Time Warner technicians spent hours setting up a wireless connection so the family could watch the fight on a laptop.

But as midnight approaches, CNBC is streaming everything online except boxing. How could this happen? After cheering him on for years, Shawn's family is going to miss the biggest fight of his life.

Juan's wife, Sandy, and daughters Emma, Sonia and Ursula begin calling relatives with Plan B. Maybe someone at home could record snippets of the fight on cellphone video and send the images along, so Juan can at least catch a glimpse of his son.

If that doesn't work, maybe someone can hold a cell up to a TV at home and someone can put a cellphone on speaker at the hospital, so Juan can at least hear the announcer call his son's fight.

But as Juan's wife, children, brother and sister take turns at his bedside, two at a time, he is unable to speak and is barely lucid.

"It's so frustrating," Emma says. "He looks like he wants to say something, but he can't say it."

The waiting area is filled with the anguished sobs of another family. Their loved one is in the same unit as Juan, barely hanging on. These two families are united in grief, one Asian American, the other Mexican American.

I wonder how many families have been here in the past, wandering the halls in the gray light of the living, traipsing through memories, fighting fears, waiting for the end. I reach for a pamphlet: "A Catholic Guide to Critical End of Life Decisions," which begins, "We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come."

A TV is on in the waiting area, but it doesn't carry CNBC. Only NBC, which is showing track, diving and swimming. No boxing. The worn but inspirational music of the Olympics blares. Michael Phelps takes his seventh gold medal. The Estrada family watches the replay of the last-second touch that wins it for Phelps, his mother collapsing with pride, winners and losers separated by fractions of time. Sandy Estrada wipes a tear.

Finally, just past 1:30 Saturday morning, Shawn steps into the ring on the other side of the world, having announced to reporters and family that he is fighting for his father. Juan is asleep and breathing heavily. In Maywood, Shawn's brothers Andrew and Patrick -- both boxers who didn't make the Olympic team -- watch on TV. In the hospital, the sisters listen to the fight on cellphones as relatives hold phones up to the TVs at home.

Sandy rushes to her husband's bedside. She insists on being with him when their son fights. She takes his hand while he sleeps, his chest heaving. She prays for Shawn to win and for Juan to see him again.

"He's losing 3-to-1," a dejected Ursula says in the waiting room. "Oh, Shawn just scored a point. It's 3-to-2 now," she says, and the family rallies as Shawn does.

But the fight does not go well, and in minutes, Shawn's Olympic run is finished.

"Can you tell her to come out here?" Ursula asks me, and I tell Sandy her family wants to speak to her.

She leaves her husband's side, pushes through the doors and into the waiting area, hoping for a lift.

"He lost," Ursula tells her.

Sandy clutches her face, gasps and freezes. No one else moves; the spare, industrial hallway is suffocating. Finally, Ursula speaks.

"Shawn needs to come home now," she says.

He lost for a reason, a cousin says. Maybe this was so Shawn could get back to Los Angeles quickly and be with his father.

"He did great," Ursula says of Shawn.

A cousin tells Sandy: "How many young kids get a chance to represent their country doing something they love?"

Later Saturday morning, doctors treat Juan's latest bout of internal bleeding. He fights and fights and fights. He doesn't know Shawn is finished. In his mind, they are both still fighting.

[email protected]

[bennie]

With me it wasn't my grandad, it was my dad who was an alcohlic, he was a drop dead drunk, I used to fine him passed out in alleys, streets, etc,etc, I remember my mom sending me out to look for my dad in the local bars, when I would fine him I would have to help him home as he was to drunk to make it on his own, he was what we uesd to call back then a "Wino".
In 1950 I was the only boy of 5 siblings, and in 1950 my mom gave birth to my one and only brother, Mando, I remember my dad been drunk as usual telling my mom that, that was his last drunk, that he had taken his last drink, as it turned out it was, my dad passed in 2000 without having a drink for 50 years, I alway used to tell my dad that he was my hero for doing that.

Love you dad....

Amazing. Great man.

[dagosd2000]

Here is a painting of my dad done after his death by my cousin Marty Arriola.

Beautifull painting

[kikibalt]

With me it wasn't my grandad, it was my dad who was an alcohlic, he was a drop dead drunk, I used to fine him passed out in alleys, streets, etc,etc, I remember my mom sending me out to look for my dad in the local bars, when I would fine him I would have to help him home as he was to drunk to make it on his own, he was what we uesd to call back then a "Wino".
In 1950 I was the only boy of 5 siblings, and in 1950 my mom gave birth to my one and only brother, Mando, I remember my dad been drunk as usual telling my mom that, that was his last drunk, that he had taken his last drink, as it turned out it was, my dad passed in 2000 without having a drink for 50 years, I alway used to tell my dad that he was my hero for doing that.

Love you dad....

Amazing. Great man.

Thanks Bennie, he was agreat man in his own way.

[bennie]

Lloyd came over to Blighty and dished out a pasting to one of our top boys. Jack Solomons didn't believe in protecting his fighters.

Bennie, are you referring to Marshall's bout with Freddie Mills? I wonder if Solomans figured Marshall was getting on and ready to be taken. He must have been receiving poor intelligence from over the pond. Of course, how many other times has this happened? I remember when the Canadian Shawn O'Sullivan was being pushed and they put him in with Simon Brown. I must have been one of the few screaming, "What?! Brown's going to eat him up." Or the time a Venezuelan welter by the name of Jose "The Threat" Baret was banging on the door and they put him in with Marlon Starling. After the fight they were calling him Jose "Not yet" or "No sweat" Baret. Remember when Herol Graham defended his British title against Rod Douglas? Even Boxing News was acclaiming Douglas' manager Mickey Duff as the man who instinctively knew when a fighter was ready for the taking. Man, they had to have egg on their face after that fight. Wasn't Douglas severly injured in that fight?

Scartissue

It was Sugar Ray Leonard (well, the ghastly Mike Trainer and Leonard) who chose Brown for O'Sullivan, after Leonard had sparred with Brown. Plonkers. Around the same time another Canadian star, Willie DeWitt, was thrown in with Bert Cooper and got crucified.
Yes, Mickey Duff also got it badly wrong with Rod Douglas (Mickey wasn't wrong too often, although throwing Laing in with Fred Hutchings and John L.Gardner in with Dokes were obvious pearlers). Bomber Graham was a nightmare - awkward, hard-hitting and quick - and he stopped Douglas in the ninth. On the way home Douglas began throwing up in the car and was driven straight to the hospital by the quick-witted driver. Here is where Rod was really lucky. The boxer actually worked in the hospital and they all knew about the fight, and the brain surgeon was ready and saved his life. Rod made a full recovery. He was interviewed a few years later when Michael Watson was injured in similar circumstances. I remember the interviewer asking Rod if he wanted to box again after his injury, and Rod replied, with total and complete sincerity, "yeeeeaaah."
Once a fighter always a fighter.

[kikibalt]

Here is a painting of my dad done after his death by my cousin Marty Arriola.

Beautifull painting

Coming from you, been an artist yourself, it's greatly appreciated my cousin would say.

[Randyman]

With me it wasn't my grandad, it was my dad who was an alcohlic, he was a drop dead drunk, I used to fine him passed out in alleys, streets, etc,etc, I remember my mom sending me out to look for my dad in the local bars, when I would fine him I would have to help him home as he was to drunk to make it on his own, he was what we uesd to call back then a "Wino".
In 1950 I was the only boy of 5 siblings, and in 1950 my mom gave birth to my one and only brother, Mando, I remember my dad been drunk as usual telling my mom that, that was his last drunk, that he had taken his last drink, as it turned out it was, my dad passed in 2000 without having a drink for 50 years, I alway used to tell my dad that he was my hero for doing that.

Love you dad....

It says a lot about a man that can show his feelings about his father with other men. As much as I hold you in esteem, you just went up another notch Frank. I consider myself lucky to have met you and call you my friend. As the saying goes, my kinda guy......

Your story about your dad sounds almost identical to my father's story with his father, the darker stories. My grandfather never did stop. My father also drank. He was a beer drinker, not so much hard liquor, but he drank every day. At the very least he drank a six pack a day but often it was more. Somehow he never missed a day of work, the exception being in 1963 when he was in the hospital with pneumonia. When he was really drunk his temper would come out and he was hard to be around. Still he was great guy and like you I still miss my father.

So alcoholism runs in my family. I used to drink pretty good myself but it was never anything that took control of me. Now I might have a beer and not have another one for months. I never have more than two. That's my rule for myself.

[Randyman]

Here is a painting of my dad done after his death by my cousin Marty Arriola.

Beautifull painting

Comig from you, been an artist yourself, it's greatly appreciated my cousin would say.

Frank, I would like to post that painting on my website, along with his name.

Rog, I would also like to post your paintings on my site as well. You are very talented.
Randy

[Randyman]

Speaking of fathers, I wrote a tribute to my father a couple of years ago on what would have been his 83rd birthday. If you would like to read it here is the URL address: http://andrewsalazardelao.blogspot.com/
Randy

[dagosd2000]

"We thought you weren't going to wake up."
I saw the nurse looking down at me.
"How do you feel?"
"My head hurts real bad."
"I'll ask the doctor to give you something."
The hip surgery was something I finally relented to. Nothing else worked,so they cut me open and slapped in a metal hip. The doctor stepped inside quickly.
"How you feeling Mr. Esty?"
"My head hurts."
"We had trouble waking you up from thr antesthetic. You must have had a good dream."
The doctor laughed,then the nurse followed his up with a laugh of her own.
"I was dreaming I was in this Mexican town way far away.."
"Really?",said the doctor. "Well maybe it's like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Now you're home."
There was little light in the room. It was stuffy also.
"Doc,can you open a window?"
"I'll have the nurse do it. In the afternoon,we'll get you up. See how you feel."
"Doc can you give mr something for my head. It hurts real bad."
"I'll have the nurse get you something."

They left the room. The nurse didn't open the window. My head was killing me. I tried to fall asleep again,but I was in too much pain. An hour later the nurse came in with some pain pills.
"Take this",she said.
"Will it make me sleep?"
"It should help."
"Good. I want to sleep again before you get me up."
I tried to fall asleep again. I didn't feel like Dorothy. I didn't feel like I was home. I couldn't sleep again. I didn't look forward to getting up and have them move me around later. I was upset also because I forgot to ask the nurse to open the window.

[dagosd2000]

Randy,I would be honored. Just tell me what to do. Rog.

Frank,do you have any more paintings by your cousin? He knows how to do the face. That's the art. The eyes are the window to the soul. You're dad looked like he had plenty. Diego

[kikibalt]

With me it wasn't my grandad, it was my dad who was an alcohlic, he was a drop dead drunk, I used to fine him passed out in alleys, streets, etc,etc, I remember my mom sending me out to look for my dad in the local bars, when I would fine him I would have to help him home as he was to drunk to make it on his own, he was what we uesd to call back then a "Wino".
In 1950 I was the only boy of 5 siblings, and in 1950 my mom gave birth to my one and only brother, Mando, I remember my dad been drunk as usual telling my mom that, that was his last drunk, that he had taken his last drink, as it turned out it was, my dad passed in 2000 without having a drink for 50 years, I alway used to tell my dad that he was my hero for doing that.

Love you dad....

It says a lot about a man that can show his feelings about his father with other men. As much as I hold you in esteem, you just went up another notch Frank. I consider myself lucky to have met you and call you my friend. As the saying goes, my kinda guy......

Your story about your dad sounds almost identical to my father's story with his father, the darker stories. My grandfather never did stop. My father also drank. He was a beer drinker, not so much hard liquor, but he drank every day. At the very least he drank a six pack a day but often it was more. Somehow he never missed a day of work, the exception being in 1963 when he was in the hospital with pneumonia. When he was really drunk his temper would come out and he was hard to be around. Still he was great guy and like you I still miss my father.

So alcoholism runs in my family. I used to drink pretty good myself but it was never anything that took control of me. Now I might have a beer and not have another one for months. I never have more than two. That's my rule for myself.

Thanks Randy,

My dad for been an alcoholic to the extent that he was, always worked, always provided for his family, I remember during WWII that he held two jobs at the same time, working 8 hours at one job, come home have a drink and sleep a bit go work another 8 hours at another job, most men at that time were doing the same, as the younger men were away fighting the war.