Jack Dempsey suffered loss in 1927 slaying-suicide
(click to enlarge)
January 1968
It was vicious. It was bloody. It was grueling. And it was fantastic.
Each man forced the other to fight harder and dig deeper than at any other point in their lives, much less their boxing careers. One was forced to climb off the canvas while the other was driven toward it a number of times. The fight’s cuts were so deep and so pulsating that the crimson covered their torsos and made portions of the canvas sticky. The blood-letting was only exceeded by the Mexico City crowd’s desire to crown a new champion.
25-year-old Chartchai Chionoi, 46-10-2 (31) was making the third defense of the WBC flyweight title he won from Scotland’s Walter McGowan via cut-induced ninth round TKO in front of his home fans in Bangkok. Since then he had fought five times and won them all, four by KO and two in defense of his title (KO 3 Puntip Keosuriya and another cut-marred TKO 7 over McGowan). Chionoi wasn’t the most skilled boxer but he used his iron will and phenomenally heavy hands to carry him to the very top of his profession. The Torres fight marked only the second time Chionoi ventured beyond the Far East and because of what happened the first time around — McGowan led on points in their London rematch at the time of the stoppage — one had to doubt whether the Thai would walk out with the title still strapped around his waist. Another point of concern: Chionoi, who normally struggled to make the 112-pound limit, scaled a stunningly light 109¾, two full pounds less than Torres and 15¼ pounds lighter than his non-title go against Mimoun Ben Ali just 51 days earlier.
Efren Torres, 48-4-1 (32), was a dangerous hitter, especially early as 23 of his knockouts had occurred in four rounds or less. His last three losses signified his quality as he lost two fights to Hiroyuki Ebihara (12-round split decision, KO by 7) and, in his first title opportunity 13 months earlier, pushed 72-1-6 WBA king Horacio Accavallo to the limit before dropping a close decision to the Argentine under an unusual 20-point must scoring system (Torres lost by scores of 297-294 twice and 298-293). The 24-year-old challenger had won four straight since then, including a five round KO over Octavio Gomez and, most recently, a 10-round points nod over perennial contender Joe Medel in a bantamweight contest.
The terms of battle were established right after the opening bell. Torres sportingly extended his left glove to touch Chionoi’s but the defending champ ignored the entreaty and unloaded a wild overhand right that missed the target badly and threw him off balance. From there they probed for openings and it was clear that the circling Torres was far more nimble than the flat-footed Chionoi. Torres’ quicker combinations and sharper punching enabled him to shade a close first round.
The second saw Chionoi accelerate the pace and unleash his full assortment of uniquely angled power shots. The Thai won a brief but explosive mid-ring exchange and moments later a thudding right to the jaw floored Torres along the ropes. Up at two, Torres quickly wiped his gloves on his trunks and brightly stared into referee Arthur Mercante’s eyes as he administered the mandatory eight. The visage that Mercante assessed also included a nasty cut over the left eye, a gash that would spill untold crimson on the canvas and would require 15 stitches to close. Determined not to let his circumstances get the best of him, Torres eagerly waded back into the fire and got in several effective hooks and crosses before the bell.
Chionoi again fanned on the big right to start the third but hit the target with his deceptively fast hammers as Torres moved and searched for openings. Less than a minute into the session the pair engaged in a vigorous toe-to-toe exchange that moved to all parts of the ring. Torres mixed his attack well between head and body while Chionoi’s attention was locked on worsening the cut. A huge right gonged off Torres’ chin but this time the Mexican’s legs held firm. As the round neared its end Torres connected with his own sweeping right that caused the champion to lean his torso back but little more.
The fourth started with another big exchange at ring center and this time Torres hit pay dirt as a compact right caused Chionoi’s right knee to buckle and the crowd to erupt in joyful waves. A double hook to the body and jaw drove the Thai to the ropes, sparking a torrent of blows from the challenger. Torres pelted Chionoi from every angle imaginable but the champion’s chin, legs and composure managed to remain strong. As he passed by Mercante glanced at Torres’ cut, whose byproducts now covered the challenger’s face, but chose to let the action continue unabated. Realizing the fight might be stopped at any time, Torres increased the pressure even more and worked over Chionoi with a succession of hooks to the head and body. Through it all Chionoi remained unflappable and near round’s end he landed with a tightly arced hook to the chin that served to stop Torres’ advance momentarily.
Chionoi missed with another overhand right to start round five – why he continued that tactic remained a mystery – but he fared better when he maneuvered Torres to the ropes and landed a good body-head combo. The faster Torres continued to pepper Chionoi with sharp punches that piled up points but unfortunately for the challenger the cut continued to bleed. A heavy one-two twisted Chionoi’s head but improbably ignited an energetic counterattack that prompted Torres to cut his surge short. Still, the blows prompted notice to the left side of Chionoi’s face, which was swelling noticeably.
Round six was a big round for Torres as he buzzed Chionoi twice with fusillades of close-range punches, some of which worsened the bulge above the champion’s left eye. Chionoi’s situation worsened early in the seventh when, following a fantastic mid-ring exchange, a Torres hook to the jaw sent him reeling toward the ropes. Under today’s rules his stumble would have been ruled a knockdown but here it just allowed Torres to swarm him uninterrupted. Only a champion’s pride kept the Thai on his feet.
With every passing round the blood cascading from Torres’ face became more of an issue, especially when the bout moved to long range in the eighth and ninth rounds. The taller Chionoi’s jab stabbed Torres’ face, which was now a bright red mask, but Chionoi’s growingly misshapen visage, which now saw blood coming out of the nose, wasn’t much better. The crimson covered both men’s torsos and trunks and one had to wonder how much longer either man’s body would hold up. At the start of round 10, a Torres corner man was seen wiping the blood off the sticky canvas.
Sensing time might be running out for him, Torres summoned a surge in the 11th that had Chionoi cut over the left eye, tottering about the ring and bent at the waist. Once again, the ultra-tough Thai survived without hitting the floor but that said, he still absorbed a frightful beating.
That beating continued throughout the first two minutes of the 12th. But in between taking bombs Chionoi slipped in enough punches to keep the blood flowing from Torres’ face. A stupendous hook-cross to the face caused Torres’ legs to buckle, forced the challenger into instant retreat and quieted Torres’ boisterous fans.
Entering the 13th the scoring couldn’t have been more divided. Mercante had Torres a huge 116-107 winner while one judge somehow had Chionoi up 115-111. The third jurist had neither ahead as the tally read 113-113. As the fighters prepared to answer the bell they looked as if they had spent the afternoon at a slaughterhouse.
Chionoi jolted Torres’ head with a tightly delivered hook early in the round but an even shorter hook caused the champion to pause. Seconds later Mercante stared into Torres’ face and didn’t like the damage he saw. He led the challenger to a neutral corner and summoned the ring physician, who briefly dabbed the blood with a tissue before waving his arms and stopping the contest at the 1:15 mark of round 13.
The instant Chionoi realized he had won he ran toward Torres’ corner, dropped to the floor and wrapped his arms around the challenger’s shins, which may well have been a gesture of humility and respect for a fight well waged.
“He’s the toughest man I ever fought,” Chionoi said through an interpreter. “He is definitely the second best flyweight in the world.”
Torres probably begged to differ, for it appeared that had he not been cut he would have had a good chance of lifting the title. The only way to settle the score was to have a second fight, and perhaps a rubber match.
That’s exactly what happened. Thirteen months later they returned to the El Toreo in Mexico City and this time Torres benefited from a Chionoi injury. A horribly swollen left eye slammed shut, prompting Mercante and the ring doctor to stop the contest in round eight. Thirteen months after that, they met in Bangkok, where Chionoi regained the title by close but unanimous decision.
(by Lee Groves)
Bagley
"It my first fight with Greb. I had taken a frightful beating. Awful. But the next morning my then-manager Doc Bagley said 'You certainly gave me a hard time last night, kid. Working on those cuts. It was rough.' While Bagley talked to me, the doctor was sewing up my eyebrows with a big needle. It felt as if he were pulling my eyeballs out. 'Yes,' I told Bagley, 'you had it rough.' But in my mind I said, 'I'm going to get rid of this fellow.'
(Gene Tunney)
March '71
When he broke camp five detectives rode shotgun with him to New York, underlining how serious they had taken the many death threats to his life. He didn't say much, said one, and he "looked so distant we joked that he was sitting there waiting for us to give him the menu for his last meal."
There were only a handful of people in Frazier's room that night - Durham, Futch, an assistant, Les Peleman, and a Philly cop bodyguard. Joe was gloved and ready. Durham took him to the far corner of the room, put his hands on his shoulders, looked him straight in the eye and in his signature voice said: "Well, we're here. I want you to know what you've done, boy. There will never be another Joe Frazier. They all laughed. You got us here. There's not another human who ever lived I'd want to send out there, not even Joe Louis. Win tonight, and the road will be paved with gold.
Joe knelt in the corner of the room and prayed aloud: "God, let me survive this night. God protect my family. God grant me strength. And God...allow me to kick the shit out of this mothafucker!."
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A more just world would have celebrated Frazier's victory that night. From the beginning, however, careful observers knew that the story wasn't going to play out like that. "Joe's such a decent guy," veteran trainer Futch said of Frazier before the fight, "but when he beats Ali, Joe is going to be to go down as one of the most unpopular black champions of all time."
The next day Ali was public again, the X-rays were negative. He wanted his legions to know that he didn't lose, it was a bad decision, and that he had only trained for a six-round fight. He had shown remarkable heart and endurance, now with cameras grinding he was trying to steal the fight back from Joe, issuing some subtle, dippy call for a referendum, and he was succeeding. Privately, he was of another mind: "We been whupped. Maybe I'll get some peace now. We all have to take defeats in life." Joe watched on television at the Pierre, had Ali's comments read to him as he lay in bed. "It's not like I even won," he said. "He's robbin' me. Like nothin' changed!" He struggled to his feet. He tried to lift the TV set, to hurl it across the room. He was too weak. Durham guided him back to bed, saying: "Now, now, Joe. You know he aint got any sense." Nevertheless, Frazier continued to seethe. A commission doctor came by, suggested he be moved to a hospital in the Catskills. "What?" Joe said. "So he can make more headlines, show how he beat me so bad I gotta be put in a hospital?" Joe slipped out of the Pierre, to St Luke's Hospital in Philly. For twenty-hours, Dr James Guffe had him lay in a bed of ice. Joe dreamed a spirit had taken his hand, said he would be okay. "I could feel his touch. He was right there." They told him the next morning there had been no visitors.
His life hung out there for several days. His blood pressure was in another galaxy, and he had a kidney infection. Day and night, every five minutes, doctors scurried in and out of his room. They thought they would lose him to a stroke. Durham was in London on business, and quickly hustled back. But for a time, only Joe Hand, a cop and stockholder, sat out the nights with him.
"Let him live," Joe said to no one in particular. Joe stayed in a deep sleep, almost a coma. When he awoke, he mumbled over and over: "Don't say a word, Joe. Don't let Ali find out I'm here." At one point, four doctors lingered ominously over his bed. He awoke one time, and said: "All the money I made for people, and you're the only one here, Joe." Hand tried to comfort him, what could he say to a man on the brink? Finally, Joe broke through, like he had through Ali's mechanized jab, and he began to stabilize. One doctor sighed and said: "It was close."
Joe Frazier stayed in St Luke's hospital for three weeks.
(by Mark Kram)
The Hurricane
“I don’t like it here,” Jackson said. “I want to go back to the mountains, shoot a mouse. No mouses here.” “You can’t go back now,” Freddie Brown said in a soothing voice. Then he turned to me. “Hurricane found a new interest,” he said. “He shoots rats with a twenty-two. He calls them mice.” “Mouses,” the fighter corrected him. “I shoot them between the eyes.” He seemed depressed. “He finds them on the dump,” Freddie said. When Jackson saw that Freddie wasn’t going to take him back to the mountains, he wandered away and sat down, staring at his feet.
“I don’t know where he gets the energy,” said Freddie, who looked underweight. “The hardest worker I ever seen before him is Marciano, but Marciano works steady and then he rests good. Also he eats good. Jackson don’t sleep enough and he don’t eat enough. These boys that ain’t used to good food, it don’t agree with them.” “What kind of food is he used to?” I asked. “He wants hot dogs,” Freddie said. “And also ice cream and pie. We got him to accept hamburgers as a substitute, but you got to watch him all the time. He fell out of a canoe which I had told him not to get into it, and he can’t swim good. He wants to ride a horse, he thinks he is Eddie Arcaro. And he could easy shoot himself instead of them rats.” Freddie shuddered.
14th July, 1954 -
Whitey Bimstein, Freddie Brown, and Lippy Breidbart all came into the ring with their primitive. Jackson weighed a hundred and ninety and a half, which indicated that he had overdone his self-induced training sessions. Nino Valdes’s weight was announced as two hundred and four, which showed that he had done more work than customary, but not too much. In the first round Valdes, boxing straight up, moved forward methodically and punched at Jackson’s body. Jackson, fidgeting about, did not accomplish anything.
Jackson stood up in his corner halfway through the one-minute rest period and did what gym teachers call “running in place,” at the same time waving his arms. When the bell rang, he rushed out to meet Valdes, dabbing and slapping. Valdes took aim like a bowler and knocked him through the ropes, at which point, since Jackson’s body was very nearly horizontal, the referee should have started a count, in my opinion, even though the lower strand prevented the animal’s body from touching the canvas. Valdes—“mucho nice boy,” as he would have said—turned and went to a neutral corner. The referee disentangled Jackson and upended him, and Valdes knocked him down again a couple of times. Each time Jackson fell—he did even that grotesquely, landing once sitting, once kneeling—he bounced up at the count of two or three. But the referee, because of a fairly new rule of the New York State Athletic Commission, had to stand in front of him and count eight before permitting the opponents to resume action. According to a collateral rule, if one boxer knocks the other down three times in one round, the referee has to stop the fight.
By my reckoning—and I was not alone—the second knockdown was really the third, and the referee, Al Berl, should consequently have stopped the fight there if he was going to be a precisionist. But Berl let them go to it again. Jackson was fluttering like a winged bird, making a difficult though harmless target, and Valdes, conscious of the three-knockdown rule, was following him about, eager to bring him down, even for a half second, before the round ended. Valdes has had many fights, has always finished strong, and was in good condition, but he seemed at this point to be heaving. Perhaps it was merely emotion, for he could not have anticipated a chance to knock off work so early. Several times he aimed as deliberately as if he were about to hurl a sack of sugar at a toad but missed. Finally he missed Jackson’s head with his right fist and, in recovering, hit him on the back of the neck with his forearm, as big around as a normal collar. He may simply have been trying to keep himself from falling. Anyway, Jackson’s knees hit the floor, and Berl, perhaps to compensate for the time he hadn’t counted, flung his arms wide in token of a technical knockout. Jackson promptly jumped up. In Pierce Egan’s time the victor might have offered to knock the loser out again to satisfy him, but that was before the Athletic Commission. (I know an old boxer who was awarded a fight on a foul because the other fellow was biting him. My friend was enjoying himself, so he said he would go on with the match if the fellow would promise to stop biting. The opponent promised, but he didn’t keep his word. “Maybe he hadn’t ate lately,” my man says.) They towed Valdes into the corner of the ring farthest from Jackson and, snuggling against his flank, make him hold up his right hand for the benefit of the photographers, who got a picture like one of those circus shots taken under the elephant’s trunk. From the way Valdes was grinning, he had a pretty good program lined up for the rest of the evening. Meanwhile Jackson was standing in his corner, shaking his head and refusing to leave the ring. He demanded the privilege of being hit some more. I could see Whitey and Freddie and a policeman arguing with him. At last they persuaded him to leave.
The show had drawn forty-five hundred cash customers—possibly six thousand in all, including deadheads, but even that is only a third of the Garden’s capacity, and there was no trouble getting around. The evening seemed so incomplete that I decided to visit Jackson’s dressing room, off the corridor on the north side of the arena, to hear the losing faction’s story. There were perhaps twenty colored people outside the door, including several attractive girls. As I approached, the door flew open, and Jackson, dressed and carrying a suitcase, dashed through the group and ran up the stairs that lead to an exit on 50th Street, about midway between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. “Tommy, come back!” one of the girls yelled. I followed Jackson out, not knowing quite what he might do, and ran slap into a storm, of which I had been unaware. It was a short, intense squall that had just hit the city, and it seemed to me an exaggerated reaction to the defeat of Tommy Jackson. To him, however, marching off into the rain, it may have seemed a fitting recognition of the occasion. He turned south on Ninth, and my curiosity was not strong enough to draw me more than a short distance into the rain after him. Then I began working my way back toward Eighth, taking advantage of intervening marquees and saloons for cover. At Muller’s, on the north side of the street, they have Münchner beer on tap, and I sheltered there longer than at any other place. By the time I got around to the main entrance of the Garden the storm had died to a drizzle, but there were still a couple of dozen fight people under the big marquee talking about the night’s events. I saw a second named Izzy Blanc, who had worked a pair of the minor bouts, and asked him if he knew what had happened to Jackson. “He’s walking around the Garden in the rain,” he said. “He’s been around ten times since I’ve been standing here.” We waited, and within a minute Jackson swung by—silent, head forward, looking like a priest who has found he has no vocation or like an actor hissed from the stage. I asked Izzy if he had seen the disputed knockdown, but he, a diplomat, offered a good alibi. “After the second knockdown I was on my way to the dressing room,” he said. “I had the emergency.” He meant he had been engaged to second one of the boxers in the final four-rounder, and he had sensed that it was going to be needed earlier than anybody had expected. “I had my back to the ring,” he said. The rain was easy to ignore now, and Izzy said he was going to walk up Eighth, stopping by a couple of bars where he might meet other fight people. “We’ll probably find Whitey at the Neutral Corner,” he said. The Neutral is a bar on the southwest corner of 55th and Eighth, and when we got there, Whitey was on a stool smoking a cigar and having a glass of beer. “If they want to rune boxing,” he said, “that’s the way to do it. He wrastled him to the ground just when the kid was hitting his stride.” “His what?” I said “Sure,” Bimstein said. “He was just beginning to come on good.” “How about the first three knockdowns?” I asked. “There was only one knockdown,” Whitey said. He rejected my proposition that Berl had let the animal off the time he got knocked through the ropes. “And the second thing he called a knockdown, that was a push, too,” Whitey said. He appeared calm, not bitter, and acted as if it were a matter of little moment to him if the Commission wanted to take the bread out of its own mouth. “He was just sizing the fellow up,” he said. “And the fellow trips him, and boom, Berl stops the fight.” I began to suspect we hadn’t seen the same fight that evening.
(A.J. Liebling)
Mrs Nelson
Sept. 28. 1912
For the first time in his life Battling Nelson has declined to be interviewed. This time the subject of the proposed interview was matrimonial, not pugilism. "Is it true that your rumored engagement with Miss Fay King of Denver is all off?" Nelson was asked.
"The only match I know about is the one my Chicago representative is trying to clinch with Packey McFarland," replied Nelson, "and he is pretty slow about it, too."
Miss King says she loves you like a brother, but that she has not considered you for a husband," Nelson was informed.
"If McFarland thinks he can lick me, now is his chance," replied Bat.
"Didn't you and Miss King go up on Pikes peak and engage a minister to marry you? And didn't the minister fail to show up?" were the next questions.
"I'm not going to talk about marriage," said Bat. "I am leaving the matter up to her. What she says is right, no matter if she's wrong." Then Nelson got serious.
"There's no use in my talking marriage," he said. "Any man who says he's going to marry a woman is crazy, unless he has her right at the altar—and even then he's liable to be fooled. She may not like the color of his necktie and call off the match. Miss King is a fine cartoonist, and she'd make a fine wife for anybody. If I'm the lucky fellow at the finish I'll be tickled to death, that's all. But I'm not saying a word one way or the other on the time, the place or the girl."
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January 22, 1913.
Oscar Matthew Nelson, once famed as the lightweight champion pugilist 'Battling' Nelson, and Miss Fay Barbara King, a Denver cartoonist, were married today at the fighter's home in Hegewisch. The ceremony was brief, but as the final words fell from the minister's lips the bride, overcome by the nervous strain, swayed and toppled over into her husband's arms, sobbing violently. "Bat" soothed his bride, and pretty soon she smiled and said, "I feel much better after my cry."
Rev. W.E. Pearson, a Lutheran clergyman of Moline, performed the ceremony. "Jack" Robinson, manager of the fighter, was best man, and Miss Ida Nelson, sister of the groom, was maid of honor.
Outside a brass band burst forth into "Moonlight Bay." A report said there was to be a double wedding. Miss Ida Nelson, it was said, was to have been married to a young man of the town immediately after her brother's marriage. The story run that at the last minute the young man, fearing bad luck if he married on the twenty-third, insisted upon a postponement. Miss Nelson denied the story.
"I'm the happiest guy in the world." Bat said. Asked about his wife's future, the groom said:
"She'll probably devote her time to illustrating my map. But I'll stay in the ring. I've got to, as that's the only way I have of making a living."
The couple came to Chicago after the ceremony and a wedding breakfast was served at the Wellington hotel.
The trip downtown to "Bat's" home was a gala affair. A special car on the Illinois Central was chartered and a band hired.
On the train Miss King drew a cartoon of the pugilist. The moving picture men were clamoring for some pictures and set up their machines before, the happy pair. The band played and "Bat" leaned over and (kissed his bride to be twice, and the picture machines got it all.
A big crowd turned out at Hegewisch to greet "Bat" and his fiancee. There were vigorous cheers as the party stepped from the train. The band played as the long line of friends, townsmen. newspaper men, moving picture operators and photographers started for the Nelson home behind the bridal party in a big automobile.
Tonight the couple entertained friends at a theater.
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February 28, 1913.
Nelson's Wife Says Pugilist Kidnapped Her
Former Lightweight Champion Will Be Met at Denver by Summons in Divorce Suit
Battling Nelson, financier of Hegewiseh and erstwhile champion lightweight prize fighter, will be met with a summons in a suit for divorce when he arrives in Denver March 5.
This announcement was made tonight by friends of Mrs. Nelson, better known in Denver as Fay King, a cartoonist on the Post.
That she was kidnaped by Battling Nelson on the night of January 20 for her marriage three days later at the fighter's home will be the charge which the suit will be based.
Fay King remained three days as Nelson's wife. She left for Denver on the Sunday night following the marriage and then went on to Portland. Ore., to visit her parents before resuming her work on the Post.
"Nelson heard of my reported engagement to a Denver man and ho stopped his fighting engagements to come here for me." said Miss King tonight. "He took me by storm after I was weak and a nervous wreck from resisting him and his proposals he forced me into a taxicab and rushed me off to the station.
"I realized that I had made a mistake the day of the wedding and the first opportunity I got I hurried back to Denver. I will go right on working on the Post as though the affair had never happened.
"The marriage must not and will not stand."
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May 6, 1913.
Couple back together.
Fay Has the Say and Battler Will Retire
Battling Nelson, hero of many ring battles, the receiver of many a lacing, ''…and former lightweight champion of the world, today announced the date of his retirement from the ring. Bat is going to quit. There's no idle boast connected with the announcement. It may not be the wish of the once durable Dane to put the gloves on the shelf, but it is the request Mrs. Battling Nelson, Fay King, and Fay has the say. Labor day will be the Dane's last fight—this because it will be the eighteenth anniversary of his fighting career. He would quit now but for that. There will be no fights between now and September, however. Nelson and his wife are now in Bedford, Va., resting up. Bat plans on settling in the far west.
...........
Years later Nelson sued King for divorce as reported in Cartoons Magazine, March 1916. A divorce was granted later that year.
Fay King's name was not found in the 1940 census. Battling Nelson passed away February 7, 1954.
The Oregonian newspaper , February 9, 1954, reported that the funeral expenses were to be paid by King.
Battling Nelson died February 7, 1954 at the age of 71 in the Chicago State Hospital where the rugged old battler was committed; his death was attributed to senility. Fay King preformed a very gentle and gracious act when she hears of his death. Fay was truly a kind person. She defrayed the funeral expenses so he could be buried in Chicago next to his second wife, “whom he loved so much,” who had died just 2 months before, December 26, 1953.
Fay had been married to Bat over 40 years before his death and yet, when she was told her response was. “He was such a noble, honest man he did not deserve such a tragic end.” Fay had not seen him since 1919.
(from - WHO WAS FAY KING by Marilyn Slater)
"I Can See Clearly Now"
via - https://www.facebook.com/pages/West-Coast-Boxing-Hall-of-Fame/1439182726321176
West Coast Boxing Legend, Jose Napoles . . .
"I Can See Clearly Now"
by Roger Esty
I decided to walk across the old bridge into Ciudad ,Juarez from El Paso. I was looking for my favorite fighter Jose Napoles. In my hand was the portrait I made of him some years ago. I get these impulse and need to follow through with them. I had read various articles recently that he lived in Juarez and had a gym. He was struggling financially and physically. He had a wife who looked after him. Friends,and even a figure like Carlos Slim the billionare,made sure he wasn't put out in the street.There was enough money there to make ,in my vision,life tolerable for the greatest fighter I ever saw do combat in the ring. But I wanted to see for myself.
I attempted to look for him on Saturday afternoon. I walked across the bridge with my painting noticing that there weren't many people crossing the bridge into Juarez.Unlike the heavy foot traffic that crosses into Tijuana from San Diego,there was only an old Mexican couple holding hands slowly walking up the sidewalk of the bridge ahead of me. The sun was bearing down and the heat made me sweat profusely.After turning the curve on the downslope,I saw a female Mexican immigration officer searching a man's backpack. There was no anxiety in her motions nor with his reaction. She was working alone. Her efforts were probably an excuse for her to show that she was doing something. After reaching the otherside I became aware of the quietness. The heat.The glare. The slow movements of the few people in the area made me think that this city couldn't be the murder capital of the world. It would take too much energy to kill somebody.
At the bottom of the ramp I asked a soldier where I could find a taxi. He politely motioned for me to walk to the traffic light and cross the street.The light was red ,but there were no cars at the intersection. I saw three taxi cabs parked at the corner. I didn't see anyone sitting inside the cabs.As I neared the taxis and old gray haired man wearing a crumpled fedora limped out from behind a tree and asked if I wanted to go somewhere. I asked him if he knew where I could find Jose Napoles.I showed him the painting. He shrugged his shoulders.
"No, I do not know,but if you walk to the corner on the next block,he has friends there that know him.They are also taxistas."
I continued my walk. I was sweating and my hip was giving me trouble again. I thought that afternoon my efforts were going to wash out. At the corner I saw a man taking something out of the trunk of his taxi.Holding out the painting ,I tried again.
"Por favor amigo. Estoy buscando for Mantequiila Napoles."
The taxi driver looked at me and then the painting.
"I know him. He has a gym,but he doesn't go there on the weekends."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"We can go to the gym.Maybe someone there knows where he lives."
As we drove around a maze of streets,the cab driver asked me where I was from. I told him that I lived in San Diego.The taxista told me his name was Javier.He had a friendly face and was relaxed.I asked him if he knew who Jose Napoles was and he said that he knew of him,but was too young to recall any of his fights.
After turning many corners,the cab driver pulled in front of a big white building. The front of the building was dirty and there was graffiti on the front wall. A hand painted sign near the top of the wall said"Salon de Belleza y Gimnasio Roma."The neighborhood was rundown and empty.I couldn't see anyone around.Some cars were parked along the street.
We walked inside a spacious front room with a concrete floor. A young woman sitting behind an old wooden desk smiled at us.She was a little overweight and very pretty.
"Donde esta Mantequilla? Este senor tiene un regalo para el,"asked Javier
The young woman looked at my painting. She asked me if I had painted it.
"Yes,I want to give this to Mantequilla. Will he be here today?"
"No,"she replied." He doesn't come here anymore."
I had read that he had some physical issues.
"Is he sick?"I asked as my hopes for seeing my idol were dwindling.
"He gets confused,"she said. "His wife takes care of him."
"Where is his gym?"
"It's upstairs,but it is locked."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"He used to live around the corner.You can ask in the street if anyone knows where he lives."
Javier took my painting and put it on the back seat of the cab.I got inside the passenger side. I had a hard time swinging my sore leg inside the cab. Javier quickly got out of his seat to help me.
"No,no. I can do it ,"I said.
I finally managed to get my leg in and we proceeded around the corner. There were three men working under the hood of an old car.Javier pulled the taxi next to the men working on the car.The three men looked at us. I could tell from their expressions that they knew Javier.
"Mantecas vive in la colonia todavia?"asked Javier with a laugh.
"No," answered a voice. "He used to live on that house at the corner,but he moved. You could always see him walking around the street smoking his cigar."
"Ask if any of them know his phone number,"I tried another option.
Javier asked the three men.None of them knew the phone number.
"His wife has a phone," said one of them."But it is a Nextel. Nobody around here has a phone like that."
Javier drove back to the gym.I didn't want to give him the impression that there was desperation in my quest,but now I was hoping for some luck to break my way. The young woman at the desk said that maybe the janitor that was cleaning in the backroom might be of assistance. As she was motioning us to the backroom,a young fellow holding a mop walked out.
"I know where Mantequilla lives. I can give you directions."
I felt a rush and a sense of some relief. Javier and the janitor where talking ,but I couldn't pick up on their conversation,Javier told me to get inside of the cab. He put my painting on the back seat. We drove off.
"I can find him,but I'll need to ask for some directions."
After turning more corners,Javier stopped the taxi at a corner across from a church.
"Wait here,"he said. "I need to ask someone."
I didn't see were Javier went,but when he got back inside the cab he was looking straight ahead.
"I know where he lives. We need to go around the block."
Javier steered the taxi around the corner onto a small back street.The small stucco houses all looked the same. Rectangular with flat roofs.The only thing that distinguished them was that they were painted in different pastel colors. The street was narrow. So narrow that two cars could not navigate in opposite directions.In order for cars to get through the street the parked vehicles had their driver's side wheels parked on top of the curb. When the taxi cleared the corner,we could see Jose Napoles sitting on a chair under the shade of a tree. There was no one else in the street. He stood out as big as life. There was no doubt. Javier sped up the taxi and stopped quickly in front of him. Mantequiila puffed on a cigar and smiled.
"Campeon,"I said to him.
Still smiling he held up his fist. Javier parked the taxi up on the curb.He took my painting from ther back seat and handed it to me.
"Mantequilla,"I said excitedly."Este cuadro es para ti. Yo pinte."
Mantequilla didn't reach out for the painting. I held it out in front of him to see.Javier walked to the side and leaned against a wall. Mantequilla stared at the painting studying it. Then he extended his hand to me.
"This is where I live,"he said. "This is my wife's house."
Mantequilla never got off his chair. I asked him if I could take some pictures. He puffed on his cigar again,but it had gone out. Javier quickly took a lighter out of his shirt pocket and relit the cigar.
"How are you feeling?"I asked the ex champion.
"I feel very good. My wife is not here. She went shopping.She will be back soon."
"I was your number one fan,"I said. "I saw many of your fights."
Mantequilla was down to the end of his cigar. I put the painting against the wall of the house.
"You see this truck?"asked Mantequilla pointing.
There was a big four wheel drive truck parked with the wheels on the curb in front of the house next door.The truck was caked with mud.
"This is my wife's truck. She went shopping."
"They say you don't go to the gym anymore,"I said."We looked for you there."
"Oh no.I go.If I want to go my wife drives me."
Mantequilla looked at the corner of the street. A little boy walked out of the abarrotes holding a bottle of soda. Mantequilla waved and smiled at the boy,but the boy didn't notice him nor did he look his way.
"Many people see me everyday,"he said. "I have many fans.My wife went shopping with my mother in law."
"How did you meet your wife?"
"I was sitting here smoking my cigar and she waked by with her mother."
"Isn't she you third wife?"
Mantequilla burst out laughing.
"Oooo,I had many wives. Many wives."
"You're like Pancho Villa."
Mantequilla continued laughing. It was a subject I could tell he like to relish in.
"Then you have many ninos tambien."
"Muchos."
"And many mother in laws."
"No,no.I have only one mother in law."
"Dime Mantequilla.Puedes coher todavia?"
Now he was laughing so hard he almost fell out of his chair.
"But at our age screwing isn't that important,"he remarked. He tried to inhale on what was left of his cigar.
"Having a wife that cooks is more important,"I said.
"Seguro. Hay muchas que le gustan a coher. Pero una mujar que puede a cocinar? Es magica."
I told him my wife was Mexican born in Michoacán and that she was back in California.
"When my wife gets home from shopping I invite you and your wife to eat dinner with us."
Mantequilla then turned to Javier who was still leaning against the wall.
"Why don't you talk?"asked Mantequilla.
"I enjoy listening to the two of you."
'Mantequilla,didn't you know Ciro Morisan?"I asked.
"Ciro?The most beautiful boxer who ever lived."
"Didn't he commit suicide when he couldn't leave Cuba?"
Mantequilla didn't say anything. Then he started up again.
"My wife went shopping.She will be back soon."
"Campeon,did you know that you are going to be inducted into the California Boxing Hall of Fame in October?"
"I am?Then I will go with you."
"Give me your phone number.We can make arrangements"
"My wife knows it.She went shopping."
I gave him my card with my personal information .He took it and studied it. He then played with the card with his hands.
"A few years ago I talked with Emile Griffith,"I said.
"He comes by to see me all the time."
"He passed away last year."
Mantequilla tried to puff on his dead cigar.
"My wife is with her mother. They will be right back."
"I never saw a fighter who was as smart as you,"I said.
"I was always in tremendous physical condition. I ran through out the whole city up in the hills."
"You always knew what you were doing in the ring."
"I would look shoulder to shoulder,"he said pointing at my shoulders."My left foot was always in front."
"How many fights did you have in Cuba?"
"Thousands,"he said laughing. "My uncles would throw me in the street with the older boys and then bet that I would win."
"Did you win?"
"I had to or I had to fight my uncles."
"You had a good trainer with Kid Rapidez. Tell me. Do you ever hear from Angelo Dundee anymore."
"He comes by almost everyday to see me."
"Have you ever been back to Cuba?"
" I went one time. You see this truck? It belongs to my wife."
"Who is the best fighter in Mexico today?"I went on.
"There is this kid who lives near by. He used to come to the gym,but I don't see him anymore."
"I saw you after you retired with your band at the Rancho Grande Bar in Tijuana. Your wife sang and you played the trumpet."
"Musica tropical."
"Didn't you have a few bars? Didn't the police try to shake you down in your place in the Zona Rosa in Mexico City?
"We beat them up and threw them out into the street with no clothes."
As we talked that day,I couldn't help see the old scars crisscrossed on Mantequilla's eyelids.That fragile tissue around his eyes. He even tried plastic surgery to correct the problem.Visiting the track more than trying to sweat off the late nights in the gym.Age and some brutal fights at the end. By the time he lost to Stracey he wasn't running through the hills in the city.
I waited around. Mrs. Napoles never showed up .In a way I was glad she didn't I didn't want to hear the truth. Mantequilla Napoles is happy.He sits outside his wife's house smoking his cigars and waves and smiles to anyone who wants to stop by and listen to his stories.Maybe he stretches the truth,but the truth is nothing more than what it is at the moment.
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