By Frank Baltazar
Late spring 1972, a bunch of us guys are going on a camping/fishing trip, a trip that my brother-in-law Willie and our families had taken countless of times, this time it’s a guys thing, Willie’s young son, Jesse, is also making the trip, my brother Mando and other brother-in-law Danny are among a bunch of guys going in two pickups/campers. Danny had never gone camping with us before, so when I called to invite him, he said yes and ask.
“ What do I need to take as far as food is concern”
“Danny, we’re going to camp and fish for 3-4 days, so bring what you think you’re going eat and drink in those days”
We met at my place on Friday morning, Willie arrives early to help load my pickup/camper, Mando and Danny arrived about the same time. Since Willie did do all the cooking for our group, he was in charge of loading up the food in the camper, he would get it all together and load it up so that he would know where everything would be at.
“Danny, where is your food?’
“Right here, Willie”
Willie gets a small box from Danny with half dozen eggs, half pound of bacon, cold cuts, half a loaf of bread, six pack of beer and a choice piece of steak, Willie looks at me and shakes his head.
“Danny, is this all the beer you brought?”
“Well, yes”
“Watch this”
Willie drank all of Danny’s beer in no time.
“Willie, you drank all my beer!”
“Well, now your need to buy some more”
Danny bought a case of beer!.
We head north on Highway 395, we stopped at Little Lake Hotel/Bar to meet the other guys and to shoot some pool and drink beer, Little Lake Hotel/Bar was, it has since burned down, in the middle of nowhere, we walked into the bar and it was empty, Ernie, one of the guys in the other camper notice an old piano in a corner and ask the barmaid if he could play it.
“Go ahead, it hasn’t been played in years”
Now, Ernie can play a mean Boogie Woogie, after he played a few notes people were coming out of the woodwork, all desert rats, after Ernie played some tunes and we played some pool, drank beer, we left.
Some hours later we arrive at McGee Creek Campground where we made camp. At sundown Willie goes inside the camper to get dinner ready for our group, Willie took longer then usual to cook dinner, finally he opened the camper door and yells.
“Come and get it”
We all get in line as Willie starts passing out the plates with the grub, when Danny gets his plate, he looks at it, and sees a pork chop, he looks at Willie.
“Willie, where’s my steak?”
Rubbing his belly Willie goes.
“Yum, Yum!”
He ate Danny choice steak!, that's why it took him so long to get dinner ready for the rest of us.
After dinner while we’re around the campfire drinking beer and tequila I see Willie trying to chop up a good size log with what looked like a Boys Scouts axe, Danny sees him too.
“Willie, what are you doing to my axe?”
“Danny, here’s what I think of your axe”
Willie throws Danny’s axe in the fire, Danny almost had a heart attack. Willie told me late that he had already broken the handle.
After a while Mando and I ran out of tequila, let me say here that this was the first time drinking with my one and only brother, he had just return from Vietnam, so yes we were hanging one on, running out of the agave, we decided to go across the street to the McGee Creek Lodge & Bar to get some more tequila.
After first refusing the owner of the lodge/bar agree to sell us a bottle of the agave that was a few shots short, we gave him 20 bucks for it, found a table to sit at, as Mando and I sat drinking the owner’s 15 year old daughter would come to wipe our table clean and down a shot, she got drunk and so did I, I passed out and was drag back to the camper ruining my brand new cowboys boots.
Next thing I remember was when I woke up next morning in the top bunk of the camper next to little Jesse, he was wet, I was wet, who pissed on who?
Monday, May 24, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Last Hurrah
By Randy De La O
It was the night Javier Muniz and Rudy Hernandez fought their first fight at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles on June 10, 1976. It wasn’t exactly on the undercard but it literally stole the show that night. It was one of those unexpected events that just make a life long impression on you.
I had a fight scheduled that night with an opponent whose name I can no longer recall, if I ever knew it at all. Just minutes before I was scheduled to fight it was called off. I don’t remember the reason. I got dressed and Mel Epstein and I went upstairs to get a seat and watch the fight. There was a section set up for managers, trainers and boxers and those that were involved closely with boxing. Not to far from that was a gambler’s area. This is where the unplanned co-main event took place.
Mel and I found a seat. To be perfectly honest I can’t remember if it was during the main event or if it was on the undercard. I’m thinking the undercard because if I remember correctly we hung around for a bit. At any rate while watching the fight, we couldn’t help but notice some commotion breaking out where all the gambler’s were seated. There were two men arguing over money. One man was older and he appeared to be in his sixties. He was wearing a hat and one of those cheap suits that seemed prevalent with the downtown crowd back in those days. It was dark and made from cheap fabric. The suit appeared to be old and worn. The man was either Mexican or Filipino, I couldn’t tell and neither could Mel. Mel said he recognized the man but could not place him.
The other man was much younger, probably in his late twenties and he was about to learn a valuable lesson that night, much to the delight of the crowd. The younger man was seated directly behind the older man. He was also seated a little higher due to the amphitheater style seating at the Olympic. They were making enough of a fuss so that the lighting man put the spot light on them. The whole arena was watching the argument unfold.
The older man wanted the money he had won, and the younger guy either felt like teasing him or had no intention of paying off the bet. In the end it didn’t really matter. The young guy was standing up and holding the money with his right hand, just out of reach of the old timer. When he jumped up to get the money the younger man would pull it back and laugh. So did his friends. This happened several times when without any warning or provocation, the younger man threw a sloppy left hand. Instantly and so unexpectedly the old timer countered with a quick, hard right hand to the jaw followed by a left hook. He knocked the guy out. He reached down, took the money, counted it and put it in his coat pocket. With the spotlight still on both of them the whole arena was going crazy. Not knowing what was going on in the crowd I’m sure the fighters in the ring thought the crowd was cheering their fight.
The old man looked out at the crowd and let out a big grin, then, probably figuring he better get the hell out of there, he walked over to the tunnel. Just before he walked down the stairs he looked at the crowd and let go of a few punches in the air, enjoying the moment. The crowd roared as if he had just won a title. He disappeared down the stairs. Whoever he was, he was the talk of the night. He was the main event of the evening.
It was the night Javier Muniz and Rudy Hernandez fought their first fight at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles on June 10, 1976. It wasn’t exactly on the undercard but it literally stole the show that night. It was one of those unexpected events that just make a life long impression on you.
I had a fight scheduled that night with an opponent whose name I can no longer recall, if I ever knew it at all. Just minutes before I was scheduled to fight it was called off. I don’t remember the reason. I got dressed and Mel Epstein and I went upstairs to get a seat and watch the fight. There was a section set up for managers, trainers and boxers and those that were involved closely with boxing. Not to far from that was a gambler’s area. This is where the unplanned co-main event took place.
Mel and I found a seat. To be perfectly honest I can’t remember if it was during the main event or if it was on the undercard. I’m thinking the undercard because if I remember correctly we hung around for a bit. At any rate while watching the fight, we couldn’t help but notice some commotion breaking out where all the gambler’s were seated. There were two men arguing over money. One man was older and he appeared to be in his sixties. He was wearing a hat and one of those cheap suits that seemed prevalent with the downtown crowd back in those days. It was dark and made from cheap fabric. The suit appeared to be old and worn. The man was either Mexican or Filipino, I couldn’t tell and neither could Mel. Mel said he recognized the man but could not place him.
The other man was much younger, probably in his late twenties and he was about to learn a valuable lesson that night, much to the delight of the crowd. The younger man was seated directly behind the older man. He was also seated a little higher due to the amphitheater style seating at the Olympic. They were making enough of a fuss so that the lighting man put the spot light on them. The whole arena was watching the argument unfold.
The older man wanted the money he had won, and the younger guy either felt like teasing him or had no intention of paying off the bet. In the end it didn’t really matter. The young guy was standing up and holding the money with his right hand, just out of reach of the old timer. When he jumped up to get the money the younger man would pull it back and laugh. So did his friends. This happened several times when without any warning or provocation, the younger man threw a sloppy left hand. Instantly and so unexpectedly the old timer countered with a quick, hard right hand to the jaw followed by a left hook. He knocked the guy out. He reached down, took the money, counted it and put it in his coat pocket. With the spotlight still on both of them the whole arena was going crazy. Not knowing what was going on in the crowd I’m sure the fighters in the ring thought the crowd was cheering their fight.
The old man looked out at the crowd and let out a big grin, then, probably figuring he better get the hell out of there, he walked over to the tunnel. Just before he walked down the stairs he looked at the crowd and let go of a few punches in the air, enjoying the moment. The crowd roared as if he had just won a title. He disappeared down the stairs. Whoever he was, he was the talk of the night. He was the main event of the evening.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
More on Johnny Flores . . .
Wrapping a boxer's hands
By Rick Farris
We learn this quick, regadless of what you do in boxing.
Most of us start young, and this you are taught on day one.
We'd buy cotton hand wraps. I first got them at United Sporting Goods, on 9th & Hill St.
Johnny Flores showed me how to best wrap them for training. I'd pad the knuckles with foam when they were bruised.
My grandfather worked at Warner Brothers, and he had access to a lot of 1" white adhesive tape, so Flores Gym always had tape, etc.
My grandfather would do a lot of the maintenance at Johnny's Gym. Warner Bros. Studio supplied the tape, pads, and misc. maintenance items.
He'd patch the bladder for the speed bag, keep it full of air, bring in bungie cord from the studio to fix the double-end bag.
When you run a gym, you learn it has to be kept up if used regularly.
Johnny's gym had a ring, a couple heavy bags, speed bag, double-end bag, excercise table, scale, pictures on the wall, vintage 50's-60's amateur shows.
His 50-60's fighter, Louie "The Lion" Perez, a hard hitting middleweight from Canoga Park pictured.
Posters from Johnny's match making days for promoter Joe Louis, in Hollywood at the Moulin Rouge.
Gil Cadilli, one of many names of the era were featured on those cards.
Photos of a ten-year-old Jerry Quarry trading blows in the juniors.
A B&W photo of me with Flores, Quarry, Big Train Lincoln at the Main St. Gym was also on the wall.
Flores with 1952 Olympic Champ Ed Sanders, who was later killed in the ring.
My trainer, middleweight Manuel Diaz, slamming Eddie Land with a hook to the body in a 1959 amateur match at Valley Garden Arena.
Frank Baltazar might have fought that same night?
Johnny Flores showed me how to wrap my hands, and later, wrapped them many times for my fights.
As a pro, Johnny was able to wrap my hands with more tape, etc. It felt incredible, better than others, including Eddie Futch.
He was the best to ever wrap my hands.
By Rick Farris
We learn this quick, regadless of what you do in boxing.
Most of us start young, and this you are taught on day one.
We'd buy cotton hand wraps. I first got them at United Sporting Goods, on 9th & Hill St.
Johnny Flores showed me how to best wrap them for training. I'd pad the knuckles with foam when they were bruised.
My grandfather worked at Warner Brothers, and he had access to a lot of 1" white adhesive tape, so Flores Gym always had tape, etc.
My grandfather would do a lot of the maintenance at Johnny's Gym. Warner Bros. Studio supplied the tape, pads, and misc. maintenance items.
He'd patch the bladder for the speed bag, keep it full of air, bring in bungie cord from the studio to fix the double-end bag.
When you run a gym, you learn it has to be kept up if used regularly.
Johnny's gym had a ring, a couple heavy bags, speed bag, double-end bag, excercise table, scale, pictures on the wall, vintage 50's-60's amateur shows.
His 50-60's fighter, Louie "The Lion" Perez, a hard hitting middleweight from Canoga Park pictured.
Posters from Johnny's match making days for promoter Joe Louis, in Hollywood at the Moulin Rouge.
Gil Cadilli, one of many names of the era were featured on those cards.
Photos of a ten-year-old Jerry Quarry trading blows in the juniors.
A B&W photo of me with Flores, Quarry, Big Train Lincoln at the Main St. Gym was also on the wall.
Flores with 1952 Olympic Champ Ed Sanders, who was later killed in the ring.
My trainer, middleweight Manuel Diaz, slamming Eddie Land with a hook to the body in a 1959 amateur match at Valley Garden Arena.
Frank Baltazar might have fought that same night?
Johnny Flores showed me how to wrap my hands, and later, wrapped them many times for my fights.
As a pro, Johnny was able to wrap my hands with more tape, etc. It felt incredible, better than others, including Eddie Futch.
He was the best to ever wrap my hands.
Johnny Flores II
Johnny Flores . . .
By Rick Farris
When discussing Classic American West Coast Boxing personalities, the name Johnny Flores is one that covers a lot of history.
I had the good luck and pleasure of getting to know Johnny as I was growing up, a young boxer in his well known stable.
Johnny was a master story teller. Maybe the best I ever heard. His words left an impression on me, and I remember most of them.
I met Johnny in early 1965. I was referred to him by his newly crowned Nat'l Golden Gloves heavyweight champ, Jerry Quarry.
Jerry was ready to turn pro, and when he did, Johnny Flores, would become a major player in the world of professional boxing.
We are talking professional heavyweight boxing during the era of Ali, Frazier, Norton, etc.
Johnny had been known for decades in Los Angeles, where he was tagged "Mr. Golden Gloves" for his amateur boxing participation, in every aspect of the sport. He also cornered and managed the careers of a number of top pros, but none with the clout afforded the manager of a "white heavyweight" during the late '60's.
Flores was tough and smart, good looking, with sharp wit and personality. Thruout his life, he strayed into dangerous territory.
During WW2, he enlisted in the Army in his mid-20's, was assigned to a platoon of immigrants that would be sent out on info seeking missions, sent out with little expectation of returning.
Flores was operating behind enemy lines, by himself, just wandering with his rifle. "Go out and capture a German" was his order.
Flores stumbled upon a farm house. Coming from the barn were voices, speaking German.
Flores peaked into a window and saw two German officers sitting at a table, talking.
Flores had an arenalin rush, took a deep breath and kicked in the door, he was spewing obsenities, in Spanish and English.
The officers were caught by surprise and Flores knocked one out with the butt of his rifle. The other put his hands behind his head and surrendered.
Suddenly, thru a back door leading to another room, another soldier appeared, hands behind his head in surrender.
Then another came out, and another. Flores captured a dozen German soldiers and four were officers.
For that he would win a Silver Star, and later a Purple Heart.
Johnny would later be seriously injured and sent home a disabled American Veteran.
Johnny Flores had balls. That's how he would describe a fighter with courage. That's how I describe Johnny.
After WW2, Johnny worked with the Disabled American Vet's and became a part of L.A. boxing history when he and another coach, Louie Jaurique, established the Los Angeles Junior Golden Gloves program.
For more than three decades, the Junior Golden Gloves would serve as a breeding ground for top professional talent.
I'll continue this during the coming week.
By Rick Farris
When discussing Classic American West Coast Boxing personalities, the name Johnny Flores is one that covers a lot of history.
I had the good luck and pleasure of getting to know Johnny as I was growing up, a young boxer in his well known stable.
Johnny was a master story teller. Maybe the best I ever heard. His words left an impression on me, and I remember most of them.
I met Johnny in early 1965. I was referred to him by his newly crowned Nat'l Golden Gloves heavyweight champ, Jerry Quarry.
Jerry was ready to turn pro, and when he did, Johnny Flores, would become a major player in the world of professional boxing.
We are talking professional heavyweight boxing during the era of Ali, Frazier, Norton, etc.
Johnny had been known for decades in Los Angeles, where he was tagged "Mr. Golden Gloves" for his amateur boxing participation, in every aspect of the sport. He also cornered and managed the careers of a number of top pros, but none with the clout afforded the manager of a "white heavyweight" during the late '60's.
Flores was tough and smart, good looking, with sharp wit and personality. Thruout his life, he strayed into dangerous territory.
During WW2, he enlisted in the Army in his mid-20's, was assigned to a platoon of immigrants that would be sent out on info seeking missions, sent out with little expectation of returning.
Flores was operating behind enemy lines, by himself, just wandering with his rifle. "Go out and capture a German" was his order.
Flores stumbled upon a farm house. Coming from the barn were voices, speaking German.
Flores peaked into a window and saw two German officers sitting at a table, talking.
Flores had an arenalin rush, took a deep breath and kicked in the door, he was spewing obsenities, in Spanish and English.
The officers were caught by surprise and Flores knocked one out with the butt of his rifle. The other put his hands behind his head and surrendered.
Suddenly, thru a back door leading to another room, another soldier appeared, hands behind his head in surrender.
Then another came out, and another. Flores captured a dozen German soldiers and four were officers.
For that he would win a Silver Star, and later a Purple Heart.
Johnny would later be seriously injured and sent home a disabled American Veteran.
Johnny Flores had balls. That's how he would describe a fighter with courage. That's how I describe Johnny.
After WW2, Johnny worked with the Disabled American Vet's and became a part of L.A. boxing history when he and another coach, Louie Jaurique, established the Los Angeles Junior Golden Gloves program.
For more than three decades, the Junior Golden Gloves would serve as a breeding ground for top professional talent.
I'll continue this during the coming week.
Johnny Flores . . .
By Rick Farris
When discussing Classic American West Coast Boxing personalities, the name Johnny Flores is one that covers a lot of history.
I had the good luck and pleasure of getting to know Johnny as I was growing up, a young boxer in his well known stable.
Johnny was a master story teller. Maybe the best I ever heard. His words left an impression on me, and I remember most of them.
I met Johnny in early 1965. I was referred to him by his newly crowned Nat'l Golden Gloves heavyweight champ, Jerry Quarry.
Jerry was ready to turn pro, and when he did, Johnny Flores, would become a major player in the world of professional boxing.
We are talking professional heavyweight boxing during the era of Ali, Frazier, Norton, etc.
Johnny had been known for decades in Los Angeles, where he was tagged "Mr. Golden Gloves" for his amateur boxing participation, in every aspect of the sport. He also cornered and managed the careers of a number of top pros, but none with the clout afforded the manager of a "white heavyweight" during the late '60's.
Flores was tough and smart, good looking, with sharp wit and personality. Thruout his life, he strayed into dangerous territory.
During WW2, he enlisted in the Army in his mid-20's, was assigned to a platoon of immigrants that would be sent out on info seeking missions, sent out with little expectation of returning.
Flores was operating behind enemy lines, by himself, just wandering with his rifle. "Go out and capture a German" was his order.
Flores stumbled upon a farm house. Coming from the barn were voices, speaking German.
Flores peaked into a window and saw two German officers sitting at a table, talking.
Flores had an arenalin rush, took a deep breath and kicked in the door, he was spewing obsenities, in Spanish and English.
The officers were caught by surprise and Flores knocked one out with the butt of his rifle. The other put his hands behind his head and surrendered.
Suddenly, thru a back door leading to another room, another soldier appeared, hands behind his head in surrender.
Then another came out, and another. Flores captured a dozen German soldiers and four were officers.
For that he would win a Silver Star, and later a Purple Heart.
Johnny would later be seriously injured and sent home a disabled American Veteran.
Johnny Flores had balls. That's how he would describe a fighter with courage. That's how I describe Johnny.
After WW2, Johnny worked with the Disabled American Vet's and became a part of L.A. boxing history when he and another coach, Louie Jaurique, established the Los Angeles Junior Golden Gloves program.
For more than three decades, the Junior Golden Gloves would serve as a breeding ground for top professional talent.
I'll continue this during the coming week.
When discussing Classic American West Coast Boxing personalities, the name Johnny Flores is one that covers a lot of history.
I had the good luck and pleasure of getting to know Johnny as I was growing up, a young boxer in his well known stable.
Johnny was a master story teller. Maybe the best I ever heard. His words left an impression on me, and I remember most of them.
I met Johnny in early 1965. I was referred to him by his newly crowned Nat'l Golden Gloves heavyweight champ, Jerry Quarry.
Jerry was ready to turn pro, and when he did, Johnny Flores, would become a major player in the world of professional boxing.
We are talking professional heavyweight boxing during the era of Ali, Frazier, Norton, etc.
Johnny had been known for decades in Los Angeles, where he was tagged "Mr. Golden Gloves" for his amateur boxing participation, in every aspect of the sport. He also cornered and managed the careers of a number of top pros, but none with the clout afforded the manager of a "white heavyweight" during the late '60's.
Flores was tough and smart, good looking, with sharp wit and personality. Thruout his life, he strayed into dangerous territory.
During WW2, he enlisted in the Army in his mid-20's, was assigned to a platoon of immigrants that would be sent out on info seeking missions, sent out with little expectation of returning.
Flores was operating behind enemy lines, by himself, just wandering with his rifle. "Go out and capture a German" was his order.
Flores stumbled upon a farm house. Coming from the barn were voices, speaking German.
Flores peaked into a window and saw two German officers sitting at a table, talking.
Flores had an arenalin rush, took a deep breath and kicked in the door, he was spewing obsenities, in Spanish and English.
The officers were caught by surprise and Flores knocked one out with the butt of his rifle. The other put his hands behind his head and surrendered.
Suddenly, thru a back door leading to another room, another soldier appeared, hands behind his head in surrender.
Then another came out, and another. Flores captured a dozen German soldiers and four were officers.
For that he would win a Silver Star, and later a Purple Heart.
Johnny would later be seriously injured and sent home a disabled American Veteran.
Johnny Flores had balls. That's how he would describe a fighter with courage. That's how I describe Johnny.
After WW2, Johnny worked with the Disabled American Vet's and became a part of L.A. boxing history when he and another coach, Louie Jaurique, established the Los Angeles Junior Golden Gloves program.
For more than three decades, the Junior Golden Gloves would serve as a breeding ground for top professional talent.
I'll continue this during the coming week.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
On Being a Professional Fighter: An Interview with Jeff Bumpus
by Phil Rice -
In the immediate post-Ali days of the 1980s, televised boxing had no shortage of flashy dancers trying to grab the attention of a boxing public starved for the sort of entertainment the self-styled “Greatest” had provided for twenty years. Unfortunately, none could match Ali's superlative ability to combine theatrics with athleticism, and few—very few—could even come close. As trainers were quick to point out, Ali's speed and reflexes enabled him to get away with going contrary to boxing axioms, but mere mortals were better advised to stick to the proven fundamentals.
As a viewer of the televised fight cards—and in the 80s there were frequent opportunities to watch entire boxing cards on the tube—I found myself bored by the obnoxious braggarts who seemed to think that boasting and dancing were the essence of boxing. A little flash, a little style, fine, but stick to the business at hand. To do otherwise, in my mind at least, was to cheapen the sport itself, to overemphasize the entertainment aspects. So the fighters who caught my eye were more often the ones who demonstrated a solid work ethic in and out of the ring. Sometimes these were champions, such as Alexis Arguello or Marvin Hagler, but the working-class guys filling out the cards were what really kept the sport alive.
Among the multi-dimensional glare of the televised boxing theatrics there resided—as there has always resided in the prize-ring—a core group of fighters who were driven by something beyond glory, beyond fame, beyond even money.. These guys were holding up the sport through blue-collar values instead of through posing or artificial aplomb. Celebrity status and money were well and good, but such trinkets were not their primary goal. They were fighters, period. Historically speaking the list of such boxers is a long one, but among my favorites from the 1980s is a guy named Jeff Bumpus.
I didn't need the television announcers to tell me much about Jeff as a fighter. He was one of those guys who told the viewers—and his opponents—plenty within the opening seconds of a bout. What he said was, "I'm here to fight and here's what I got." He was skilled but nowhere close to being fancy. The slickest quality he brought into the ring was his southpaw stance. Beyond that fact he was pure meat & potatoes. Good chin, good power, solid fundamentals. Those qualities were quickly evident. Less obvious at first glance were the subtleties. Heart, desire, and other boxing clichés revealed themselves when the tenor of the fight turned tough, and as things will do inside the ring, they turned tough for Jeff quite often.
Jeff "The Tazmanian Devil" Bumpus was a professional boxer from 1984 until 1993, compiling a record of 32-8-1 with 20 knockouts. He was a good fighter and a solid pro. Not only did he fight some of the top names in the lightweight and junior welterweight divisions, but during one six-month period he faced Greg Haugen, Vinny Pazienza, and Julio Cesar Chavez in succession. He lost tough decisions to each of those world class fighters, but he gave an excellent account of himself in the process.
As with many professional boxers, Bumpus wasn't brought along on a schedule designed to nurture his development but was instead obliged to take whatever fights were offered, ready or not. This meant that he frequently was fighting on short notice and up against opponents with huge advantages in experience, often in the other guy's hometown. But he had a good grasp of the fundamental tools necessary to compete in the ring, and he always fought with determination and an irrepressible heart. Ultimately those qualities would define his career as a prizefighter.
A few months ago I came across Jeff online and sent him a note that basically said "thanks for all those entertaining fights." He graciously responded, and we wrote back and forth a little bit. Spend anytime at all conversing with him, even if it's just by exchanging a few emails, and you'll discover that he's a squared-away guy with a sharp intelligence and a pleasant disposition. He's also a gifted storyteller. Some people study the art of storytelling for years in colleges and universities without being able to participate in the art itself, while others—like Jeff—seem to naturally understand how it all works. Given these points of character, it occurred to me that he'd make for an interesting interview. So he and I exchanged a few more emails, the results of which are transcribed below.
* * *
Phil Rice: Jeff, let me start off by saying that it is a true pleasure to be able to catch-up with a fighter who, as anyone who followed boxing in the 1980s knows, epitomized the word "pro" in the ring.
You jumped into professional boxing with a very limited amateur background, yet during your career you were competitive against fighters such as Greg Haugen, Vinny Pazienza, Bret Summers, and other tough pros with world-class amateur pedigrees. How were you able to make such a successful transition into the pro ranks without putting in more time as an amateur?
Jeff Bumpus: I believe I always viewed the amateur ranks as a temporary situation, a learning platform with an eye on being a professional. I think the thing that enabled me to go from zero experience to climbing inside the ropes with those guys was the fact that I did nothing but eat, sleep, and drink boxing for years. I worked an 8-hour job, drove home like a maniac and ran to my coach's house, went to the gym, worked out a couple of hours, ran home, and then shadow boxed until the late hours. My memories of that time include a great deal of solitude. But that's the cost, and I'd empty the pockets and pay it again if I was given the chance.
PR: You've been described as having a "pro style." How would you define such an assessment, and in what ways was it an advantage or disadvantage in your career?
JB: Maybe a pro style just means a fighter does the best he can with the tools available to him. No one ever described me as a one punch KO artist, or possessing speedy hands or brilliant boxing ability. But I showed up and God help you if you weren't ready to fight. Disadvantage or advantage? I guess if you can't find one of those "specialty" labels for a fighter, he's going to have a hard time winning a world title. So to answer that question, maybe it's a disadvantage to the casual boxing fan, and a plus to a hardcore boxing fan. It all depends on where your loyalties lie. I have a huge amount of pride in being told I had a pro style.
PR: Looking at your record, it appears that during your first year fighting professionally you were really getting a quick taste of the hardcore life of a fighter. I know it's difficult to squeeze into just a few sentences, but how would your describe those early bouts?
JB: What I remember was the thrill of this feeling like I was on my way. I was learning the trade. It looks like a lot of fights for one year but to be honest with you, the only night that I got to come alive and shine was fight night. Twelve or fourteen nights out of a whole year really isn't that much. The rest of the time my head was down. It seemed like that four-week period between fights was an extremely long time. By the time these yo-yos get my gloves on and I'm finally inside the ropes and ready to go, I'm thinking "FINALLY . . . took me four weeks to get here!"
PR: You managed to show up on television during that first year, defeating Randy Reedy in a four-rounder. That had to have been a thrill for a young fighter.
JB: ESPN was the place to be for a fighter trying to get noticed and Bob Arum was at ringside. Future light heavyweight champ Don LaLonde was fighting local hero Carlos Tite in the main event. My family, friends and coworkers were parked in front of the TV. I had pretty much worked myself into a shaking maniacal state, and then I was the first fight of the night on the televised portion of the card. If I could bottle that feeling and sell it, there would be no drug problem in this country. I forgot to throw a real live jab for pretty much all of the first two rounds. I did a punch count long before HBO came up with their phony punch stats. I "averaged" 110 punches a round and as I said, none of those punches were jabs in the first two rounds. I was all adrenaline and enthusiasm and I came Ye Verily close to crying like a four-year-old with relief when I won the fight. I won my first televised fight, and that particular fantasy had kept me entertained for many miles of roadwork previously. That was a great night.
PR: Just a few months later you went in against 22-0-1 Danny Ferris in front of his home crowd. Apparently someone thought you would be the perfect stepping-stone opponent for Ferris, a former amateur standout who was being touted as a professional prospect. But it turned out to be the other way around. What happened?
JB: Danny had progressed to the point where he needed to move up in competition in order to grow as a fighter. In our situation, it was the same reason I was in with Haugen and Pazienza later that year. We didn't have the sterling amateur background or the money behind us to bring me along "carefully." It was my first ten rounder. My intro to the big time. To move forward I had to win. If I lose I lose the momentum and progress of the past year. I didn't want to go back. It was a decent matchup in which they figured he was the naturally bigger fellow and his strength would prevail. They had only seen me in the Reedy fight on ESPN and took the bout thinking that I was wild and would run out of rage and be easier to handle late in a ten-round fight. For the first time, I think in my life, I was the faster fighter and I was hitting him from places he couldn't see. As far as running out of gas, they backed the wrong horse there because it wasn't happening to me that night. After the fourth round he had been down a couple of times and his corner just decided that it would be best to try again another night. I had one of those nights where you could do no wrong. Couldn't have come at a better time for me
PR: You started 1985 with five victories in five bouts in the first six months, including the Ferris fight. You slowed your pace for the second half of the year, with only three bouts, and you would lose tough decisions in each—but the opponents were named Haugen, Pazienza, and Chavez, in that order. That's quite a line-up.
Haugen was undefeated but still an unknown quantity at the time, at least on the East Coast. Pazienza was probably better known but still unproven. You severely tested the mettle of each. What did you learn about these two future world champions as fighters—and about yourself?
JB: I think what happened by the summer of '85 was that I had run the gauntlet of preliminary challenges. I was having a hard time getting any fights at all at that point. We would have to go national to advance my career. I felt confident that I could make the jump in stature of competition. I definitely wanted to make the jump. But I didn't know as much about the "craft" of boxing as I needed to know. The fight with Greg was an overnight call to fill in for John Meekins who was unable to fight. I was given little info on him and he was given false info on me, so we were pretty even there. He had a couple hundred amateur fights and I was as strong as anybody he was going to run into but I was all heart and muscle without too much skill. Greg had heart, strength, and skill. He did very well throughout his career with "pressure" fighters. It was the luck of the draw. I learned I had one of the best chins in the world at lightweight—not something you want to learn on national TV.
Vinny was a force of nature. I've grown to be good friends with Vinny over the years. His parents treated me like family when I visited him in Rhode Island. We have the kind of friendship that two guys who have punched each other for an evening or so acquire. He would come firing with bad intentions and I would fire back, but his speed was better, his combinations were better. The successful career stats of other fighters who are and were considered formidable opponents for those two tell me that I wasn't out of either Greg's or Vinny's league, just that they had mastered a few skill sets that I hadn't quite gotten to yet. Their combination punching was superior to my own. They didn't eat punches they didn't have to. Courage-wise, those two fights proved a lot to me personally because things go wrong inside the ropes and you have to deal with them, right then and there. I showed myself that somewhere inside was a snarling and unlicensed beast that wasn't going to take this lying down, even if he was wounded. Everybody has the heart of a champion when they are on their game and things are going their way. But how many can say they will dig down and fire back with a broken gun or with closed eyes or blood pouring? I found out in those two bouts that, even if I didn't possess all the skills, I wasn't lacking in the heart department.
PR: You fought Haugen in July and Pazienza in September, and your next fight was December 19 at the Olympic in LA against Julio Cesar Chavez. Coming into that bout Chavez was 48-0 and the reigning WBC Super Featherweight World Champion, yet he was still considered a rising star. He was growing in other ways, too, and he wanted to try out the lightweight division. What did you know about Chavez as a fighter, and what was your mind-set entering that non-title fight?
JB: Julio wasn't a legend at that point. It wouldn't be much longer before he became a boxing legend, but at that moment he was on the radar of those in the know who saw greatness in the making. All that I knew about Chavez was learned on a Saturday in July of that year during his 2nd round destruction of Roger Mayweather. I believe my response was, "Oh wow." The punching power was obvious. The fight didn't last long enough to ascertain more. Entering the fight at only 23 years old was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. I didn't realize what I was up against. I had my own "Rocky" fantasies of pulling off the miracle or at the very least shaking the hell out of the world champion. It wasn't lost on me that Apollo Creed was a 46-0 world champ in the movie or that Rocky was a down-and-out nobody or that I had received a call out of the blue like Stallone's character. I had no real reason to have any expectations of having the opportunity to fight someone of Chavez's stature. I felt like someone was whispering things about "destiny" in my ear. I got to work out at the Main Street Gym; I was going to get my moment in the famed Olympic auditorium. I mean, for a kid not even five years out of high school who had his first amateur fight four years ago, what were the odds? But . . . maybe I could drop a few jaws in the boxing world. I hadn't come here to roll over and play dead. This was my chance. Like I said, 23 and way too young to be completely psyched out by the enormity of it, and being a dreamer, I was convinced that good things could happen to me, too.
In a sort of backhanded way, I also realized that this moment was something I would have to live with for the rest of my life. My last thought before entering the ring at the Olympic was that I had to leave everything inside that ring. No regrets.
PR: So you were completely focused. Then the bell rang. How would you summarize facing Chavez?
JB: Well, at first I knew I was being played with. What I mean is that I think Julio thought he could KO me at will and he was going to get a round or two of work, dust this guy off and head back to Culiacan and buy the wife a nice Christmas present or something. He came out strictly looking to box. I came out strictly looking to make it a phone booth war.
What that eventually does is force a man who is looking to enjoy himself and what he was hoping would be a glorified sparring session to fight for real. Late in the first round after trying to pressure him and missing the mark several times, I landed the same right hook that dropped most of my 20 or so KO victims in my pro fights. For one splendid moment, I enjoyed the surprise in his eyes and the slight wobbling in his front left knee. Then he straightened up. Now, I had his attention. He shifted his weight and landed a right cross that shattered my nose. People ask me to this day, "How hard did Chavez hit?" OK, straight answer: Picture a baseball bat with an ashtray taped to the sweet spot. And don't think I wasn't thinking of Rocky at that moment either. Hey! We both got our nose busted at the end of the first round with the champion! I'm not making this stuff up by the way.
I think that the fact that I was a huge boxing fan, a star-struck kid in many ways, helped me get through the whole disastrous end to the first round. I took the whole thing—the pain, the blood gushing out of my nose—as my baptism under fire so to speak. I am in here . . . I'm having my courage tested . . . I can't wait to show what I'm made of . . . . Unfortunately that stuff only goes so far and as rounds go on, reality sets in. The guy had perfect balance and weight shift and he was a monsoon of punches and there is no way you want to stand out where the rain is the hardest. I needed to take this fight back to phone booth range if I was going to survive. I was enthusiastic but I wasn't stupid.
Out of a combination of determination to show this guy what I am made of and a paralyzing fear that some other part of my face was going to be crushed by another thunderbolt, I crawled all over Julio for the rest of the fight. Cutting the distance down naturally brings about clashes of the head. Two accidental head butts caused a cut that ended the fight. I can still see Dr. James Jen Kin waving the fight over. I had never heard of a "technical decision" before in my life but as it turned out, I would lose this fight by that means. Years later I approached Frankie Randall at an amateur fight in Flint Michigan to let him know he wasn't the first to lose a tech decision to Julio. I really enjoyed that, you know.
PR: Chavez stayed at super featherweight for a couple more years after that fight. If he was testing the waters at lightweight by fighting you, you obviously made an impression.
After such a tough run—three tough fights in a row with three tough decision losses—how did you assess your career heading into 1986?
JB: Being brutally honest, things were never the same after the Chavez fight. Quite possibly I should cut 23-year-old me a little bit of a break here, and admit that I had my head down and didn't do much in life for four or five years except box, so quite naturally I would take a break and live just a little bit. If I am truthful with myself, however, I would have to admit that when I left LAX on Saturday Dec 20, 1985 and headed home, I was at peace with what happened. I had gone at this guy with all I had. I had "fought this guy hard" as Mick from the Rocky movies used to say. When I left the ring in the Olympic Auditorium, somehow I knew that no matter what I did, how hard I worked or how lucky I got, I was never going to be in the same class of fighter as Julio Cesar Chavez. Maybe I was a little hard on myself. After all, the numbers that Chavez posted rivaled Sugar Ray Robinson's career when you look at them 25 years later. He was the greatest fighter of my generation and I fought him hard. Maybe I was just running out of things to prove to myself.
Whether I wanted a break or not, I was pretty much left alone after that fight. I was further disillusioned with the sport after earning a ten round draw in a fight where I knocked my opponent down three times.
PR: Seems like you deserved a break after the way you closed out 1985, but your very next fight after Chavez, the draw you just mentioned, was against Bret Summers in front of his home crowd in Washington state. Summers was a former U.S. Amateur Champion and a member of the famed Kronk gym. Going into the bout his record as a pro was 25-2, and he was anxious to re-establish himself after a couple of recent stumbles. Hardly the soft touch that would have been warranted under the circumstances.
JB: You know its funny you mention this because I was just on the phone with Bret yesterday and he was saying the same thing about himself in regards to drawing an opponent like me. I guess its all perception but I watch ESPN Friday Night Fights nowadays and see blowouts. Constantly. I know I sound like an old grandfather but back in the day we had Saturday afternoons filled with fight cards and competitive fights. Wars in fact. Rockin' Robin Blake vs. Tony Baltazar, Bobby Chacon vs. Bazooka Limon, Ray Mancini vs. Anybody. If you wanted to get into the mix of those iconic matchups, you weren't going to get it by beating up your grandmother four times for television. I don't fault the fighters nowadays. Greed seems to have put the whole economy in a tailspin and it has sure worked its magic on boxing. In the 40s and 50s it was nothing for a guy to get a title fight with 10-15 losses. You learned your craft the hard way. The eighties was a great time for boxing, but even then fighters were closely scrutinized in their won/loss record. Today the problem has grown to the point where fighters are badly overmatched on televised fights to pad the resume. It doesn't do anyone any good, least of all the viewing public. Certainly just because you are undefeated doesn't mean you have fought your baby sister eight times. But then again, not everyone is a Julio Cesar Chavez either. Bret and I went at it with the idea of doing damage, and then when ten rounds were up, we had a lot of respect for each other. Now we talk all the time. It would have been much easier on both of us to fight someone else. I don't think either one of us would have done it differently, even though on the phone we ask, "Why in the world did I have to match up with you?" That's good for a couple laughs.
PR: So after a busy and eventful 1985, how'd 1986 play out?
BR: The ten round draw with Summers took place in April of that year, and then I had to fight the same fellow, Kent Acuff, a Golden Glove champion from Indiana as an amateur, on three separate occasions.That pretty much did 1986 for me. Who in the world would want to fight me, and go blood and guts for little recognition? After all I had three losses and a draw in my last four fights, and they probably would not be paid very handsomely for the trouble. Then again, I might finally have something good happen to me and pull a rabbit out of my hat. Would you want to be the one who was the victim in my coming of age party? I had suffered a fractured orbital bone with Greg Haugen, a fractured collar bone with Vinny Paz and a shattered nose against Chavez. I had paid dues but fighting the same guy three times wasn't going to prove much, even if I beat him all three times. 1986 should have seen some new opportunities after those four or five years of hard work, but1986 as I saw it was the cold and flu season of my career. I worked out hard. I waited on phone calls. I made two trips to the Winnipeg, Manitoba area, and found out that I had no idea what real cold was until then. I wondered if the reputation as a fouler preceded me or if quite possibly that night in the ring with Lion of Culiacan would be my only shot. If so, then "this parting was well made."
PR: You didn't hang up the gloves for good--assuming you're not planning a comeback--until 1993. There are many stories about the difficulties pro fighters face in the transition from the ring back into world, but the public perception is more focused on those few fighters who are able to make a living entirely from boxing--the fighters who exist in that thin financial crust at the very top. But as I understand it, most pros, even the ones like yourself who are able to ply their trade on televised cards and achieve some recognition along the way, maintain a regular job throughout their career. What thoughts can you share about these realities, about your own experience and about the sport in general?
JB: It's kind of like making big money in Vegas or Atlantic City. Very, very few actually make anything. Then in that small percentage of casino winners, the big money winner has to throw all his chips in and win that huge gamble. The problem for most of us in the middle or bottom, much like the US economy by the way, is that eating a meal and paying the light bill has to be accomplished as well. If you aren't bankrolled by people with money or in a family with money to start with—name three of those guys in boxing, by the way—then you have to play the odds like me. I worked a 40-hour a week job like everybody else, and fought part time. It was full time in my heart. Just part time in real life. The only time I ever threw all my chips in and trained full time was for the Chavez fight, but that was because my employer, Bill Robinson, told me that this was the chance of a lifetime and he wasn't going to let me throw this away wasting my legs on a concrete floor in a factory, even if it was his factory. And we know how that turned out. Maybe that's why those at the top have such a hard time with life after boxing. They have no concept of what the average guy does to get a dollar, and really no concept of how much money he's going to need to make it through life, and worse yet how long he's actually going to live. You're right though. The vast overwhelming majority of professional fighters have a job and will function just fine in life after boxing, short of their battle scars.
PR: I've heard from a reliable source that you have been gaining some attention as something of a storyteller and writer. Care to philosophize just a little on the value of the stories from your days in the ring?
JB: Well, since you put it that way I won't clutter the interview with false modesty (insert laughter here). I would hope that what someone would get from reading anything that I've written would be that I was both a fan of boxing and a hopeless romantic. I've always wanted to tell Sylvester Stallone that both by accidents and by design I came closer to living the life of his fictional character than anyone he knows. At least the first installment. I still haven't decided what I want to do when I grow up, simply because the dreamer and the hopeless romantic in me haven't died. The value in anybody's story . . . anyone with a story to tell . . . is how much passion they have for the subject. I fell in love with boxing, took a rocket ride to where I could rub elbows with great fighters, and never became so ingrained in the upper echelon that I killed off that hopeless romantic. When you climb inside the ropes, what you are is obvious for everyone to see. What I am, what I hope you saw if you watched me, was a big kid with an autograph book in his hand who made some big names in the lightweight division work for their money in the 80s.Very few people can picture themselves being a greater fighter than Julio Cesar Chavez. I bet a whole load of them wondered what it was like to cross gloves with him just once. Look no further . . . have I got a tale for you!
PR: Well Jeff, it's truly been a pleasure discussing boxing with you. Your career might sound like it came from a Hollywood screenplay, but you are the genuine article. If he hasn't done so yet, I'm sure Sylvester Stallone would be honored to shake your hand. And I mean that sincerely.
I don't expect you to respond to my enthusiastic praise (hey, I'm a fan), but do you have any final thoughts to share before the tape runs out?
JB: My son had a class in his senior year of high school entitled "Sports Literature" and I was asked to speak to the class and of course I lied through my teeth about how good I was. Someone asked about following their dreams and how to go about it. My reply was this, and if it were my epitaph I would be fine with it:
People ask me all the time, 'How do I learn how to fight?' or 'What do I do to make my dream come true? ' The answer is so simple that it's complicated. You go and be that hero you've always wished you were. People tell themselves, 'Oh I'm young and I have all the time in the world to make my dreams come true.' Well, no you don't. The clock is ticking. If you're a dancer, go dance. Dance your heart out. Or sing, or whatever it is that you want for yourself. Time slips away fast. In 28 years would you like to come back and tell future students about those adventures in pursuit of a dream? Or would you like to tell them 'Well, I daydreamed about it.' The clock is ticking.
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Phil Rice is a freelance writer and editor currently working out of Pittsburgh, PA. He may be reached at philrice9@gmail.com.
Jeff Bumpus retired from professional boxing in 1993. He currently lives and works in Union, Michigan. As mentioned in the interview, his tales have indeed begun to attract some attention. "He Broke Bones," a short memoir of his bout with Julio Cesar Chavez, has recently been accepted for publication by Canopic Jar, an online literary journal (www.canopicjar.com). An advance posting of the story is available for viewing at www.canopicpublishing.com/bumpus.htm
In the immediate post-Ali days of the 1980s, televised boxing had no shortage of flashy dancers trying to grab the attention of a boxing public starved for the sort of entertainment the self-styled “Greatest” had provided for twenty years. Unfortunately, none could match Ali's superlative ability to combine theatrics with athleticism, and few—very few—could even come close. As trainers were quick to point out, Ali's speed and reflexes enabled him to get away with going contrary to boxing axioms, but mere mortals were better advised to stick to the proven fundamentals.
As a viewer of the televised fight cards—and in the 80s there were frequent opportunities to watch entire boxing cards on the tube—I found myself bored by the obnoxious braggarts who seemed to think that boasting and dancing were the essence of boxing. A little flash, a little style, fine, but stick to the business at hand. To do otherwise, in my mind at least, was to cheapen the sport itself, to overemphasize the entertainment aspects. So the fighters who caught my eye were more often the ones who demonstrated a solid work ethic in and out of the ring. Sometimes these were champions, such as Alexis Arguello or Marvin Hagler, but the working-class guys filling out the cards were what really kept the sport alive.
Among the multi-dimensional glare of the televised boxing theatrics there resided—as there has always resided in the prize-ring—a core group of fighters who were driven by something beyond glory, beyond fame, beyond even money.. These guys were holding up the sport through blue-collar values instead of through posing or artificial aplomb. Celebrity status and money were well and good, but such trinkets were not their primary goal. They were fighters, period. Historically speaking the list of such boxers is a long one, but among my favorites from the 1980s is a guy named Jeff Bumpus.
I didn't need the television announcers to tell me much about Jeff as a fighter. He was one of those guys who told the viewers—and his opponents—plenty within the opening seconds of a bout. What he said was, "I'm here to fight and here's what I got." He was skilled but nowhere close to being fancy. The slickest quality he brought into the ring was his southpaw stance. Beyond that fact he was pure meat & potatoes. Good chin, good power, solid fundamentals. Those qualities were quickly evident. Less obvious at first glance were the subtleties. Heart, desire, and other boxing clichés revealed themselves when the tenor of the fight turned tough, and as things will do inside the ring, they turned tough for Jeff quite often.
Jeff "The Tazmanian Devil" Bumpus was a professional boxer from 1984 until 1993, compiling a record of 32-8-1 with 20 knockouts. He was a good fighter and a solid pro. Not only did he fight some of the top names in the lightweight and junior welterweight divisions, but during one six-month period he faced Greg Haugen, Vinny Pazienza, and Julio Cesar Chavez in succession. He lost tough decisions to each of those world class fighters, but he gave an excellent account of himself in the process.
As with many professional boxers, Bumpus wasn't brought along on a schedule designed to nurture his development but was instead obliged to take whatever fights were offered, ready or not. This meant that he frequently was fighting on short notice and up against opponents with huge advantages in experience, often in the other guy's hometown. But he had a good grasp of the fundamental tools necessary to compete in the ring, and he always fought with determination and an irrepressible heart. Ultimately those qualities would define his career as a prizefighter.
A few months ago I came across Jeff online and sent him a note that basically said "thanks for all those entertaining fights." He graciously responded, and we wrote back and forth a little bit. Spend anytime at all conversing with him, even if it's just by exchanging a few emails, and you'll discover that he's a squared-away guy with a sharp intelligence and a pleasant disposition. He's also a gifted storyteller. Some people study the art of storytelling for years in colleges and universities without being able to participate in the art itself, while others—like Jeff—seem to naturally understand how it all works. Given these points of character, it occurred to me that he'd make for an interesting interview. So he and I exchanged a few more emails, the results of which are transcribed below.
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Phil Rice: Jeff, let me start off by saying that it is a true pleasure to be able to catch-up with a fighter who, as anyone who followed boxing in the 1980s knows, epitomized the word "pro" in the ring.
You jumped into professional boxing with a very limited amateur background, yet during your career you were competitive against fighters such as Greg Haugen, Vinny Pazienza, Bret Summers, and other tough pros with world-class amateur pedigrees. How were you able to make such a successful transition into the pro ranks without putting in more time as an amateur?
Jeff Bumpus: I believe I always viewed the amateur ranks as a temporary situation, a learning platform with an eye on being a professional. I think the thing that enabled me to go from zero experience to climbing inside the ropes with those guys was the fact that I did nothing but eat, sleep, and drink boxing for years. I worked an 8-hour job, drove home like a maniac and ran to my coach's house, went to the gym, worked out a couple of hours, ran home, and then shadow boxed until the late hours. My memories of that time include a great deal of solitude. But that's the cost, and I'd empty the pockets and pay it again if I was given the chance.
PR: You've been described as having a "pro style." How would you define such an assessment, and in what ways was it an advantage or disadvantage in your career?
JB: Maybe a pro style just means a fighter does the best he can with the tools available to him. No one ever described me as a one punch KO artist, or possessing speedy hands or brilliant boxing ability. But I showed up and God help you if you weren't ready to fight. Disadvantage or advantage? I guess if you can't find one of those "specialty" labels for a fighter, he's going to have a hard time winning a world title. So to answer that question, maybe it's a disadvantage to the casual boxing fan, and a plus to a hardcore boxing fan. It all depends on where your loyalties lie. I have a huge amount of pride in being told I had a pro style.
PR: Looking at your record, it appears that during your first year fighting professionally you were really getting a quick taste of the hardcore life of a fighter. I know it's difficult to squeeze into just a few sentences, but how would your describe those early bouts?
JB: What I remember was the thrill of this feeling like I was on my way. I was learning the trade. It looks like a lot of fights for one year but to be honest with you, the only night that I got to come alive and shine was fight night. Twelve or fourteen nights out of a whole year really isn't that much. The rest of the time my head was down. It seemed like that four-week period between fights was an extremely long time. By the time these yo-yos get my gloves on and I'm finally inside the ropes and ready to go, I'm thinking "FINALLY . . . took me four weeks to get here!"
PR: You managed to show up on television during that first year, defeating Randy Reedy in a four-rounder. That had to have been a thrill for a young fighter.
JB: ESPN was the place to be for a fighter trying to get noticed and Bob Arum was at ringside. Future light heavyweight champ Don LaLonde was fighting local hero Carlos Tite in the main event. My family, friends and coworkers were parked in front of the TV. I had pretty much worked myself into a shaking maniacal state, and then I was the first fight of the night on the televised portion of the card. If I could bottle that feeling and sell it, there would be no drug problem in this country. I forgot to throw a real live jab for pretty much all of the first two rounds. I did a punch count long before HBO came up with their phony punch stats. I "averaged" 110 punches a round and as I said, none of those punches were jabs in the first two rounds. I was all adrenaline and enthusiasm and I came Ye Verily close to crying like a four-year-old with relief when I won the fight. I won my first televised fight, and that particular fantasy had kept me entertained for many miles of roadwork previously. That was a great night.
PR: Just a few months later you went in against 22-0-1 Danny Ferris in front of his home crowd. Apparently someone thought you would be the perfect stepping-stone opponent for Ferris, a former amateur standout who was being touted as a professional prospect. But it turned out to be the other way around. What happened?
JB: Danny had progressed to the point where he needed to move up in competition in order to grow as a fighter. In our situation, it was the same reason I was in with Haugen and Pazienza later that year. We didn't have the sterling amateur background or the money behind us to bring me along "carefully." It was my first ten rounder. My intro to the big time. To move forward I had to win. If I lose I lose the momentum and progress of the past year. I didn't want to go back. It was a decent matchup in which they figured he was the naturally bigger fellow and his strength would prevail. They had only seen me in the Reedy fight on ESPN and took the bout thinking that I was wild and would run out of rage and be easier to handle late in a ten-round fight. For the first time, I think in my life, I was the faster fighter and I was hitting him from places he couldn't see. As far as running out of gas, they backed the wrong horse there because it wasn't happening to me that night. After the fourth round he had been down a couple of times and his corner just decided that it would be best to try again another night. I had one of those nights where you could do no wrong. Couldn't have come at a better time for me
PR: You started 1985 with five victories in five bouts in the first six months, including the Ferris fight. You slowed your pace for the second half of the year, with only three bouts, and you would lose tough decisions in each—but the opponents were named Haugen, Pazienza, and Chavez, in that order. That's quite a line-up.
Haugen was undefeated but still an unknown quantity at the time, at least on the East Coast. Pazienza was probably better known but still unproven. You severely tested the mettle of each. What did you learn about these two future world champions as fighters—and about yourself?
JB: I think what happened by the summer of '85 was that I had run the gauntlet of preliminary challenges. I was having a hard time getting any fights at all at that point. We would have to go national to advance my career. I felt confident that I could make the jump in stature of competition. I definitely wanted to make the jump. But I didn't know as much about the "craft" of boxing as I needed to know. The fight with Greg was an overnight call to fill in for John Meekins who was unable to fight. I was given little info on him and he was given false info on me, so we were pretty even there. He had a couple hundred amateur fights and I was as strong as anybody he was going to run into but I was all heart and muscle without too much skill. Greg had heart, strength, and skill. He did very well throughout his career with "pressure" fighters. It was the luck of the draw. I learned I had one of the best chins in the world at lightweight—not something you want to learn on national TV.
Vinny was a force of nature. I've grown to be good friends with Vinny over the years. His parents treated me like family when I visited him in Rhode Island. We have the kind of friendship that two guys who have punched each other for an evening or so acquire. He would come firing with bad intentions and I would fire back, but his speed was better, his combinations were better. The successful career stats of other fighters who are and were considered formidable opponents for those two tell me that I wasn't out of either Greg's or Vinny's league, just that they had mastered a few skill sets that I hadn't quite gotten to yet. Their combination punching was superior to my own. They didn't eat punches they didn't have to. Courage-wise, those two fights proved a lot to me personally because things go wrong inside the ropes and you have to deal with them, right then and there. I showed myself that somewhere inside was a snarling and unlicensed beast that wasn't going to take this lying down, even if he was wounded. Everybody has the heart of a champion when they are on their game and things are going their way. But how many can say they will dig down and fire back with a broken gun or with closed eyes or blood pouring? I found out in those two bouts that, even if I didn't possess all the skills, I wasn't lacking in the heart department.
PR: You fought Haugen in July and Pazienza in September, and your next fight was December 19 at the Olympic in LA against Julio Cesar Chavez. Coming into that bout Chavez was 48-0 and the reigning WBC Super Featherweight World Champion, yet he was still considered a rising star. He was growing in other ways, too, and he wanted to try out the lightweight division. What did you know about Chavez as a fighter, and what was your mind-set entering that non-title fight?
JB: Julio wasn't a legend at that point. It wouldn't be much longer before he became a boxing legend, but at that moment he was on the radar of those in the know who saw greatness in the making. All that I knew about Chavez was learned on a Saturday in July of that year during his 2nd round destruction of Roger Mayweather. I believe my response was, "Oh wow." The punching power was obvious. The fight didn't last long enough to ascertain more. Entering the fight at only 23 years old was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. I didn't realize what I was up against. I had my own "Rocky" fantasies of pulling off the miracle or at the very least shaking the hell out of the world champion. It wasn't lost on me that Apollo Creed was a 46-0 world champ in the movie or that Rocky was a down-and-out nobody or that I had received a call out of the blue like Stallone's character. I had no real reason to have any expectations of having the opportunity to fight someone of Chavez's stature. I felt like someone was whispering things about "destiny" in my ear. I got to work out at the Main Street Gym; I was going to get my moment in the famed Olympic auditorium. I mean, for a kid not even five years out of high school who had his first amateur fight four years ago, what were the odds? But . . . maybe I could drop a few jaws in the boxing world. I hadn't come here to roll over and play dead. This was my chance. Like I said, 23 and way too young to be completely psyched out by the enormity of it, and being a dreamer, I was convinced that good things could happen to me, too.
In a sort of backhanded way, I also realized that this moment was something I would have to live with for the rest of my life. My last thought before entering the ring at the Olympic was that I had to leave everything inside that ring. No regrets.
PR: So you were completely focused. Then the bell rang. How would you summarize facing Chavez?
JB: Well, at first I knew I was being played with. What I mean is that I think Julio thought he could KO me at will and he was going to get a round or two of work, dust this guy off and head back to Culiacan and buy the wife a nice Christmas present or something. He came out strictly looking to box. I came out strictly looking to make it a phone booth war.
What that eventually does is force a man who is looking to enjoy himself and what he was hoping would be a glorified sparring session to fight for real. Late in the first round after trying to pressure him and missing the mark several times, I landed the same right hook that dropped most of my 20 or so KO victims in my pro fights. For one splendid moment, I enjoyed the surprise in his eyes and the slight wobbling in his front left knee. Then he straightened up. Now, I had his attention. He shifted his weight and landed a right cross that shattered my nose. People ask me to this day, "How hard did Chavez hit?" OK, straight answer: Picture a baseball bat with an ashtray taped to the sweet spot. And don't think I wasn't thinking of Rocky at that moment either. Hey! We both got our nose busted at the end of the first round with the champion! I'm not making this stuff up by the way.
I think that the fact that I was a huge boxing fan, a star-struck kid in many ways, helped me get through the whole disastrous end to the first round. I took the whole thing—the pain, the blood gushing out of my nose—as my baptism under fire so to speak. I am in here . . . I'm having my courage tested . . . I can't wait to show what I'm made of . . . . Unfortunately that stuff only goes so far and as rounds go on, reality sets in. The guy had perfect balance and weight shift and he was a monsoon of punches and there is no way you want to stand out where the rain is the hardest. I needed to take this fight back to phone booth range if I was going to survive. I was enthusiastic but I wasn't stupid.
Out of a combination of determination to show this guy what I am made of and a paralyzing fear that some other part of my face was going to be crushed by another thunderbolt, I crawled all over Julio for the rest of the fight. Cutting the distance down naturally brings about clashes of the head. Two accidental head butts caused a cut that ended the fight. I can still see Dr. James Jen Kin waving the fight over. I had never heard of a "technical decision" before in my life but as it turned out, I would lose this fight by that means. Years later I approached Frankie Randall at an amateur fight in Flint Michigan to let him know he wasn't the first to lose a tech decision to Julio. I really enjoyed that, you know.
PR: Chavez stayed at super featherweight for a couple more years after that fight. If he was testing the waters at lightweight by fighting you, you obviously made an impression.
After such a tough run—three tough fights in a row with three tough decision losses—how did you assess your career heading into 1986?
JB: Being brutally honest, things were never the same after the Chavez fight. Quite possibly I should cut 23-year-old me a little bit of a break here, and admit that I had my head down and didn't do much in life for four or five years except box, so quite naturally I would take a break and live just a little bit. If I am truthful with myself, however, I would have to admit that when I left LAX on Saturday Dec 20, 1985 and headed home, I was at peace with what happened. I had gone at this guy with all I had. I had "fought this guy hard" as Mick from the Rocky movies used to say. When I left the ring in the Olympic Auditorium, somehow I knew that no matter what I did, how hard I worked or how lucky I got, I was never going to be in the same class of fighter as Julio Cesar Chavez. Maybe I was a little hard on myself. After all, the numbers that Chavez posted rivaled Sugar Ray Robinson's career when you look at them 25 years later. He was the greatest fighter of my generation and I fought him hard. Maybe I was just running out of things to prove to myself.
Whether I wanted a break or not, I was pretty much left alone after that fight. I was further disillusioned with the sport after earning a ten round draw in a fight where I knocked my opponent down three times.
PR: Seems like you deserved a break after the way you closed out 1985, but your very next fight after Chavez, the draw you just mentioned, was against Bret Summers in front of his home crowd in Washington state. Summers was a former U.S. Amateur Champion and a member of the famed Kronk gym. Going into the bout his record as a pro was 25-2, and he was anxious to re-establish himself after a couple of recent stumbles. Hardly the soft touch that would have been warranted under the circumstances.
JB: You know its funny you mention this because I was just on the phone with Bret yesterday and he was saying the same thing about himself in regards to drawing an opponent like me. I guess its all perception but I watch ESPN Friday Night Fights nowadays and see blowouts. Constantly. I know I sound like an old grandfather but back in the day we had Saturday afternoons filled with fight cards and competitive fights. Wars in fact. Rockin' Robin Blake vs. Tony Baltazar, Bobby Chacon vs. Bazooka Limon, Ray Mancini vs. Anybody. If you wanted to get into the mix of those iconic matchups, you weren't going to get it by beating up your grandmother four times for television. I don't fault the fighters nowadays. Greed seems to have put the whole economy in a tailspin and it has sure worked its magic on boxing. In the 40s and 50s it was nothing for a guy to get a title fight with 10-15 losses. You learned your craft the hard way. The eighties was a great time for boxing, but even then fighters were closely scrutinized in their won/loss record. Today the problem has grown to the point where fighters are badly overmatched on televised fights to pad the resume. It doesn't do anyone any good, least of all the viewing public. Certainly just because you are undefeated doesn't mean you have fought your baby sister eight times. But then again, not everyone is a Julio Cesar Chavez either. Bret and I went at it with the idea of doing damage, and then when ten rounds were up, we had a lot of respect for each other. Now we talk all the time. It would have been much easier on both of us to fight someone else. I don't think either one of us would have done it differently, even though on the phone we ask, "Why in the world did I have to match up with you?" That's good for a couple laughs.
PR: So after a busy and eventful 1985, how'd 1986 play out?
BR: The ten round draw with Summers took place in April of that year, and then I had to fight the same fellow, Kent Acuff, a Golden Glove champion from Indiana as an amateur, on three separate occasions.That pretty much did 1986 for me. Who in the world would want to fight me, and go blood and guts for little recognition? After all I had three losses and a draw in my last four fights, and they probably would not be paid very handsomely for the trouble. Then again, I might finally have something good happen to me and pull a rabbit out of my hat. Would you want to be the one who was the victim in my coming of age party? I had suffered a fractured orbital bone with Greg Haugen, a fractured collar bone with Vinny Paz and a shattered nose against Chavez. I had paid dues but fighting the same guy three times wasn't going to prove much, even if I beat him all three times. 1986 should have seen some new opportunities after those four or five years of hard work, but1986 as I saw it was the cold and flu season of my career. I worked out hard. I waited on phone calls. I made two trips to the Winnipeg, Manitoba area, and found out that I had no idea what real cold was until then. I wondered if the reputation as a fouler preceded me or if quite possibly that night in the ring with Lion of Culiacan would be my only shot. If so, then "this parting was well made."
PR: You didn't hang up the gloves for good--assuming you're not planning a comeback--until 1993. There are many stories about the difficulties pro fighters face in the transition from the ring back into world, but the public perception is more focused on those few fighters who are able to make a living entirely from boxing--the fighters who exist in that thin financial crust at the very top. But as I understand it, most pros, even the ones like yourself who are able to ply their trade on televised cards and achieve some recognition along the way, maintain a regular job throughout their career. What thoughts can you share about these realities, about your own experience and about the sport in general?
JB: It's kind of like making big money in Vegas or Atlantic City. Very, very few actually make anything. Then in that small percentage of casino winners, the big money winner has to throw all his chips in and win that huge gamble. The problem for most of us in the middle or bottom, much like the US economy by the way, is that eating a meal and paying the light bill has to be accomplished as well. If you aren't bankrolled by people with money or in a family with money to start with—name three of those guys in boxing, by the way—then you have to play the odds like me. I worked a 40-hour a week job like everybody else, and fought part time. It was full time in my heart. Just part time in real life. The only time I ever threw all my chips in and trained full time was for the Chavez fight, but that was because my employer, Bill Robinson, told me that this was the chance of a lifetime and he wasn't going to let me throw this away wasting my legs on a concrete floor in a factory, even if it was his factory. And we know how that turned out. Maybe that's why those at the top have such a hard time with life after boxing. They have no concept of what the average guy does to get a dollar, and really no concept of how much money he's going to need to make it through life, and worse yet how long he's actually going to live. You're right though. The vast overwhelming majority of professional fighters have a job and will function just fine in life after boxing, short of their battle scars.
PR: I've heard from a reliable source that you have been gaining some attention as something of a storyteller and writer. Care to philosophize just a little on the value of the stories from your days in the ring?
JB: Well, since you put it that way I won't clutter the interview with false modesty (insert laughter here). I would hope that what someone would get from reading anything that I've written would be that I was both a fan of boxing and a hopeless romantic. I've always wanted to tell Sylvester Stallone that both by accidents and by design I came closer to living the life of his fictional character than anyone he knows. At least the first installment. I still haven't decided what I want to do when I grow up, simply because the dreamer and the hopeless romantic in me haven't died. The value in anybody's story . . . anyone with a story to tell . . . is how much passion they have for the subject. I fell in love with boxing, took a rocket ride to where I could rub elbows with great fighters, and never became so ingrained in the upper echelon that I killed off that hopeless romantic. When you climb inside the ropes, what you are is obvious for everyone to see. What I am, what I hope you saw if you watched me, was a big kid with an autograph book in his hand who made some big names in the lightweight division work for their money in the 80s.Very few people can picture themselves being a greater fighter than Julio Cesar Chavez. I bet a whole load of them wondered what it was like to cross gloves with him just once. Look no further . . . have I got a tale for you!
PR: Well Jeff, it's truly been a pleasure discussing boxing with you. Your career might sound like it came from a Hollywood screenplay, but you are the genuine article. If he hasn't done so yet, I'm sure Sylvester Stallone would be honored to shake your hand. And I mean that sincerely.
I don't expect you to respond to my enthusiastic praise (hey, I'm a fan), but do you have any final thoughts to share before the tape runs out?
JB: My son had a class in his senior year of high school entitled "Sports Literature" and I was asked to speak to the class and of course I lied through my teeth about how good I was. Someone asked about following their dreams and how to go about it. My reply was this, and if it were my epitaph I would be fine with it:
People ask me all the time, 'How do I learn how to fight?' or 'What do I do to make my dream come true? ' The answer is so simple that it's complicated. You go and be that hero you've always wished you were. People tell themselves, 'Oh I'm young and I have all the time in the world to make my dreams come true.' Well, no you don't. The clock is ticking. If you're a dancer, go dance. Dance your heart out. Or sing, or whatever it is that you want for yourself. Time slips away fast. In 28 years would you like to come back and tell future students about those adventures in pursuit of a dream? Or would you like to tell them 'Well, I daydreamed about it.' The clock is ticking.
***
Phil Rice is a freelance writer and editor currently working out of Pittsburgh, PA. He may be reached at philrice9@gmail.com.
Jeff Bumpus retired from professional boxing in 1993. He currently lives and works in Union, Michigan. As mentioned in the interview, his tales have indeed begun to attract some attention. "He Broke Bones," a short memoir of his bout with Julio Cesar Chavez, has recently been accepted for publication by Canopic Jar, an online literary journal (www.canopicjar.com). An advance posting of the story is available for viewing at www.canopicpublishing.com/bumpus.htm
Honey
I just ask Connie if she wanted another cup of coffee, she said.
"No honey, wait!, did I just call you honey?".
"Yes you did"
"Well I take it back"
"The honey or the no on another cup of coffee?"
"The honey of course"
And here I was looking for the start of a nice day...LOL!!
"No honey, wait!, did I just call you honey?".
"Yes you did"
"Well I take it back"
"The honey or the no on another cup of coffee?"
"The honey of course"
And here I was looking for the start of a nice day...LOL!!
Friday, May 14, 2010
California Boxing Hall of fame
Press Release
Enrique Bolanos, who was the number one lightweight contender in 1947-’48, heads up a list of 25 honorees for the 2010 California Boxing Hall of Fame, induction ceremonies will be held June 26 at the Sportsmen’s Lodge in Studio City.
Other inductees include Young Corbett III, who won the welterweight championship in 1933, Corbett’s career spanned 31 years, which included wins over light-heavyweight champions Billy Conn and Gus Lesnevich.
Ticket information is available by calling (818) 761-4887
Frank Baltazar
Vice President
CBHOF
Don Fraser
President
CBHOF
Enrique Bolanos, who was the number one lightweight contender in 1947-’48, heads up a list of 25 honorees for the 2010 California Boxing Hall of Fame, induction ceremonies will be held June 26 at the Sportsmen’s Lodge in Studio City.
Other inductees include Young Corbett III, who won the welterweight championship in 1933, Corbett’s career spanned 31 years, which included wins over light-heavyweight champions Billy Conn and Gus Lesnevich.
Ticket information is available by calling (818) 761-4887
Frank Baltazar
Vice President
CBHOF
Don Fraser
President
CBHOF
Gene Fullmer
By Tom Ray
My friend Kelly Burden (who fought Bob Foster for the light-heavyweight title in 1971) started out his pro career in the Marv Jensen stable and as one of Gene Fullmer's sparring partners. One thing Kelly used to say about Fuller was about how strong Fullmer was, and how he would bull Kelly around during sparring sessions. That always impressed me because I knew from sparring with Kelly how strong Kelly was, and the fact that Fuller could push him around really impressed me.
I think Fullmer was a great fighter, and one reason was because he could change styles to become more effective. Look at his fight with Carmen Basilio. I had always assumed that, when he and Carmen met, they fought toe-to-toe, neither taking a backward step. But I was surprised when I saw a film of the first fight that Gene actually boxed Carmen, backed away, and ripped Carmen as Basilio tried to move in on him. It was a great display, and showed that Gene was not the one-dimensional fighter some people make him out to be, but was adaptable.
My friend Kelly Burden (who fought Bob Foster for the light-heavyweight title in 1971) started out his pro career in the Marv Jensen stable and as one of Gene Fullmer's sparring partners. One thing Kelly used to say about Fuller was about how strong Fullmer was, and how he would bull Kelly around during sparring sessions. That always impressed me because I knew from sparring with Kelly how strong Kelly was, and the fact that Fuller could push him around really impressed me.
I think Fullmer was a great fighter, and one reason was because he could change styles to become more effective. Look at his fight with Carmen Basilio. I had always assumed that, when he and Carmen met, they fought toe-to-toe, neither taking a backward step. But I was surprised when I saw a film of the first fight that Gene actually boxed Carmen, backed away, and ripped Carmen as Basilio tried to move in on him. It was a great display, and showed that Gene was not the one-dimensional fighter some people make him out to be, but was adaptable.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Hacienda Heights man pens biography on famous boxer Bert "The Whittier Flash" Colima
By Sandra T. Molina, Staff Writer
Bert W. Colima has written a book about his late father, Bert Colima known as the "The Whittier Flash" a Mexican-American fighter in the 20s and 30s who was a middleweight champion in Hacienda Heights. (SGVN/Staff Photo by Keith Birmingham)
It's not every day an 8-year-old gets to meet the "greatest heavyweight champion of all time."
But that's what happened to Hacienda Heights resident Bert W. Colima when his father introduced him to Joe Louis.
And how did the boy get the chance to meet the boxing legend?
His father, Bert "The Whittier Flash" Colima, was a world-class boxing champion in his own right.
Now the younger Colima, 78, has written about his father's career in the recently released, "Gentleman of the Ring: The Bert Colima Story," published by Long Beach-based Magic Valley Publishers.
The book details Colima's rise from his roots in the tiny Los Nietos community near Whittier to the boxing ring in the 1920s and 1930s.
One of the era's top sports writers, Jimmy Kilty, called Colima, "The greatest Mexican personality to ever appear in the ring."
He even credited Colima with paving the way for other Hispanic boxers.
Colima was born Epifanio Romero on Sept. 8, 1902 on a Los Nietos ranch. When he started boxing, he changed his name to Colima, the name of his family's ancestral homeland in Mexico. Romero was too common, he decided.
Colima grew to be a fan favorite among Mexicans and Mexican-Americans, earning a record of 135-38-21 with 48 knockouts.
"He was their idol," Kilty wrote in 1942.
This generation, however, does not know about the Whittier Flash's exploits, his son said.
"To many of the younger generation, the name Colima does not mean much," he said. "But to the fight fans of yesteryear, it brings back memories of a great Mexican-American boxer who helped start it all."
The younger Colima, who boxed when he was young but eventually ended up in the insurance business, began the book more than 25 years after his father's death in 1979.
"I always wanted to tell his story," he said. "My dad rarely spoke of his career because he was an unassuming man."
The research, however, was hampered by the fact that hundreds of newspaper clippings kept in a trunk were destroyed in a fire.
"I spent a lot of time on the Internet and at libraries trying to collect what was lost," Colima said.
His wife, Rose, 75, helped with the work.
"After I collected information on my dad's fight record, she told me I needed `a story,"' Bert W. Colima said of his wife.
Fortunately, the elder Colima had written about his early years living on the ranch and his boxing career.
He included stories of boxing with his brothers on the ranch and getting his first set of gym clothes from an uncle at age 16.
Bert W. Colima said he didn't get many boxing stories from
Cover of Bert W. Colima's book about his late father, Bert Colima Sr. who was known as the "The Whittier Flash." (SGVN/Staff Photo by Keith Birmingham)his father.
"My father always downplayed his boxing career," Colima said.
That despite winning several titles, including the Mexican middle weight championship of 1928.
"He was a great man, very humble," said Ralph Romero, 62, of Coachella, the boxer's nephew.
When Colima retired from the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power, he was recognized by then Los Angeles Mayor Sam Yorty, Romero said.
Romero hosts an annual boxing tournament.
The top fighter is given a BCR belt. It stands for Bert Colima Romero.
"It's a way to honor my uncle, who paved the way for other young Mexican-American fighters," Romero said.
As for the book, Colima called it a "work of love."
"I want to get his name out there and be recognized for the trailblazer he was."
sandra.molina@sgvn.com
Bert W. Colima has written a book about his late father, Bert Colima known as the "The Whittier Flash" a Mexican-American fighter in the 20s and 30s who was a middleweight champion in Hacienda Heights. (SGVN/Staff Photo by Keith Birmingham)
It's not every day an 8-year-old gets to meet the "greatest heavyweight champion of all time."
But that's what happened to Hacienda Heights resident Bert W. Colima when his father introduced him to Joe Louis.
And how did the boy get the chance to meet the boxing legend?
His father, Bert "The Whittier Flash" Colima, was a world-class boxing champion in his own right.
Now the younger Colima, 78, has written about his father's career in the recently released, "Gentleman of the Ring: The Bert Colima Story," published by Long Beach-based Magic Valley Publishers.
The book details Colima's rise from his roots in the tiny Los Nietos community near Whittier to the boxing ring in the 1920s and 1930s.
One of the era's top sports writers, Jimmy Kilty, called Colima, "The greatest Mexican personality to ever appear in the ring."
He even credited Colima with paving the way for other Hispanic boxers.
Colima was born Epifanio Romero on Sept. 8, 1902 on a Los Nietos ranch. When he started boxing, he changed his name to Colima, the name of his family's ancestral homeland in Mexico. Romero was too common, he decided.
Colima grew to be a fan favorite among Mexicans and Mexican-Americans, earning a record of 135-38-21 with 48 knockouts.
"He was their idol," Kilty wrote in 1942.
This generation, however, does not know about the Whittier Flash's exploits, his son said.
"To many of the younger generation, the name Colima does not mean much," he said. "But to the fight fans of yesteryear, it brings back memories of a great Mexican-American boxer who helped start it all."
The younger Colima, who boxed when he was young but eventually ended up in the insurance business, began the book more than 25 years after his father's death in 1979.
"I always wanted to tell his story," he said. "My dad rarely spoke of his career because he was an unassuming man."
The research, however, was hampered by the fact that hundreds of newspaper clippings kept in a trunk were destroyed in a fire.
"I spent a lot of time on the Internet and at libraries trying to collect what was lost," Colima said.
His wife, Rose, 75, helped with the work.
"After I collected information on my dad's fight record, she told me I needed `a story,"' Bert W. Colima said of his wife.
Fortunately, the elder Colima had written about his early years living on the ranch and his boxing career.
He included stories of boxing with his brothers on the ranch and getting his first set of gym clothes from an uncle at age 16.
Bert W. Colima said he didn't get many boxing stories from
Cover of Bert W. Colima's book about his late father, Bert Colima Sr. who was known as the "The Whittier Flash." (SGVN/Staff Photo by Keith Birmingham)his father.
"My father always downplayed his boxing career," Colima said.
That despite winning several titles, including the Mexican middle weight championship of 1928.
"He was a great man, very humble," said Ralph Romero, 62, of Coachella, the boxer's nephew.
When Colima retired from the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power, he was recognized by then Los Angeles Mayor Sam Yorty, Romero said.
Romero hosts an annual boxing tournament.
The top fighter is given a BCR belt. It stands for Bert Colima Romero.
"It's a way to honor my uncle, who paved the way for other young Mexican-American fighters," Romero said.
As for the book, Colima called it a "work of love."
"I want to get his name out there and be recognized for the trailblazer he was."
sandra.molina@sgvn.com
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Giving me the eye
By Frank Baltazar
Yesterday morning as I was waiting at the USC Norris Cancer Center waiting area to see my doctor a lady walked in, she looked to be pushing 70 years, in spiky high heels and a short skirt, but what struck me about her was her platinum hair piled as near a 1950s beehive as you'll ever see and not a single hair out of place, she sat across from me and started giving me the eye....
Yesterday morning as I was waiting at the USC Norris Cancer Center waiting area to see my doctor a lady walked in, she looked to be pushing 70 years, in spiky high heels and a short skirt, but what struck me about her was her platinum hair piled as near a 1950s beehive as you'll ever see and not a single hair out of place, she sat across from me and started giving me the eye....
Amir Khan
By Bennie
Amir Khan went his own way earlier this year, severing his British boxing roots for the sunshine of Los Angeles, the place where the rents are low as Neil Diamond once croaked. Now promoted by Oscar De La Hoya, he of the Colgate smile and the five thousand dollar suits, and trained by Freddie Roach, a shrewd individual with plenty of say-so in the Khan camp, Khan launches his US debut with a 12-rounder against Paulie Malignaggi in Madison Square Garden on Saturday.
Khan is still only 23 and like Ricky Hatton before him finds the lure of America irresistible – a 23-year-old topping the bill at Madison Square Garden! Khan was once content with topping the bill at the Bolton Arena, a stone's throw from his own front door, but Bolton has come and gone and never again will Khan fight in his own hometown. De La Hoya does not 'do' Bolton.
Right now everything is new and fresh for young Khan, who can speed down the California freeways with the top down. The American way spells m-o-n-e-y and those with money, with nice homes and nice cars, are admired. Here, they are envied. Khan has found his own personal Heaven. De La Hoya calls and says Las Vegas next, the MGM Grand.
Firstly comes Malignaggi, a feather-fisted fellow from Brooklyn who talks a great fight and knows how to box but is unlikely to do much damage to the infamous Khan chin. Roach the coach chose him and will choose a succession of other respectable but light-hitting opponents for Khan over the next few years. Roach the coach is also manager, mentor, matchmaker and probably Khan's hero. Roach owns a gym in Hollywood where the Hollywood set stop by, work out, float around. Khan is still floating himself.
Give Khan an opponent without real strength and power, and Khan looks a million dollars. Give him an opponent who can punch, and he is likely to find himself taking a tumble. The day will dawn when even Roach slips, by which time America will surely jar with a bored Khan, sick of fans cheering the other man, sick of their way of doing things. Khan misses custard or marmalade or Match of the Day; he misses Bolton.
Amir Khan went his own way earlier this year, severing his British boxing roots for the sunshine of Los Angeles, the place where the rents are low as Neil Diamond once croaked. Now promoted by Oscar De La Hoya, he of the Colgate smile and the five thousand dollar suits, and trained by Freddie Roach, a shrewd individual with plenty of say-so in the Khan camp, Khan launches his US debut with a 12-rounder against Paulie Malignaggi in Madison Square Garden on Saturday.
Khan is still only 23 and like Ricky Hatton before him finds the lure of America irresistible – a 23-year-old topping the bill at Madison Square Garden! Khan was once content with topping the bill at the Bolton Arena, a stone's throw from his own front door, but Bolton has come and gone and never again will Khan fight in his own hometown. De La Hoya does not 'do' Bolton.
Right now everything is new and fresh for young Khan, who can speed down the California freeways with the top down. The American way spells m-o-n-e-y and those with money, with nice homes and nice cars, are admired. Here, they are envied. Khan has found his own personal Heaven. De La Hoya calls and says Las Vegas next, the MGM Grand.
Firstly comes Malignaggi, a feather-fisted fellow from Brooklyn who talks a great fight and knows how to box but is unlikely to do much damage to the infamous Khan chin. Roach the coach chose him and will choose a succession of other respectable but light-hitting opponents for Khan over the next few years. Roach the coach is also manager, mentor, matchmaker and probably Khan's hero. Roach owns a gym in Hollywood where the Hollywood set stop by, work out, float around. Khan is still floating himself.
Give Khan an opponent without real strength and power, and Khan looks a million dollars. Give him an opponent who can punch, and he is likely to find himself taking a tumble. The day will dawn when even Roach slips, by which time America will surely jar with a bored Khan, sick of fans cheering the other man, sick of their way of doing things. Khan misses custard or marmalade or Match of the Day; he misses Bolton.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Subject: Re: Frank Baltazar interview . . .
Subject: Re: Frank Baltazar interview . . .
Rick --
First and foremost, thanks for the wonderful interview today. Your insight into boxing is fantastic, and so too is your passion.
As for Frank Baltazar, that's great news. I'm looking forward to getting him -- and, hopefully, Hap Navarro -- on camera soon.
Please let me know how I should proceed. And if you get other notions, don't hesitate to let me know.
Also, thanks to your wife for being a good sport.
Best,
Alan
Alan . . .
It was great talking with you today and I hope some of what I shared can be of use to your project. I spoke with Frank Baltazar and he would be open to have you interview him.
Frank is a treasure trove of Los Angeles and Latinio boxing history.
He was running the Jr. Golden Gloves tourney in L.A. when Albert Davila, the Sandovals, etc. were competeing and can open doors to the true history of the great Latinos who came out of East L.A. You will get some true, unbiased history from Frank.
I will E-mail Hap Navarro tonight, and see if there is a possibility of your interviewing him. He promoted guys like the great Enrique Bolanos, Art Aragon, Manuel Ortiz, Keeny Teran, etc.
I'll be in touch. Good luck with your film, one I consider very important, and one that won't be possible in the near future (the history is dying with those who were involved).
Take care,
Rick Farris
Rick --
First and foremost, thanks for the wonderful interview today. Your insight into boxing is fantastic, and so too is your passion.
As for Frank Baltazar, that's great news. I'm looking forward to getting him -- and, hopefully, Hap Navarro -- on camera soon.
Please let me know how I should proceed. And if you get other notions, don't hesitate to let me know.
Also, thanks to your wife for being a good sport.
Best,
Alan
Alan . . .
It was great talking with you today and I hope some of what I shared can be of use to your project. I spoke with Frank Baltazar and he would be open to have you interview him.
Frank is a treasure trove of Los Angeles and Latinio boxing history.
He was running the Jr. Golden Gloves tourney in L.A. when Albert Davila, the Sandovals, etc. were competeing and can open doors to the true history of the great Latinos who came out of East L.A. You will get some true, unbiased history from Frank.
I will E-mail Hap Navarro tonight, and see if there is a possibility of your interviewing him. He promoted guys like the great Enrique Bolanos, Art Aragon, Manuel Ortiz, Keeny Teran, etc.
I'll be in touch. Good luck with your film, one I consider very important, and one that won't be possible in the near future (the history is dying with those who were involved).
Take care,
Rick Farris
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Freddie Roach's Wild Card Gym . . .
By Rick Farris
Stopped by with a friend today. Just missed Frankie Duarte, who works with fighters in the morning.
Freddie is in Canada with Amir Khan. The gym slows down when Freddie is out of town. That is, the Hollywood crowd thins out.
Had a nice visit with Freddie's older brother Pepper, or Pep.
Mostly amateurs on the floor at the time.
Showed my friend around the gym, the photos, a lot of L.A. history on the walls, fighters from the past.
Wish I had something of interest to report. Nada. We left.
A week from tomorrow night, Freddie will be in the corner of Amir Khan as he takes on Paulie Mali-whatever at Madison Square Garden.
A week after the fight I'll drop in then to say hello. Of course, I won't be alone.
All the Hollywood-types that wallpaper the gym when Roach is in the house will be back.
I'd love to see Mel Epstein walk into Wildcard when the Hollywood crowd is present. He might have an opinion?
Stopped by with a friend today. Just missed Frankie Duarte, who works with fighters in the morning.
Freddie is in Canada with Amir Khan. The gym slows down when Freddie is out of town. That is, the Hollywood crowd thins out.
Had a nice visit with Freddie's older brother Pepper, or Pep.
Mostly amateurs on the floor at the time.
Showed my friend around the gym, the photos, a lot of L.A. history on the walls, fighters from the past.
Wish I had something of interest to report. Nada. We left.
A week from tomorrow night, Freddie will be in the corner of Amir Khan as he takes on Paulie Mali-whatever at Madison Square Garden.
A week after the fight I'll drop in then to say hello. Of course, I won't be alone.
All the Hollywood-types that wallpaper the gym when Roach is in the house will be back.
I'd love to see Mel Epstein walk into Wildcard when the Hollywood crowd is present. He might have an opinion?
Amir Khan vs Paulie Malignaggi
By Bennie
Amir Khan’s American dream looms. The British boy makes his US debut in New York’s legendary Madison Square Garden next Saturday against brash and talented local man Paulie Malignaggi. While Las Vegas and its over-the-top hotels took over from New York as boxing’s major host from the late 1970s, The Garden is still shrouded in the history of big-time boxing, a place to rise to glorious victory or to sink to bitter defeat. It separates the men from the boys.
An Olympic silver medalist at 17, Khan won his medal as a one-man British boxing team in 2004. How lonely he must have felt squaring up to Cuban great Mario Kindelan in the lightweight final but the steely son of a scrap-metal merchant fought magnificently to concede a 30-22 verdict to a man whose victims included Miguel Cotto and Felix Trinidad. A year later, Amir lured "Super" Mario over here and took his revenge by 19-13 in his own hometown of Bolton. He was ready to hand in his vest.
Khan launched his pro campaign in Bolton in July 2005 with a quick dismissal of outgunned Londoner David Bailey. His hands were a blur as he reeled off 18 straight victories (14 early) before an unknown but unbeaten Colombian by the name of Breidis Prescott sparked him in 54 shocking seconds in Manchester in September 2007, dumping him twice. Khan now faced the second lonely climb of his career.
He made it look easy. In three inspired matches he toppled Irish brawler Oisin Fagin, Mexican great Marco Antonio Barrera and Ukrainian stylist Andreas Kotelnik, the latter for the the WBA light-welterweight title, a title he puts on the line against Brooklyn’s Malignaggi.
Khan makes his second defence. He disposed of another Brooklyn man, Dmitiry Salita, inside a round last December in Britain, dropping Salita three times and then rather ungraciously dropping his British backers to fight out of America, hence this showdown.
Malignaggi is better than Salita. He has good speed and a good chin but falls down on his power with just five career stoppages. Khan, who is even quicker but falls down (literally) on an ‘iffy’ chin, has nothing to fear this time. Watch him unload his lightning combinations, whip in his body blows, use the big ring and look a million dollars against a proud Italian with brittle hands and a history of soaking up punishment.
Khan, 23, dazzles Malignaggi on the way to a unanimous decision.
Amir Khan’s American dream looms. The British boy makes his US debut in New York’s legendary Madison Square Garden next Saturday against brash and talented local man Paulie Malignaggi. While Las Vegas and its over-the-top hotels took over from New York as boxing’s major host from the late 1970s, The Garden is still shrouded in the history of big-time boxing, a place to rise to glorious victory or to sink to bitter defeat. It separates the men from the boys.
An Olympic silver medalist at 17, Khan won his medal as a one-man British boxing team in 2004. How lonely he must have felt squaring up to Cuban great Mario Kindelan in the lightweight final but the steely son of a scrap-metal merchant fought magnificently to concede a 30-22 verdict to a man whose victims included Miguel Cotto and Felix Trinidad. A year later, Amir lured "Super" Mario over here and took his revenge by 19-13 in his own hometown of Bolton. He was ready to hand in his vest.
Khan launched his pro campaign in Bolton in July 2005 with a quick dismissal of outgunned Londoner David Bailey. His hands were a blur as he reeled off 18 straight victories (14 early) before an unknown but unbeaten Colombian by the name of Breidis Prescott sparked him in 54 shocking seconds in Manchester in September 2007, dumping him twice. Khan now faced the second lonely climb of his career.
He made it look easy. In three inspired matches he toppled Irish brawler Oisin Fagin, Mexican great Marco Antonio Barrera and Ukrainian stylist Andreas Kotelnik, the latter for the the WBA light-welterweight title, a title he puts on the line against Brooklyn’s Malignaggi.
Khan makes his second defence. He disposed of another Brooklyn man, Dmitiry Salita, inside a round last December in Britain, dropping Salita three times and then rather ungraciously dropping his British backers to fight out of America, hence this showdown.
Malignaggi is better than Salita. He has good speed and a good chin but falls down on his power with just five career stoppages. Khan, who is even quicker but falls down (literally) on an ‘iffy’ chin, has nothing to fear this time. Watch him unload his lightning combinations, whip in his body blows, use the big ring and look a million dollars against a proud Italian with brittle hands and a history of soaking up punishment.
Khan, 23, dazzles Malignaggi on the way to a unanimous decision.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
John Liechty:
2-79- Winning my fight in Hollenbek, he could punch pretty good so I had to presure him so he coulden't set up. My trainer Jerry Moore was very happy with me in this fight.Two weeks later Tony Cerda floors me twice and stops me in the 1st round at the Olympic. My nightmare was to begin.
12-14-76 winnig a very hard one over John White in Pico Rivera.He broke my rib I was very glad to win.He could really hit!
3- 12 -1977 The night I won the Calif. Golden Glove title, I was a middle wieght.I'm holding my wieght divison trophy, my girl friend, Lori is holding best fighter of the tourament I won that night. That was it for me I lost 5 out of my last 7 fights.
Monday, May 3, 2010
World Boxing Hall of Fame - Class of 2010 . . .
-Boxer Catagory (Listed in order of votes receieved)
Julio Cesar Chavez
Mike Tyson
Dwight Mohammad Qawi
Bennie Briscoe
-Expanded Catagory
Joe Goossen
Jimmy Montoya
Graham Houston
Posthumous Catagory:
Tiger Jack Fox
Bernard Docusen
Julio Cesar Chavez
Mike Tyson
Dwight Mohammad Qawi
Bennie Briscoe
-Expanded Catagory
Joe Goossen
Jimmy Montoya
Graham Houston
Posthumous Catagory:
Tiger Jack Fox
Bernard Docusen
Sunday, May 2, 2010
John Duddy vs Julio Cesar Chavez Junior
By Bennie
Two of the most protected fighters in the business get it on next month when New York-based Irishman John Duddy faces Mexico’s Julio Cesar Chavez Junior at the Alamodome in San Antonio.
Duddy, a 30-year-old with an uncanny ability to put bums on seats, was finally exposed last year when someone called Billy Lyell outscored him over 10 rounds in Newark, taking away his unbeaten record. Middleweight Duddy, 29-1 (18), has been brought back with three obscure wins, presumably in front of big, adoring crowds, but there is no evidence to suggest that he has what it takes to break into world class. On the one hand he is brave, aggressive and biffs a bit but the other palm reads too slow, too easy to hit and too quick to bleed. He required 25 stitches after one fight.
Chavez remains unbeaten at 41-0-1 (30) but turned pro way too young at 17 and was held to an early draw by fellow countryman Carlos Molina in Monterrey in 2005, after which he dropped down a level. Even then a part-time gas station attendant by the name of Matt Vanda – a man Duddy has beaten – should haver got the nod over him in 2008 in Mexico but was plainly robbed. Chavez took on Vanda again and proved he was the better fighter with a unanimous 10-round decision; Chavez also took on Molina again, by the way, and outscored him. At 24 the son of a great, great fighter needs to be tested, to be stepped up, to make his move – and this isn’t it.
Nevertheless, Chavez goes quite well to the body and looks to be developing a man’s strength, at last. He simply looks too young and mobile for the aggressive Duddy.
Two of the most protected fighters in the business get it on next month when New York-based Irishman John Duddy faces Mexico’s Julio Cesar Chavez Junior at the Alamodome in San Antonio.
Duddy, a 30-year-old with an uncanny ability to put bums on seats, was finally exposed last year when someone called Billy Lyell outscored him over 10 rounds in Newark, taking away his unbeaten record. Middleweight Duddy, 29-1 (18), has been brought back with three obscure wins, presumably in front of big, adoring crowds, but there is no evidence to suggest that he has what it takes to break into world class. On the one hand he is brave, aggressive and biffs a bit but the other palm reads too slow, too easy to hit and too quick to bleed. He required 25 stitches after one fight.
Chavez remains unbeaten at 41-0-1 (30) but turned pro way too young at 17 and was held to an early draw by fellow countryman Carlos Molina in Monterrey in 2005, after which he dropped down a level. Even then a part-time gas station attendant by the name of Matt Vanda – a man Duddy has beaten – should haver got the nod over him in 2008 in Mexico but was plainly robbed. Chavez took on Vanda again and proved he was the better fighter with a unanimous 10-round decision; Chavez also took on Molina again, by the way, and outscored him. At 24 the son of a great, great fighter needs to be tested, to be stepped up, to make his move – and this isn’t it.
Nevertheless, Chavez goes quite well to the body and looks to be developing a man’s strength, at last. He simply looks too young and mobile for the aggressive Duddy.
Sugar Shane Mosley vs Floyd Mayweather
By Randy De La O
It’s an God awful thing to see a great fighter age in the ring, especially if it’s a fighter whose career has been based on speed, boxing ability, power and a huge heart. That was the case Saturday night at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas as Sugar Shane Mosley was reduced to a mere sparring partner by the faster, quicker thinking and (surprise-surprise) much more aggressive and perhaps, most importantly, a younger Floyd Mayweather Jr. You first began to get a hint of what was to come when Mosley’s trainer, Nazim Richardson began to wrap Mosley’s hand just minutes before he was to enter the ring. Mosley entered the ring dry. Not a good way to begin a fight.
The first round saw both fighters circling tentatively but Mayweather seemed much calmer much more relaxed. Mosley, on the other hand was fighting in an uncharacteristic manner; jerky, moving his hands needlessly, and with absolutely no fluidity . I had a bad feeling. When the second round came it looked like Mosley was going to take charge of the fight, he landed several crisp, hard right hands that seemed to hurt Mayweather. That second round proved to be his “Last Hurrah” at least as far as this fight was concerned. From the 3rd round on it was "Money" Mayweather taking the fight to Mosley. Each round became a carbon copy of the last, with Mayweather doing pretty much as he pleased with Mosley.
At times Mosley appeared completely clueless, vague and befuddled, stopping at one point after a break, with his hands down and talking to either to either referee Kenny Bayless or Mayweather, just asking to be hit. That’s exactly what Mayweather did. It’s what he was supposed to do. Mosley never did get into the fight, physically he seemed weak and his punches lacked any real conviction. Mosley never committed his punches. Mentally,, as the fight wore on Mosley began to break down and round by round he went further into survival mode, something I thought I would never see. Mayweather had an answer and then some for everything Mosley did. It was tough for me to watch.
Maybe Frank Sinatra said it best in his song “That’s Life”
“You’re riding high in April
and Shot down in May”
Truer words were never sung.
While I’m not quite ready to agree with Mayweather that he is the best fighter of all time; better than Ali, better than Robinson, better than Duran or better than Leonard I will concede that he is one two of the best fighters of his generation and I’m swallowing awful hard just saying that. Still, I have to give credit to Mayweather, I didn’t think he had it in him to stand up to Mosley but he did what he said he was to do. He out boxed and out fought Mosley and he made it look easy. I give him credit for his behavior outside of the ring. It would have been easy for Mayweather to continue to torment Mosley with well placed words but he chose not to. He showed some class last night. He also showed that he has more going on inside of him than I previously gave him credit for.
After Mayweather’s fight with Juan Manuel Marquez, Mosley jumped into the ring to challenge Mayweather and Max Kellerman, more or less, never really allowed Mayweather to enjoy his victory. It didn’t bother me so much then, in fact for that fight, and for that moment it seemed almost appropriate but last night it did bother me. Larry Merchant hammered him incessantly on the drug testing and Manny Pacquiao. Merchant should have just let Floyd revel in his victory. He deserved that much. Sometimes the Larry Merchants of the world need to know when to shut up.
The fight didn’t turn out the way I had hoped. My reasons for picking Mosley over Mayweather were sound and valid but as the afore mentioned Larry Merchant has said ad nauseam “Boxing is the theater of the unexpected” and last night proved just that.
So now we sit back and wait for Manny and Floyd to hammer out their agreement and make their fight happen. Hopefully before the end of the year. I’m figuring that after Saturday the odds may just favor Mayweather. I don’t expect Mosley to relent on the Olympic style drug testing or anything else for that matter. Like Ray Leonard and Oscar De La Hoya before him, he is a shrewd and tough negotiator. Let’s see how this plays out.
It’s an God awful thing to see a great fighter age in the ring, especially if it’s a fighter whose career has been based on speed, boxing ability, power and a huge heart. That was the case Saturday night at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas as Sugar Shane Mosley was reduced to a mere sparring partner by the faster, quicker thinking and (surprise-surprise) much more aggressive and perhaps, most importantly, a younger Floyd Mayweather Jr. You first began to get a hint of what was to come when Mosley’s trainer, Nazim Richardson began to wrap Mosley’s hand just minutes before he was to enter the ring. Mosley entered the ring dry. Not a good way to begin a fight.
The first round saw both fighters circling tentatively but Mayweather seemed much calmer much more relaxed. Mosley, on the other hand was fighting in an uncharacteristic manner; jerky, moving his hands needlessly, and with absolutely no fluidity . I had a bad feeling. When the second round came it looked like Mosley was going to take charge of the fight, he landed several crisp, hard right hands that seemed to hurt Mayweather. That second round proved to be his “Last Hurrah” at least as far as this fight was concerned. From the 3rd round on it was "Money" Mayweather taking the fight to Mosley. Each round became a carbon copy of the last, with Mayweather doing pretty much as he pleased with Mosley.
At times Mosley appeared completely clueless, vague and befuddled, stopping at one point after a break, with his hands down and talking to either to either referee Kenny Bayless or Mayweather, just asking to be hit. That’s exactly what Mayweather did. It’s what he was supposed to do. Mosley never did get into the fight, physically he seemed weak and his punches lacked any real conviction. Mosley never committed his punches. Mentally,, as the fight wore on Mosley began to break down and round by round he went further into survival mode, something I thought I would never see. Mayweather had an answer and then some for everything Mosley did. It was tough for me to watch.
Maybe Frank Sinatra said it best in his song “That’s Life”
“You’re riding high in April
and Shot down in May”
Truer words were never sung.
While I’m not quite ready to agree with Mayweather that he is the best fighter of all time; better than Ali, better than Robinson, better than Duran or better than Leonard I will concede that he is one two of the best fighters of his generation and I’m swallowing awful hard just saying that. Still, I have to give credit to Mayweather, I didn’t think he had it in him to stand up to Mosley but he did what he said he was to do. He out boxed and out fought Mosley and he made it look easy. I give him credit for his behavior outside of the ring. It would have been easy for Mayweather to continue to torment Mosley with well placed words but he chose not to. He showed some class last night. He also showed that he has more going on inside of him than I previously gave him credit for.
After Mayweather’s fight with Juan Manuel Marquez, Mosley jumped into the ring to challenge Mayweather and Max Kellerman, more or less, never really allowed Mayweather to enjoy his victory. It didn’t bother me so much then, in fact for that fight, and for that moment it seemed almost appropriate but last night it did bother me. Larry Merchant hammered him incessantly on the drug testing and Manny Pacquiao. Merchant should have just let Floyd revel in his victory. He deserved that much. Sometimes the Larry Merchants of the world need to know when to shut up.
The fight didn’t turn out the way I had hoped. My reasons for picking Mosley over Mayweather were sound and valid but as the afore mentioned Larry Merchant has said ad nauseam “Boxing is the theater of the unexpected” and last night proved just that.
So now we sit back and wait for Manny and Floyd to hammer out their agreement and make their fight happen. Hopefully before the end of the year. I’m figuring that after Saturday the odds may just favor Mayweather. I don’t expect Mosley to relent on the Olympic style drug testing or anything else for that matter. Like Ray Leonard and Oscar De La Hoya before him, he is a shrewd and tough negotiator. Let’s see how this plays out.
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