Juan Manuel Marquez vs Juan Diaz

Marquez celebrates after stopping Diaz in the 9th round

If you are going to win a fight, Baby this is the way to win, and if you are going to lose a fight, this is the way to lose, going down swinging, with your boots on. No quit in either one of these guys. It doesn't get better than this. It's hard to believe that Marquez was able to weather the storm. Diaz was aggressive throughout the fight. In the first round, he came out with bad intentions. It seemed personal for Diaz. Maybe it was Marquez' stinging remark about Diaz "He's 50% Mexican and 50% American,.... I'm 100% Mexican". Say what you want but Diaz is 100% fighter. You can't take that away from him.

Marquez for his part showed why he is at the top of everyone's list as a pound for pound champion. Is it any wonder Manny Pacquiao won't fight him for a third time. This is what boxing is all about. This fight had it all. For Diaz' part there is no shame in losing, in what may end up being the fight of the year. against a fighter who is working his way toward legend status. With this win Marquez makes his case as the pound for pound king

Golden State Boxers Association 's 1st Annual "Tender Heart" Women Behind the Boxer Award 2009

Congratulations to Connie Baltazar and to all the women being honored by the Golden State boxer's Association.

Give the Women a Hand!
February 26, 2009 by Michele Chong

Saturday’s awards salute the “women behind the men” in boxing
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: “Behind every great man is…?” Drumroll please…A great woman! Because with every great fighter, behind every great champion, you wouldn’t have to look too far to find a great woman who lends her invaluable support.

The gals behind the guys in boxing have to be pretty tough cookies themselves. Think about it. The girlfriends and wives of any man involved in boxing have to put up with a lot: long training sessions, spur-of-the-moment trips, plans changing on a dime, and the disappointment that the fight game can invariably bring. They may be in the shadows, but the fairer sex always knows what’s going on. They may not say anything, often taking the high road. They may have to bite their tongues and grit their teeth over and over as boxing can be an unforgiving sport. But trust me, the women are aware of everything their fighter husbands are going through!

The highs, the triumphs of the sport that their men receive are worth it. Ask anyone who’s “addicted” to the sweet science and they’ll tell you of their days in the limelight, that championship feeling, and the once-in-a-lifetime memories that boxing has given them. The men, these brave warriors, live for these moments, sometimes sacrificing their families in the hunt for glory.

And through it all are the strong, classy women in the background–who finally get to share in the victory once these fleeting moments arrive.

One California boxing organization will salute these women–these “unsung heroes” of boxing who never laced up, never traded leather, but are still every inch a champion as their male counterparts. Presenting the 1st Annual “Women Behind the Boxer” Awards is the Golden State Boxers’ Association (GSBA). The group will be hosting a “Tender Heart” gala luncheon and awards ceremony this Saturday, February 28th at Steven’s Steakhouse in Commerce, California.

The GSBA was founded in 1977 by Welterweight Champion Jimmy McLarnin, Willie Bean, Clarence Henry, George Levine, Ray Owens, Hugh Sublett and Petey Servin; present members currently meet once a week in Hollywood. President Larry Montalvo, Vice President Bill Dempsey Young, and Special Advisor Don Fraser are all looking forward to their inaugural event honoring the women behind some great personalities in boxing.

“This is the very first time the women are being honored,” says President Montalvo, “My wife, Elsa, had this idea since the men usually get all the glory. She said, ‘What about the women?’ and she’s right! So with Bill and Linda Young’s help we are now honoring these women behind the boxers.”

Honorees in the 2009 class are: Connie Baltazar (Frank Baltazar Sr.), Yolanda Muñiz (Mando Muñiz), Bonnie Lopez (Danny “Little Red” Lopez), Sylvia Ramos (Mando Ramos), Trudie Latka (George Latka), Elise Syers (Allen Syers), Ann Cote (Norm Cote), Ruby Bolanos (Enrique Bolanos), Eva Futch (Eddie Futch), Lynette Bean (Willie Bean), Irma Powell (Charlie Powell), Dorothy Smith (Howard Smith), Vera Robledo (Joe Robledo), Lucille Ratcliff (Monroe Ratcliff) and Emma Vaughn (Willie Vaughn).

“Frank Baltazar Sr. was head of the Teamsters Boy’s Club and was involved in the Junior Golden Gloves. Connie was always there through it all,” says Rick Farris, close friend of Frank Baltazar Sr. The former fighter remembers seeing Connie Baltazar ringside at all the Los Angeles fights back in the ’60s. As wife of Frank Sr., Connie was also kept busy raising their brood of boxing boys. Sons Frankie Jr., Tony and Bobby Baltazar all fought in the ring just like their father, who literally grew up in the pugilistic sport. “Connie’s sons were boxing by the time they were five years old,” remembers Farris. “The boys were all top talents with incredible records. She was always so supportive behind her husband and sons!”

Many times the secret weapon in a boxer’s success is their steadfast and sturdy wife who is often overlooked. Come Saturday, the chicks will rule the stage, getting their chance to finally share in the spotlight.

Ladies, can you hear our applause? We salute you! Congratulations to all of these wonderful women and their contributions to boxing!

Special guests, entertainment, and a prize raffle (with pink boxing gloves and more) will also take place this weekend’s event from 11:00 a.m.-4:00 p.m. Tickets are 30.00 and the luncheon is on track to be a sell out. Call (323) 268-6830 if you’d like to attend the awards luncheon.

Photos courtesy of Rick Farris, Frank Baltazar Sr. (Classic American West Coast Boxing), Linda Young, Don Fraser and http://www.californiaboxinghalloffame.com: Connie and Frank Baltazar Sr.; Connie with two of her sons; Yolanda and Mando Muñiz; Mando and Sylvia Ramos

Carlos Palomino vs Mando Muniz

"Show me a fighter whose undefeated and I'll show you a fighter who hasn't fought anybody." --Whitey Bimstein, legendary boxing trainer.

2009 Women Behind the Boxer Award

Sugar Ray Robinson vs Carl "Bobo" Olson

Courtesy of Rick Farris

Click On Any Photo for a larger View

Sugar Ray Robinson vs Carl "Bobo" Olson

Middleweight Championship of the World

May 18 1956, Wrigley Field, Los Angeles, Ca.

The fight was held in broad daylight in Los Angeles at Wrigley Field, Edna Mae (Robinson) wrote, "and the crowd was loud and enormous.(20,000 spectators) Both boxers were very cautious at the beginning. Olson constantly clinched with Ray, more like a wrestler than a fighter. We wondered why Referee Mushy Callahan didn't break them apart and caution them to move and fight. Sugar had said that he had observed previously that Olson would drop his right arm when he delivered a good punch with his right hand. In two minutes and fifty-one seconds of the fourth round Olson did just that, and faster than lightning, Sugar delivered a punch with his left hand to Olson's right jaw that must have made him see stars as he sagged to the canvas like a bag of cement. The roar of the crowd was music to my ears."1

-Edan Mae Robinson (Mrs. Sugar Ray Robinson)



"I was hit well in the body in the third round, and that punch was Bobo's ruination. After he hit me in the body, I lagged my left, and that gave him confidence. He got brave and came on in the fourth, and when he started to punch the body again, I hit him flush on the jaw with the left. It was hard, but I wasn't sure I had him until the count reached ten.....Sugar Ray Robinson

Sleepy Lagoon

In August 1942, José Díaz, a young Mexican-American, was found comatose at an open reservoir at Slauson and Atlantic Boulevards in Los Angeles. He died later at the hospital. The case, known as the "Sleepy Lagoon Murder," was featured in the press for months where it was referred to as a gangland slaying. The police rounded up 300 Mexican-American youths and arrested 23 of them on murder charges, without any physical evidence. During the trial, Los Angeles police Lieutenant Edward Duran Ayres testified as an expert witness for the prosecution, claiming that people of Mexican descent were biologically prone to violence and crime due to their "oriental" Aztec ancestry (Ayres 1942). Twelve of the youth were found guilty based on this racist testimony and by the time the ruling was overturned by the U.S. District Court of Appeals in 1944, eight of the youths had spent two years in the federal penitentiary.


Sleepy Lagoon defendants in San Quentin

The racism surrounding the Sleepy Lagoon case fueled rumors of rampant crime-waves perpetrated by Mexican-American zoot-suited youth. From 3 June to 13 June 1943 hundreds of American service men in the Los Angeles area went downtown and attacked these youth, initially targeting those wearing zoot suits, but eventually beating and stripping anyone of color they could find. Chicana women were assaulted as well. The police broke up the disturbance by arresting the victims. To add further insult to injury, the Los Angeles Times featured pictures of the victims' stripped and beaten bodies on the front page. Several sources insist that such reports, which portrayed the zoot-suited victims as members of a dangerous gang who perpetuated the riots, were strictly conjectural (see Hinojos 1975, Mazon 1984, McWilliams 1943, Pitt and Pitt 1997). Writing in the New Republic magazine, shortly after the riots, Carey McWilliams, the head of the Sleepy Lagoon defense committee, portrayed zoot-suiters, known as Pachucos, not as members of organized criminal gangs but as "loosely organized neighborhood or geographical groups. . . . Many of them are, in effect, nothing more than boys clubs without a clubhouse" (McWilliams 1943).

Pachucos represent a rebellious youth culture among Chicanos. Arturo Madrid-Barela describes how the Pachuco has become a symbol of resistance against the homogenizing effects of assimilation (Madrid Barela 1973). He notes that the Pachucos' style is derived from elements of urban black culture, such as their suits and the music they listened to, but elements of Mexican culture are maintained, in essence enacting their difference through style. Francisco J. Hinojos writes that the Pachucos emphasized their difference as urban Mexican-Americans through the use of their own dialect, Caló, a mix of English and Spanish slang with Náhuatl and archaic Spanish words (Hinojos 1975. See also Gonzales 1967).


"We were arrested just because we are Mexicans, but
being born a Mexican is something we had no control over,
but we are proud no matter what people think. We are proud
to be Mexican American boys."
- - - Manny Reyes, Sleepy Lagoon Defendant - - -

ZOOT-SUIT RIOTS TIMELINE

June 3, 1943 – Thursday

A group of thirty-five Mexican American boys were having a meeting at the Central Police Station. They were discussing their neighborhood problems and the possibility of forming a club. During the meeting a report came in stating that a group of sailors was roaming the Alpine area looking for zoot-suiters in revenge for beatings they and others had sustained. When the meeting ended, the boys were taken back to their neighborhoods in squad cars to prevent incident. Thirty-five sailors attacked the boys who were taken to the Alpine district soon after they were dropped off. Two boys were badly beaten. Sailors had also entered the Carmen Theater on Carmen and Figueroa Streets and beaten a boy there. That same evening, a gang of Mexican-American Youths attacked eleven sailors on the 1700th block of North Main Street (Domer, 72-73).

June 4, 1943 – Friday

Sailors enlarged their forces to about 200 men and formed a caravan of about twenty cars and taxis to hunt Mexican American youth dressed in zoot-suits. The traveled through downtown Los Angeles and the eastside of the city, out to the suburbs as far as Belvedere Gardens. Sheriff's deputies had received riot warning and were waiting in the area with seven squad cars and additional men. The sailors left the area without incident. They returned to Alpine and Figueroa Streets where the police and Shore Patrol were waiting. Seventeen sailors were apprehended and turned over to the naval officers without charges. The other sailors were dispersed. This group of sailor was seeking revenge for the beatings of some sailors and the alleged rape of sailors' wives by Mexican American gangs. Before the dispersion of the group, the sailors managed to beat four isolated youths dressed in zoot-suits at different points of their journey. All four boys were hospitalized (Domer. 74-76).

June 5, 1943 – Saturday

Soldiers and Marines join the sailors in their attacks on zoot-suiters. Servicemen walked arms linked through downtown Los Angeles, stopping anyone wearing a zoot-suit, and ordering them to put away their suit or suffer the consequences the next night. Police made little attempt to stop the servicemen. Twenty-seven Mexican American boys were arrested and jailed that evening "on suspicion." On that same evening, sailors entered a bar on the eastside and ordered two Mexican customers wearing zoot-suits to remove their clothes. One was beaten as well as stripped when he refused to comply. The other obeyed the commands of the sailors and his cloths were destroyed. Similar events occurred throughout the city. Police did little to stop the sailors. (McWilliam, 222)

June 6, 1943 – Sunday

Six cars with Sailors drove down Brooklyn Avenue. At Ramona Boulevard, they stopped and beat up eight teenage Mexicans. They severely damaged a bar on Indiana Street when they failed to find zoot-suiters in the establishment. The police arrested eleven boys who were beaten on Carmlita Street, six more were arrested one block down the road, seven at Ford Boulevard, six at Gifford Street and through the Mexican eastside housing. Forty-four Mexican boys were arrested by morning. Civilians also partook in the riots (McWilliams, 223).

June 7, 1943 - Monday

Five thousand people filled the downtown area near Main Street. Large numbers of civilian were also among the rioters. Some were there simply for the excitement, others to aid in the hunt for and beating of zoot-suiters. Those were dressed in these suits were stripped and there cloths were destroyed, often by fire. Street cars were halted and searched for zoot-suiters. But they were no longer the only targets of the sailors and civilians. Blacks and Filipinos were also attacked. One black man, a defense worker in his work clothes was severely beaten. Another black man lost an eye when seventy-five servicemen attacked him (Domer, 83-84) Servicemen searching for zoot-suiters invaded Meralta Theater on First and St. Louis. Again, police did little to stop the servicemen, although thousands of reserve officers had been called on duty. At midnight, the military authorities declared the downtown area of Los Angeles "out of bounds" for military personnel. Arrival of the Military Police and Shore Patrol ended the riots (McWilliams, 225)

A star from on high, falls out of the sky, and slowly grows dimmer.
"Sleepy Lagoon," music by Jack Lawrence

The Sleepy Lagoon was the larger of two reservoirs used to irrigate crops on the Williams ranch in rural Los Angeles, in what is now Bell, California. For many young people in the area, it was a swimming hole by day and a lover's lane by night. The reservoir, nicknamed after a popular song of the times, was frequented mostly by Mexican American kids who were often denied access to city-owned recreation facilities. On August 1, 1942 the Sleepy Lagoon became part of Los Angeles history when the murder of a young man on the Williams ranch resulted in a violent clampdown by the police against Mexican American young people.

The night of August 1, 1942, began with romance and ended in death. In the early evening several young couples from Los Angeles' 38th Street neighborhood arrived at the Sleepy Lagoon to spend some time together. Among the couples were Hank Leyvas and Dora Barrios. Hank was one of the oldest boys that spent time on 38th Street, and was feared and respected by many. Dora was his girlfriend. As they sat in their car, under the light of a waning full moon, they were suddenly and viciously attacked by a group of boys from a rival neighborhood. Hank and Dora were beaten mercilessly.

Later that night an injured Hank returned to 38th Street and gathered reinforcements. Finding people to accompany him was not difficult. Hank was immensely popular and the boys they were going after had violated an unwritten rule by beating Hank's girlfriend Dora. Close to thirty young people -- boys and girls -- piled into cars and headed for the Sleepy Lagoon.

That same night José Díaz, born in Mexico but raised in the United States, had decided to attend a birthday party on the Williams ranch where he and other immigrant families worked and lived. José had reason to join the party: in just a few short days he would report for induction into the Army and head for boot camp. The traditional fiesta was lively -- with food, music, dance and plenty to drink.

The spot where Hank Leyvas had been beaten earlier that evening was deserted, but he and his friends could hear the sounds of the birthday party at the Williams ranch. Convinced that the boys who assaulted him were there, Hank and the others converged on the small house. The fighting was brutal. Men and women, boys and girls struggled for about ten minutes. The fight had all the markings of an Los Angeles teenage rumble, except for what neighbors discovered shortly after the fighting. Lying in the shadows was José Díaz. He had been beaten and stabbed. He died later that night at Los Angeles General Hospital.

The governor, Democrat Cuthbert L. Olson, was becoming increasingly concerned about juvenile delinquency. He used the murder of José Díaz as a call to action. The Los Angeles Police Department (L.A.P.D.) rounded up more than 600 youth -- mostly Mexican Americans known as "zoot-suiters" for the ballooned pants and long coats they wore -- and indicted Hank Leyvas and twenty-one others for José Díaz's murder. The subsequent trial dominated headlines in the City of Angels for months. The 38th Street boys were convicted in Los Angeles' tabloid journals -- and the jury agreed. Hank Leyvas was sentenced to life in San Quentin.

Within months of the convictions, Los Angeles erupted in the Zoot Suit Riot. For the better part of a week, sailors and other servicemen dragged kids off streetcars, from restaurants, and out of movie theaters. The boys were beaten and often stripped of their zoot suits. Thousands of white civilians cheered them on and helped the sailors. As the riot progressed, Mexican American boys moved to defend their neighborhoods, setting traps for sailors and assaulting them in their cars. The L.A.P.D. let the riot continue for the better part of a week. After the riot ended, the Los Angeles City Council banned the wearing of zoot suits on Los Angeles streets.

Within a year of the riots Hank Leyvas and the boys were released from prison. Their convictions in the Sleepy Lagoon case were overturned on appeal. The court ruled that there had been serious errors in the trial: a biased judge, the denial of counsel, and a lack of evidence. Authorities declined to retry the case. Whoever killed José Díaz got away with murder.

When Hank and the boys returned, the City of Angels, and their place in it, was changed forever. In little time the zoot suit style faded from view. And eventually the small reservoir known as the Sleepy Lagoon fell victim to urban sprawl and was filled in.

Rocky Alkazoff

The Following is From Wildhawke11 a Contributor to "Classic American West Coast Boxing" Followed by a Past Article by  Rocky Alkazoff

Hello to You All 
Hope you can forgive this intrusion on your forum but I know some of the guys here know Rocky. Below is a copy of a post done by former ref Ron Lipton on cyberzone.
Danny


I am sure our collective prayers and get well wishes go out to a man amongst men Rocky Alkazoff of the CyberboxingZone family. He is such a good man who has had so many bad things happen to him. I trust and believe with all my heart that Rocky is a stand up guy and honourable man who unfortunately has had a very tough life with many losses. I was in law enforcement a long time and know both sides of the fence and he is one of the strongest and most honourable men it has been my privilege to know.

About 3 weeks ago some cowardly intruder entered his home while he was sleeping and shot him 5 times with a .22. Rocky was awakened by being shot and fought with all his heart against this cowardly sneak attack by a murdering coward. Only his powerful body and iron will enabled him to survive the 5 shots and subsequent operation. The guy that shot him did not even know him, Rocky never saw him before, he just snuck into his home and kept shooting him in the back while he was sleeping. They had to open up his intestine, shoulders etc. He is lucky to be alive after such a cowardly attack. Just horrible.


So clean a trainer and liver is Rocky he even refused pain medication and seeks holistic healing. He actually ran 8 miles on the day of this terrible attack upon his sleeping person and swing a sledgehammer two hours a day. I have NEVER in all my life met a man more into honour and truth than Rocky and I am grief stricken that such a fate has befallen him. I spoke to him tonight and he is recuperating and leaving this totally in the police's hands to bring this attempted murderer to justice.

My prayers go out to him and the worst of it is he cannot exercise now and has a tough road to recovery. No one loves boxing more than Rocky who has lost his fiancee, his brother and went through the worst ordeals in the last year anyone could imagine and still has a good word and respect for all he meets. I hope God looks over him and heals him for another chance at a healthy and productive life and with all my prayers I wish him the best.

----------------------------------------------

This is the story by Rocky that Rick Farris liked 


The Hatchetman 

By Aram "Rocky" Alkazoff

The "Hatchetman".

Curtis "Hatchetman" Sheppard.

Something about the name gives you a cold feeling.

Roll it around your mouth and you get the notion you're saying the name

of a old time outlaw or gunfighter. That's some nickname, "Hatchetman". How many guys in boxing get a nickname like that? I was starting to think I might have what it took to be a pro fighter when I first heard the name. I was only a teenager, but guys in the neighbourhood told me I had a big punch in both hands. That thought got into my young head, and I started to read anything on boxing I could get my hands on. No Gene Tunneys, Billy Conns, Willie Peps, or Tippy

Larkins for me. I only wanted to read about the guys who could crack. I related to Dempsey, Louis, Marciano, Sonny Liston. I wanted to be one

of them.

I remember how impressed I was by Rocky Marciano, how he had destroyed

so many legendary names, but the job he did on Archie Moore amazed me

the most. I couldn't believe anybody hit hard enough to bust up the

great Moore the way Rocky did. 

So what happens? I read a Ring Magazine article about The "Old Mongoose" in which he was asked who was the hardest hitter he ever faced. I'm expecting him to rave about Rocky and what does he say? It went something like this: "Hatchetman" Sheppard. This guy was something else! When the Hatchetman hit you it was like a electric shock struck you! Hatchetman knocked me down so hard I bounced off the canvas. I decisioned him twice mainly by making him miss."

Who the hell was Curtis "Hatchetman" Sheppard? Could he really hit harder than the tremendous fighters Moore was in with? Guys like Marciano, Charles, Patterson, Ali, and Harold Johnson? There was a picture of the Hatchetman in the article and I took a close look at it. Curtis was a dark-skinned black guy with a cold, destroying look in his eyes. Standing with his shoulders hunched in fighting position. he looked the every image of Disaster. Big bones, gigantic fists, and smooth muscles. I imagined getting hit with his straight right. What was it Moore said?

"This guy once hit a guy so hard he broke his collarbone."

Looking at him, that was easy to believe.

The second time I read something about Hatchetman was in a book called "The Great Fights". It mentioned that Joey Maxim, whom I recalled as an iron jawed, defensive boxer, suffered only one KO in his entire career--a one round destruction by Curtis "Hatchetman" Sheppard, a "tremendous puncher". That lesson was never forgotten by Maxim, who thereafter became a safety-first boxer and out boxed Sheppard a month later. But Sheppard had managed to knock Maxim out, whereas Walcott, Moore, Charles, Robinson, and Patterson couldn't. I wondered why I had never heard about him; I figured he must be one of those black fighters of the thirties and forties who couldn't catch a break. A Charley Burley-Lloyd Marshall type. To be black fighter with a murderous punch in that era was to be a victim of...well, let's call it "bad timing."

The years passed, and I didn't become a champion in the ring. I found a new profession, new friends, and a whole different way of life. But I kept up my interest as a fan, and I never forgot the name Curtis "Hatchetman" Sheppard or what Archie Moore said about him. One day in early 1988 I was indicted by the United States Government for various "organized criminal" offenses. The charges were laid, I believe, so as to pressure me into informing on people about whom the feds thought I had meaningful information. I was found guilty and given a life sentence.

After almost a year in Detroit Wayne County Jail, suffering through not only a lengthy trial, but a long detainment in solitary confinement for assault on a County sheriff I felt had disrespected me, I was chained up and transported to Chicago. In Federal custody I was driven to M.C.C. Chicago, a skyscraper prison in the middle of downtown, not far from where I had been raised. It was a holding building for people in Federal trial, court, informants, and those in transit to the Bureau of Prisons correctional system.

As I climbed out of the bus in the M.C.C. garage, some fresh air got into my lungs for a second. The first fresh air I had taken in for a year. You can imagine the shape I was in, what with the confinement, lack of exercise, terrible food, and depression. I was a mess, a shadow of the man I used to be. I was forty years old and facing the reality of spending the rest of my life in prison, all for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

When I reached the thirteenth floor and a bunk, I was very tired. I spotted a few people I knew from the streets, but I didn't even want to talk. I was ashamed of what I looked like. I went into the bathroom and gazed into the mirror for the first time in a year. I didn't like what I saw. My face was drawn, my eyes worn, my hair long and unruly, with twice as much gray as before. My rock hard 190 pounds was no more. I had a little stomach for the first time, and my muscles felt like they had no power. I put my head down in misery and hurt. Then I heard a man's voice speaking words I'll never forget. "C'mon Rocky. Pick up your head and act like the man I heard you were," he said. "I heard you was a good fighter. Well, now you're in the first round of a tough fight. C'mon, son. You've got a fight in front of you and it's time to start fighting back." I looked up and saw a tall, very dark-skinned black man who had the kindest eyes I had ever seen. His eyebrows were grayed and I could see more gray in his beard, but that didn't tell the whole story. Dressed in an orange prison jump suit, his forearms and biceps were solid, sinewy. He had a tucked-in waist and broad powerful shoulders, along with the absolute biggest fists I have ever seen. He was shaved bald, wore spectacles, and was carrying a big black Bible. He was so impressive in his health and vitality for a man his age, I might have

been worried had he not been so gentle in manner.

"I heard you was a pretty good fighter when you was younger," he said.

"I tried it some, but I didn't go all the way like maybe I should have," I answered, figuring he had talked to someone who knew me.

"That's why I knew I could talk to you," he said. "You ever heard of

Curtis "the Hatchetman" Sheppard? That's me."

The minute he said the name, I remembered the article and the picture. It was him! He was older, but it was him. Same head, same expression, same body and fists. The first thought I had was,"No wonder Moore said he hit so hard." One look at him and you knew he was built to punch. Imagine him saying he heard I was a pretty good fighter! Hatchetman Sheppard talking to me like I was good enough to relate to a fighter like him. I was ashamed to let him see me in this shape.

"Course I heard of you, Curtis," I said with respect. "You was some fighter. Archie Moore said you was the hardest hitter he ever boxed."

"Joe Maxim said it too," he laughed. "Two champs. But these young kids out there don't know. I heard you got "life", Rock. Is that true?"

"Yeah I did, Curtis," I answered, looking down. "I let them get to me. I broke down in the "Hole", man. I got down on myself and let myself go soft. I'm ashamed to let a great fighter like you see me like this. How about you, Curtis? What have they got...."

"Rocky, I have done over thirty-two years in prison for two crimes that I had no choice about," he said, cutting me off. "I've been on "death row" twice. I've been so far in hurt and hell, that I never thought I'd live again like a human being. I lost control just like you did. But with God I came back. I stayed locked up, but I became a proud man again. I got my pride back. That's what I want for you, Rocky. I want you to show me and God that you're a champion. I want you to pick yourself off the canvas and start fighting back like the great fighter I know you are."

Here was a guy who fought Moore, Walcott, Maxim, Bettina, and Bivins, and who had done thirty years plus, telling me to pick up my head and act like the fighter I was. He was telling me to come back to life after the death blow of my sentence! Who was I that he should talk to me like that? He didn't even know me.

I glanced up at him and was greeted by a smile, and a huge hand on my shoulder.

"I'm praying for you son," he said. "You clean up and come on out. We can talk about the old fighters. These young boys out here don't know anything. I need a buddy to take my side."

That was the beginning of my rebirth and my friendship with Curtis "Hatchetman" Sheppard, who went from being one of boxing's most feared

fighters, to possibly the most feared man in the Illinois Penitentiary System, to a gentle giant carrying a Bible.

The next day I said a prayer, got a haircut, ate three meals, and started doing pushups and sit ups with a seventy-four year old man. That was the beginning of my rebirth and the long road back.

As luck would have it, me and the Hatchetman were to both go to Oxford Federal Prison in Wisconsin. We sat next to each other on the bus, and I have to tell you I enjoyed the ride just to see some trees! Hatchetman was like a big happy kid on the ride, and was uncuffed to be a "trustee". That meant he brought water and served lunch, as well as doing cleanup. Watching this older man's energy and spirit was inspiring. My determination to do more than just survive grew as I watched him.

"You get a good rest Rocky," he said. "When we get to Oxford, heavy training starts. You start with your comeback."

He meant it.

When we arrived at Oxford, which was a double-fenced, razor- wired

hell in the middle of forests, Hatchetman was enthused.

"This is beautiful," he said happily. "Good air. Perfect for a

training camp."

He made me forget it was prison for a second.

Gradually I found out more about the Hatchetman. It was a hell of

story.

While Hatchetman was fighting in the late forties, he admitted that due to training he neglected his wife. He made good money as a fighter, and was renowned in the black community. He lived the high life of nightclubs, entertainers, athletes, and the famous. Eventually due to his neglect his wife took a Chicago policeman for a lover. 

"She always had a thing for those 'high yaller' fellows," he said, shaking his head.

Hatchetman found them together, a fight ensued, and Hatchetman shot

the officer to death. His wife, mother of his only child, a son, ran almost naked to a police station. Her testimony put Hatchetman away for twenty long hard years. A year later, his wife's corpse was found in Lake Michigan.

All kinds of rumours floated around the city and the prisons about

her death. It was said, that Hatchetman was a "mob" fighter and she had

been killed in retaliation. Another rumour that--against all logic--persisted until the present day was that Hatchetman killed her and chopped off her head.

"Rock I'm telling you, this is the way it happened," said ----------, a known Chicago Black Gangster Disciple gang leader.

"Hatchetman came home and found her and the cop together. He stabbed

the cop, killed his wife and chopped off her head. Then he went to a

bar, ordered a drink, put his wife's head on the bar and said, "Give her

a drink too."

I was told that story by at least twenty seasoned convicts from

Chicago, who had heard of him or known him from Illinois prisons.

"That story was just a rumour, Rocky," Hatchetman said. "I couldn't

have killed my wife even if I'd had the opportunity. I was in love with

her. She was my son's mamma. When I heard she died, no one grieved as

much as me. But it wasn't any of my doing. These people in prison

heard the name 'Hatchetman', and shoot, they didn't know nothing about

boxing. They figured I got the name for chopping up people. They

didn't know it was because of my punching. I heard the stories but I was so crazy back then, I didn't even care. But no, son, I never killed my wife."

Hatchetman was bitter about the sentence and he did his twenty years with hate. He formed a gang in the prison system known as the "Black Gangsters", and established himself as Gangster number one. He became the most feared man in the prison system, not only because of his position as gang leader, but because of the ruthless way he used his fists on anyone who opposed him.

"I was taken over by the devil," he'd say with disgust.

"Taken over by the devil" meant just that. Hatchetman became involved the terrible activities that prison hatred breeds. His reputation as a fearsome inmate grew. Many a young boy in Cook County jail facing prison was greeted by seasoned cons with the warning, "Man, they gonna send you to Stateville and ol' Hatchetman will be waiting for you. He'll take a pretty young guy like you and knock you out and use you like a girl. He's so big and mean, there ain't gonna be a goddamn thing you can do about it!"

Hatchetman's reputation came to reach mythic proportions. People forgot he had actually been a quality boxer who'd knocked down champions. Eventually he joined the Black Muslims and changed his name to Curtis X. He became a leader in promoting racial hatred and violence--this only added to his rep.

I heard dozens of stories concerning Hatchetman's activities during this period, one detailing how he fought the entire "goon squad", a group made up of tough convicts, used by the guards to break down incorrigible inmates. Goon squad members were hated and looked down upon as snitches, and were housed away from the other prisoners. They received early releases and benefits for this kind of help, and they caused so many revenge murders that the use of such groups is no longer permitted. The squad was cut loose upon

Hatchetman one day to discipline him, and outnumbered 20 to 1, he fought them to a standstill. Finally he was tied down, drugged and given electronic shock treatments to keep him quiet.

"That was terrible son," Hatchetman said. "Just terrible.

Terrible days and bad memories. No way for men to treat each other."

Hatchetman did his time, and after twenty years was released into the streets. He took his prison reputation with him and became involved in many brutal activities. Disaster finally caught up to him one night when he beat a man over a gambling dispute. The man returned and shot Hatchetman in the head. Bleeding badly, Hatchetman nevertheless overpowered the man. He took away the gun and killed him. Hatchetman barely survived. After the incident he was charged and found guilty of second degree murder, receiving another twenty year sentence. Even today the bullet hole is visible in his skull and he has to take

constant medication to prevent seizures.

This brush with death brought Hatchetman to the brink of insanity. He admits to almost losing his grip, but like so many men of religious conviction he had a profound mystical experience that led him to devote his life to Jesus Christ. During this second prison experience, which started when the Hatchetman was in his fifties, he was a different man.

Hatchetman was sent to Pontiac Penitentiary in Illinois, and this time he was armed with his newfound faith. He became the head of boxing program, which produced the finest teams in the history of the Illinois prison system. His training program produced quite a few professionals, including "Jumbo" Cummings who fought Joe Frazier to a draw in Joe's last fight. But more significantly, Hatchetman coached hundreds of young men in the basics of boxing and training, and kept them away from the hellish temptations of prison life. Many, many men who were released from prison and became useful citizens will attest to this.

Hatchetman came to be a preacher of moral behaviour and tolerance, a voice of reason in an inferno of racial hatred. Many inmates were saved a terrible beating because of Hatchetman's intervention in the name of peace. It was a much different prison "bit" for Hatchetman this time, and things went well for a while. But eventually trouble found him again. Twice.

The first incident occurred after Hatchetman had become the head cook in the kitchen. He had to fight off gang leaders who wanted to steal a disproportionate number of hamburgers on hamburger day for their gang. (Hamburgers and chicken are like gold in prison chow halls.) Hatchetman informed them that they couldn't do that--if they did then other inmates would not get fed. As long as he was head cook each inmate would get his fair amount. He told them they could have the leftovers after everyone had been fed. Of course he was in the right, and one on one, man to man, he was a match

for any three of them, even at that age. They backed off. But later he was ambushed by "hit men" with knives who stuck him in the back several times. Once again bloody but unbowed, Hatchetman not only survived but gave chase, forcing the attackers to lock up for protection. They tried him, but nobody got those extra burgers. He still carries the scars from that attack.

The second incident was more tragic. A powerful inmate in his twenties, the enforcer for a black prison gang, was harassing a much smaller inmate for sexual favours. Hatchetman saw what was going on and asked him to please leave the smaller man alone. The enforcer, taking Hatchetman's plea as a disrespect for his position, cursed and threatened him. Before long, he began harassing Hatchetman and announcing that he was gonna kill him. Hatchetman did not start a fight, but took to carrying a homemade "ice pick" for self defence. One

day the enforcer got behind Hatchetman and hit him on the head, an almost killing blow with a lead pipe. The blow bashed in Hatchetman's skull, and with blood flowing like water, in a crazed rage, the Hatchetman wrestled down his attacker and killed him with his "ice pick", after saying that he was sending him "to hell, where he belongs." Surviving the crushed skull, which left a depression in his head that is still visible next to his earlier gunshot wound, Hatchetman was found guilty of first degree murder and placed on "death row".

Entering the hell of loneliness and darkness again, this time Hatchetman was sustained by his faith. After about a year, his prayers were answered by a white ex-inmate from Southern Illinois, who had turned over a new leaf upon release and become a expert paralegal--he was also a heavyweight who had been trained by Hatchetman during his prison time. The man recalled Hatchetman's many kindnesses and came to his rescue. After a lengthy appeals process, Hatchetman's conviction was overturned on the grounds of self-defence.

The Hatchetman had almost four years left on his sentence, but because the dead man had been a member of a large prison gang, it was unsafe for him to be in the State of Illinois correctional system. It was decided that for his own protection he would finish out his time in the Federal system, and this is where I got to know him.

When I arrived at Oxford, I was glad to finally get into the fresh air, but even a walk around the track tired me. I was in awful shape. Hatchetman became my trainer., and I found a friend about my age, a ex amateur fighter named Wali Ali, who had been a "Fruit of Islam" bodyguard of Muhammad Ali, who also wanted to get back in shape. We decided to be Hatchetman's boxing stable--we were called the "Over The Hill Gang" by the other inmates.

"Listen," said Hatchetman . "I'm from the old school, and if I'm the trainer we do it my way. I'm like Jack Blackburn or Doc Kearns. I'm the boss. What I say goes. I give the order and you do what I say. I don't want any backtalk. I want discipline and obedience. I'm doing this for you. Not for myself. You'll see the result. But no questions. Just action. First rule--always bring a

towel and a cap when I train you...." 

Me and Wali started running on the track like "two old Kentucky mules," and were as slow as dripping honey. But one mile, became two, then three, and after a while we were doing five and finishing up with a sprint.

"C'mon, c'mon," cried Hatchetman as the ninety degree heat bore down on us and, tiring, we approached the final sprint. "Think about Rocky Marciano with a split nose! He never quit! Think of old man Archie Moore getting off the canvas! He never quit! Think of great fighters! Joe Louis! Billy Conn! Henry Armstrong!"

How the hell could we quit with him yelling that at us? No way.

Eventually we got to where we would carry a twenty-five pound weight up and down hills for a half hour. He pushed us just as hard in our other exercises--heavy bag, speed bag, jump rope, medicine ball and

calisthenics.

Ali and I started off splitting one round on the heavy bag. That was all we could manage, being so out of shape. But soon, with the Hatchetman pushing us, we would do a half-hour apiece with no problem, at top speed. The younger inmates were impressed.

One time Wali was on the heavy bag during a hot day, and was in the eighth round, struggling with the heat,

"I'm gettin" tired," he said, knowing that Hatchetman would disapprove of his talking, yet so exhausted the words just came out.

"You take that tired talk to almighty Allah or whatever you call God," said Hatchetman in a loud voice. "Complaints like that are His business. But I want ten rounds out of you! He can have the rest..."

All the inmates within listening distance turned around in shock. Ali just looked at me, shook his head, and kept punching.

That's the kind of trainer Hatchetman was. No nonsense, and a answer for everything.

Another thing about Hatchetman that commanded respect was that he would hit the bags and run, too. At this time he was about seventy-seven years old and about two hundred and twenty five pounds--he was amazing.

Among inmates there's a saying that "prison preserves you." Which is to say that the rest and natural discipline of prison life keeps you looking like you did when you came in, without much aging. I have to agree with that saying; I have seen many men in prison who look and act at least twenty years younger than their calendar age. But the Hatchetman, along with Sonny Franzeze, a Colombo family capo, who was also seventy-eight, with thirty years of prison under his belt...they were the most amazing physical specimens I ever saw.

Hatchetman's fists were so big, we had no bag gloves for him, so he taped his hands and wore big knitted mittens that he made himself. Then he would hit the heavy and speed bags for eight or ten rounds. Hard crunching punches, that popped with power, widening the eyes of any onlookers. His hands were so heavy, he would throw a sweeping punch in which the inside of his fist would strike the back of the bag and knock it sideways. This was an old tactic he had used to dismantle boxers.

"I'd do that to knock their equilibrium back," he said. It was a killer.

He'd do his exercises and roadwork with the same vigour. He was just an incredible genetic specimen. You couldn't help but love him and respond to his coaching, seeing how great he was at his age, and considering what he had been through.

I got in better and better shape, and after about a year and a half, Hatchetman took me to the prison law library.

"Rocky, now that you walk and look like a fighter again," he said. "I want you in this law library. I want you to research your case and start fighting this thing in the appeals courts. You have a life sentence and I want you to never give up the fight."

He then said a prayer.

"It don't hurt to have God help you, Rock," he said.

He was right.

My prison life became a tornado of training and studying the law.

I could go on and on talking about the good things Hatchetman did behind the walls of prison, but suffice it to say he was the voice of reason, common sense, and survival to many men at a time when they needed a friend the most. He had a knack for picking out inmates who seemed lost and helping them. Most importantly of all he steered people away from gangs and racial hatred.

"Son, I've been a gangster, a boxer, a bodyguard, a Black Muslim, a gang leader, and the most feared man on the block. I've been in the lonely pit of hell, locked in with the devil trying to take my soul. It was Jesus Christ that pulled me out. I've been through everything and only Jesus Christ is left as the answer. That I know. He saved me and He can save you..."

It was hard to not listen to this big black-skinned man with the massive shoulders, huge fists and gentle voice. He commanded your attention for he spoke from experience.

When he'd see black inmates, who were in the majority, talking racial hatred and planning violence against whites and others he'd say, "Don't tell me about slavery being a white and black thing only. If the truth is known, niggers sold niggers into slavery and made money from it. Judge a man for what he is, not his colour."

Hatchetman had a curious hobby for such a war-like man. He knitted. The big knit caps and gloves that he knitted were all over the prisons. The big knit caps that Archie Moore used to wear near the end of his life were gifts from the Hatchetman to his old nemesis in the ring.

"I gotta love Archie," he'd smile. "He always used to come to see me and support me in prison. Joey Maxim too. They are two real champs."

My favourite times with Hatchetman were when we'd discuss the old fighters and his fights. There weren't many in prison who knew his era and could talk about it, and he loved that I could. These were some of his comments.

"Walcott was the best," he said. "Jersey hit like a mule and he knew how to draw you in."

"Moore hit the hardest of anybody I fought. Either hand. He could drop a bomb on your head. Every round was tough. I only hit him twice and both times I floored him. I don't know how he got up. I hit him so hard I thought I killed him, but he just got up. Archie was strong."

"Maxim was strong. He had a very strong body. He could hold you in close. That was his thing. That's how he beat me the first time. The second time I nailed him early. After that I had to fight him twenty days later. He ran like a thief and I wore the cuffs. But give him credit. He was as good as any. After that knockout everyone ran from me."

"Melio Bettina was clever, rough, strong. I was tired from Lee Q. Murray. Fought him a month before. But Bettina was tough. Him and Moore would have been a good match."

"I fought Lee Q. Murray six times. He'd be a champ today. He would'a beat Riddick Bowe or Holyfield."

"Jimmy Bivins was all arms. He never tried to punch with me. He knew better. All arms and elbows. Good fighter."

We talked about them all Lloyd Marshall, Tony Musto, Willie Reddish, Nate Bolden.

"You were a sparring partner for Louis weren't you, Hatchetman?" I asked.

"Just for a second," he laughed. "Oh he hit so hard! He'd try to kill you. Nothing was worth that kind of money. He knocked out big Max Baer for damn sake! Knocking out Baer was like chopping a tree! Oh, Louis could hurt you! I got out of his camp quick."

Did he hit harder than Max Baer?

"Louis could hurt you, but Max Baer could kill you!" He laughed.

"After he killed fighters he held back. He became a clown. But his sparring partners told me he could kill you by accident. He could hit that hard. But Louis was the better fighter."

"What match would you have liked to have seen?"

"Tony Zale versus Ray Robinson," he said, with eyes far away in the

past. "Zale was so strong and tough, and Ray wouldn't have ran. That

would been some fight."

"Who was the best pound for pound?"

"Being from Pittsburgh," he said., "I knew how good Burley was, and

Billy Conn. Don't forget Zivic. He was a killer, but they kept the

cuffs on him. There was so many. But for some reason I think of Ezzard

Charles. Before he killed Baroudi he was beautiful. I was surprised

Marciano beat him like he did. I didn't think anyone his size could

beat him twice like that. That gives you an idea of how tough Marciano

was and how hard he hit. Marciano's secret was his ability to avoid

women and night life. He could keep coming and with that chin and

power, he couldn't be denied."

"How much did you weigh in your prime?" I asked.

"About 188," he said.

"How come so little?" I said. "You're a big guy. How come so

light."

"Back then heavyweights didn't carry no fat like now. They wanted

to be quick. Plus no one lifted weights. They slow you up. Louis,

Dempsey, Walcott all could have weighed two fifteen or twenty if they

wanted. Baer was a giant. But the thing was, no one carried fat weight

like today."

"Could the modern fighters have beaten the old timers?" 

"No way. Ali couldn't have beaten Louis or Marciano. Even the

best of the modern guys like Monzon, Hagler, Foster, and Sugar Ray

Leonard. No way could they have dominated in my era. Duran is the best

of the moderns and even without the cuffs I don't know if he could have

beaten Ike Williams. Kids come up tougher back then. They were

hungry."

I noticed how much respect Hatchetman gave to the older Chicago and

New York mob guys who were locked up with us. It seemed he couldn't

break the habit of thinking they had big power, even in here. These

were very old guys from his era; they were fight fans and remembered the

Hatchetman. Watching ho when was around them gave me a picture of how

powerful the mob must have been in the fight game during his time. 

We used to sit and talk boxing with the mob guys, and fixed fights

and "handcuffs" and so on were routinely discussed. They talked of

famous fights and famous fighters, too. Hatchetman never disagreed with

them. He'd only smile and nod, giving me the impression it was all the

truth.

"Handcuffs were for fighters not to lose too bad, but by a

decision, or to let someone go the distance," Hatchetman told me. "A

fixed knockout was for bigger money."

"Did you wear the cuffs?" I asked.

"Everyone wore the cuffs if you wanted to make money," he said.

"That's the business, Rock."

"Was Ali and Liston on the level?" I asked.

"C'mon, Rock," he said with a smile. " That one had the cuffs on

Sonny tighter than a noose. It's all over now. God's got a better plan

now for both of us."

About four days before Hatchetman was to be turned loose to the

world on parole for the first time in twenty years, I witnessed a final

moving scene.

One of my friends had sent me a copy of Bert Sugar's Boxing

Illustrated Magazine. It had a copy of a story by Herbert Goldman, a

boxing historian, called "The Hardest Punchers in Boxing History". As I

glanced over the article I couldn't believe what I was reading.

That same day I also got a package from a prince of a man named Sal

Rappa, another boxing historian from New York, who used to send us

boxing stories, opinions, and pictures, generously giving of his time to

lighten the burden of trapped men who loved boxing. Sal has written for

Ring Magazine, is a member of the legendary Ring #8 out of New York, and

is a beautiful man who I will never forget for caring enough about us as

men to respond to our questions. In this instance he sent us upon

request the complete boxing record of Curtis "the Hatchetman" Sheppard.

The timing of these two pieces of mail seemed to testify that somebody

up there was thinking about Hatchetman.

I ran to the prison gym where Hatchetman was surrounded by the

young guys he was coaching in boxing. I called him over, and the other

guys crowded around. I handed him his complete record and told him it

was from Sal. This touched him so deeply that he was silent. Then I

gave him the Goldman article to read. It had a list of the men he

considered the fifty hardest hitters of all time. Oh there were the

guys you expected. Wilde, Louis, Baer, Dempsey, Marciano, Liston,

Saddler, and other champions. But number fifteen....Number fifteen was

"Curtis 'Hatchetman' Sheppard". Hatchetman closed the book after seeing

his name, and a tear came down the face of this big, dark man who had

known so much pain.

When the day came for Hatchetman to leave, he was dressed in his

freshly ironed prison khakis and as excited as a little kid. He was

seventy-eight, but in shape like a person thirty years younger. With

everybody wishing him good luck, I just stood there happy for him.

Imagine, he was pushing eighty, and going to the world for the first

time in twenty years, yet he was excited like a kid. He kept talking

about a little "Fish Fry" place he was going to open up.

"What about money, Hatchetman?" someone asked.

"I don't worry bout money ," he said with a confident look. "I

made money, money didn't make me. I'll be okay."

Finally he came to me and hugged me and kissed me.

"I found the love of a father for a son in you, Rock," he said.

"If you didn't become a champion in the ring, still you can be in shape

like one. I expect you to keep in shape, keep training, and stay in

that law library and fight your case. My prayers are that you will

overturn your conviction and walk out in the health of a much younger

man. You will then beat them like I did. I'll pray for you, and God is

with you."

He had tears in his eyes and so did I.

He left and it felt like half the prison left with him, so empty

did it seem. I was blessed to have known him. I kept my word to him

and stayed in shape and in the law library fighting my case. Some few

years later I overturned my conviction and walked out of Federal prison

a free man in strong physical condition, through my own efforts in the

law library and prison gym, and the prayers of a old heavyweight

fighter.

Every once in a while I'll see Curtis' name mentioned with the

black "Murderers Row" of fighters of that era that never got a chance at

the title: Burley, Lytell, Marshall, Bivins, Williams, and others. But

I know that the Hatchetman was a champ in the real life, and after all

that's where it counts.

The Arena 72

By Roger Esty

POP POP POP

The Arena 72 was just north of Aguas Caliente Boulevard near the race track. It was built in 1972 so it got its name. The bigger fights were held at the Municipal Auditorium or the downtown bullring. One thing all three venues had in common:the opponent was going to fight in their house. The out of towner,or the foreigner. You were in TJ now. You had to be ready or else.

I loved the atmosphere at the Olympic ,San Diego's Coliseum,the ball parks. If it was Mexican fighters, the fans in the stands were at one with the fighters. But in Mexico ,you were in their house. Don't pull any of this "in the U.S. we do it this way."

Whether it was the fights or ,for example a Vicente Fernandez concert,once you left the arena here in the 
states it was back to "Gringolandia". In Mexico you were saturated "puro Mexicano." The feel never left you once you left the arena. The smell of the Mexican diesel,the manteca crackling, the smoke from the fires that burned the trash in the colonias. The taco carts with their vats of horchata and jamaica.The packs dogs running through the crowd's feet. The dirt lots. The aficianados were in their element. Come and enjoy what it's like at the fights,but we don't want your suggestions. We do it the same way. Put on the gloves in the ring. The photographers flashing the bulbs of their cameras at the fighters and the referee. The dead rattlesnake and the bloody woman's underpants being tossed around. The cops standing there doing nothing. Don't correct us. Asi es.

I'm not going to talk about a particular fight. Whether it was in the tiny Arena 72 or outdoors in the bullring.The chifles inundating the air. There would be firecrackers going off. I can smell the smoke from those cuetes now. 

There is a special place in Heaven for mothers.

Author
Randy De La O

They give so much and ask for so little in return. When all the world is against you, Mom is still there, with open arms. She'll love you when no one else will, even during those times when we acted less than honorable and probably didn't deserve it. She'll give you the food off her plate to satisfy your hunger. When you really, really screw up, she'll threaten to tell the old man, but at the last minute she'll give you a break and keep it to herself. She'll scrimp and save to make sure you have something nice to wear for your birthday. She'll make sure you wear your rain coat on a rainy day, even if you dump it by the side of the house when you walk out the door. She'll cook you your favorite meal in a way that no one else will ever be able to. When she has to she'll stand up for you in a way that will shock you, like a lioness protecting her cubs, consequences be damned, and when they have to, when you really need it, they'll knock you upside the head, we deserved it no doubt. There is no one like mom. God Bless them all!!

Carlos Palomino, Armando Muniz took boxing rivalry to higher degree

Carlos Palomino, Armando Muniz took boxing rivalry to higher degree


Jay L. Clendenin / Los Angeles Times
Carlos Palomino, left, and Armando Muniz joke around in the ring at the Bell Gardens Boxing Club.
Palomino and Muniz became the first -- and only -- fighters to battle for a world title while being college graduates.

Jerry Crowe
February 16, 2009

As young fighters trying to make their way in a brutal, demanding discipline, Carlos Palomino and Armando Muniz often were given the same advice:

If you're serious about boxing, forget about college. And if you're serious about college, forget about boxing.

Neither paid it any mind.

"It was a dream of mine as a kid to be a boxer," Muniz says, "but I also knew that I was going to go to school."

Palomino stayed in school, he says, "because I figured that even if I got lucky and won a world title, athletic careers are pretty short and I'd still have a whole life ahead of me."

So, even while they continued trading punches, the Southern California-bred fighters never stopped hitting the books.

And when they twice met for the World Boxing Council welterweight championship in the 1970s, they made history: never before had college graduates fought for a world title.

Nor have they since, boxing historians believe.

As longtime boxing writer Bert Sugar notes, "You're not getting your recruits for boxing from the graduating line at Harvard."

That's why, before the first Palomino-Muniz fight, at the Olympic Auditorium on Jan. 21, 1977, Times columnist Jim Murray called the matchup "boxing's finest intellectual hour since George Bernard Shaw wrote to Gene Tunney" and noted with tongue in cheek, "If the fight is close, maybe they can decide it by debate."

Palomino, the champion, had only recently earned a degree in recreation administration from Long Beach State.

Muniz, taking his third title shot, had graduated from Cal State Los Angeles, where he majored in Spanish and minored in math, and was working toward a graduate degree in administration.

Neither, however, was a bookworm.

Their first fight, won dramatically by Palomino when he stopped the challenger late in the 15th round, is considered one of the most memorable bouts of 1977.

After 14 rounds, it was even.

In the 15th, "I went out and just threw everything I had for 2 1/2 minutes," says Palomino, who also won the rematch -- by unanimous decision -- in May 1978. "Finally, he went down."

Muniz wept when the bout was stopped, believing he'd squandered his last title shot, and rues its ending still.

"I was tired, but I was totally aware," he says. "I knew Carlos was on top of me and I knew he was trying to knock me down, but I was waiting for one more punch myself. I knew if I threw one more punch straight at him, he was going to go down."

He never got the chance and less than two years later, after tendinitis in his left arm forced him to quit against Sugar Ray Leonard, Muniz retired with a record of 44-14-1.

Later, after his plan to buy a beer distributorship fell through and he discovered he wasn't cut out for selling real estate or insurance, he used his degree and turned to teaching.

Last June, the former boxer retired after 21 years of teaching Spanish and math at Riverside Rubidoux High.

"I never thought I'd be a teacher," says Muniz, who helps run a youth boxing program in Riverside. "I thought, teachers are paid too little. I'll win the world title and go from there."

Like Palomino, Muniz was born in Mexico. Both are from big families -- Palomino was the third of 11 children, Muniz the second of eight -- and both fought in the Army at Ft. Bragg, N.C., before going to college. Muniz boxed for the U.S. in the 1968 Olympics. Both fighters say their fathers' hard-knock lives as laborers motivated their pursuit of higher education.

Today, both are grandfathers.



Muniz is 62, Palomino 59.

"I don't think going to school affected my fighting at all," says Muniz, echoing his longtime friend and former rival. "All I needed to be a fighter was time in the morning to jog, time in the afternoon to go to the gym and the dedication to take care of myself."

He laughs, noting, "I don't know how in the world I did it."

Says Palomino, "A lot of people had doubts. My manager told me, 'You're not going to be able to do it.' I said, 'Just give me a year to see where we're at.' In a year, I was 8-0 and carrying 18 units a semester. He said, 'OK, you're doing it,' but I didn't have much of a life. I trained and went to school."

Unlike Muniz, Palomino never had to rely on his degree to find work. He successfully defended his title seven times before losing a split decision to Wilfred Benitez in 1979, then launched a career as an actor and pitchman. Including a brief comeback in the late 1990s, he ended his career with a 31-4-3 record.

These days, Palomino owns a credit-card processing company and works with at-risk teens, pushing education.

It's a subject he and Muniz know well.

"I'm proud to say that Carlos and I were in that fight," says Muniz, who supplements his pension income as a bail bondsman. "I think the Latino community took it as, 'Wow, two of our guys are doing this.' I just wish it would have translated into more kids going into college and getting out of gangs."

Who's to say it didn't?



jerome.crowe@latimes.com

Classic L.A. Brother Acts (1960's-70's). . .

Courtesy of Author Rick Farris

Everybody knows about Frankie Jr. & Tony Baltazar, but aside from an amateur career, few know about Bobby because he cut his unbeaten pro boxing career short. After amassing an impressive KO record, Bobby chose a career beyond the ropes.

Same is true with the Lopez brothers. We all know about Ernie & Danny, but what about their older brother, Leonard? Leonard campaigned around L.A. in the mid 60's, and I used to see him in the gym daily. He came up in the same group as Ruben Navarro, Rodolfo Gonzalez, Mando Ramos, etc. However, unlike his two younger brothers, Lenny had a pretty average career. In his last bout, broadcast on TV from the Olympic, Leonard Lopez suffered a freak injury. He reeled back after a combination, lost his footing and as he tried to get his balance, slipped to the floor, breaking his ankle.

That was the end of his career. He retired and would occasionally work for one of his old gym buddies, lightweight Billy Coleman (who fought Mando Ramos and Navarro, himself). I used to live in Monterey Park, directly across the street from Billy Coleman, who had become an building contractor and had a successful business. Billy would put both Leonard and Ernie to work as laborers after they retired from boxing. 

The Quarry Brothers . . . Oldest Brother Jimmy didn't have the talent, and neither did the youngest, Bobby. Jerry & Mike would get all the glory. Jimmy died not too long ago, and Bobby today suffers from the same condition that cost his older brothers their lives.

The Sandovals . . . Youngest brother Richie was the only Sandoval to win a world title, but middle bro Albert "Super Fly" would come close, gaining top ten bantamweight ranking during an exciting career. However, oldest brother Joey (whom I beat by decsion in my last amateur bout) would go unheard of. If he ever turned pro, I don't know.


-Rick Farris

Then and Now

Photos Courtesy of Frank Baltazar Sr.

Ernie "Indian Red" Lopez, Howie Steindler and Danny"Little Red" Lopez

Ernie "Indian Red " Lopez and Danny "Little Red" Lopez

Champion (2002)

I just saw this movie today for the first time. The movie is intended for a Korean audience but with subtitles it comes across fairly well, though I do think a few things are lost in the translation.

The movie follows the life of Duk Koo Kim (Kim Deuk-Gu) and the events leading up to his fight with and his death at the hands of Lightweght Champion Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini. I don't know if this movie is typical of the quality of movies being produced in Korea but it was a better movie than I had anticipated.

The movie gives an insight into the minds of Korean boxers and training, as well as a peek at Korean culture. It gives a fairly honest view of Kim's life, warts and all, including his relationship with his coach, his fiancee and his team mates.

This movie is poignant reminder that despite the gloves and rules that are designed to protect a boxer. The threat of death is always hovering over a boxing match. The fight between Mancini and Kim was directly responsible for championship rounds being changed from 15 rounds to 12 rounds.

The movie is directed by Kwak Kyong -Taek and stars Yu Oh Seong as Kim. Worth a watch, even if you're not a boxing fan.