On a side note, Rick, remember my 1958 Ford Station Wagon, full of kids ready to box?

A Car Full of Kids Ready to Box . . .
By Rick Farris

I remember a lot of cars full of kids ready to box. I remember Frank's station wagon, my coach Manny Diaz's Buick Riviera, Johnnie Flores green Cadillac.

Manny was proud of that Buick, it was the first he'd ever bought brand new from the dealership. We used to pile into his old Chevy pick-up with the camper shell. Usually he and Bobby Bell would ride up front, however, we kids preferred to ride in the back and would roll around whenever Manny took a turn a little too fast. There were no seat belts laws in those days, and I don't remember anybody but the most paranoid even installing them. Picture seven or eight kids sitting in the back of a truck, laughing, cutting up . . . "Who the hell farted?". It was always Beto, he'd eat anything.

Manny Diaz was a heavy equipment operator. He'd operate the big land movers that would clear the path for a new freeway, or dig an underground parking structure for a new hospital. It was hard work. At 5'6", Manny had been one of Johnnie Flores best amateur middleweights in the late 50's, early 60's. He had whipped a number of the better L.A. amateurs during his career, including future heavyweight prospect Eddie Land. Manny never turned pro, he had a wife and family, and a good job. In those days it wasn't hard to find a job, if you were willing to work

After a couple years of rolling around in that old Chevy truck, Manny Diaz finally rewarded himself with a new Buick. Suddenly, there were rules that went along with riding in Manny's vehicle enroute to a Pee-Wee boxing show.

1.) NO FOOD or DRINKS in the car.
2.) NO NOISE, fighting, arguing, etc. (The car had an 8-track stereo tape player. All Manny wanted to hear was Jose Feliciano.)
3.) NO FARTING! (This was OK with us, but really put the pressure on poor Beto.)

Manny loved his new Riviera, we hated it. As comfortable as it was, there were too many rules. This is 1967, and a couple of months after buying the new car, Johnnie Flores tells me there is a kid's show taking place in Las Vegas, but that he would be in camp with Jerry Quarry and could not make the trip. Manny would be working that weekend, and he wouldn't be able to drive us (this was good news). In fact, I would be the only Johnny Flores boxer able to go, but I would need a ride. Johnny found one for me and it was perfect.

Another S.F. Valley amateur coach named "Owen" (I forget his last name) would pick me up at Johnnie's house about noon on Friday. I would ride with Owen and a few of his boxers to Las Vegas on Friday, we'd spend the night in some club, then we'd fight the next afternoon outdoors, where a ring was set-up in the infield of an auto race track just outside of town. After the fights, a "Destruction Derby" auto event was scheduled.

Owen's car, an old Caddy, was perfect to transport kids to and from boxing matches. The car was "bullet proof", and Owen didn't care if we spilled a soft drink, hung out the windows, made noise, whatever. Owen's rules were simple, "Just don't hurt yourselves, you gotta fight tomorrow." Farting? Well, just keep in mind that a fart might get you a whooping right in the back seat. We kids had our own rules, and if you broke 'em, you would have to answer to us.

We all got along great. I was neither the oldest boxer nor the youngest. As usual, I was the only white kid. Owen was black and so were his boxers. We'd stop for fast food along the way. Look at the girls. If I remember correctly, there were about seven or eight boxers packed into the Caddy. Owen was always smiling, soft spoken, polite. The older guys talked only of girls they'd see as we'd pass a car full of them. We were packed into the Caddy like Sardines in a can. Was it uncomfortable? Hell no, we had a blast all the way to Las Vegas.

When we finally arrived at our destination in downtown Las Vegas. Jake Horn, Louie and Frank Baltazar Sr. had arranged for food to be provided by MacDonalds, and I remember dozens of big bags full of hamburgers, fries, malts, soft drinks, etc. being delivered to this "club where we would spend the night, sleeping on cots lined up in barracks style. In the morning we have buffet at one of the downtown casinos.

Later that day we'd fight, and I remember I won, beating some kid from a Henderson, Nevada Boy's Club. (Those Vegas kids rarely won in a match with our L.A. kids.) When all was said and done, the "Outstanding Boxer" trophy went to one of our boys, a scraggly-haired kid from Pomona, Albert Davila. And as soon as he received his trophy, the ring was taken apart and the "Destruction Derby" began.

My parents had driven to Las Vegas that day. My boxing was a good excuse for them to blow off some steam in Vegas. After my fight, I left with them and they had gotten a room at the Hacienda Hotel, where Mel Greb was promoting pro boxing weekly (but not that weekend). At the time, the Hacienda bouts featured guys like Ernie "Indian Red" Lopez, Ferd Hernandez, Freddie Little and Adolph Pruitt. I would watch those bouts late at night on TV in L.A. when they were televised.

Although it was nice to have a soft bed to sleep in, I would have perferred to stay with the boxers and ride back with Owen and my new friends. Some of the best times of my youth were spent packed into the back of some coach's big, old car with boxers. In the cars we were just kids, same in the hotel's, fast food joints, etc. However, once were were in the ring, we were fighters and that's just what we did. When the final bell rang, it was back to being a kid.

To Frank, Owen, Johnnie, Manny, Jake, Bobby Bell, Louie, Noe and their cars . . .