Jeff Bumpus: This was my original CBHOF speech as it was written before time constrictions made me shorten it. Hope you enjoy.......................It is safe to say that no person will ever be given this who appreciates it more than myself. And this is why: In 1993 my boxing career was over as the result of permanent damage to my left eye. I don't recall the effect on my daily personality as being one of self-pity. Instead of why me, my thought process was more like why not me? I led with my face so why not me? Long before this abrupt end I knew all too well the location and depth of my scars. But, as Thomas Harris' fictional serial killer Hannibal Lector put it "Be grateful for them! For, our scars carry the power to remind us that the past was real"
My only problem seemed to be a nagging sense of something being incomplete. I lacked that title winning moment to validate my career. Maybe when careers or relationships or sadly, even lives come to undesirable ends people naturally try to attach some sort of deeper meaning to those events. Such considerations put me in danger of becoming a philosopher without the toga( a nasty little mental image )
While in this analysis stage on a Saturday afternoon. My then four-year-old son and I were able to enjoy my new found free time watching one of his favorite movies on VHS at Home where popcorn isn't six dollars a box
During this animated feature, one of the characters, Wylie Burp, a law dog(literally a dog who was a sheriff) told his young charge," just remember that one man’s sunset is another man’s dawn. I don't know what's out there beyond those hills, but if you ride yonder, head up, eyes steady you just might find that you're the hero you've always been searching for"
I sat up in my chair and thought well there it is. The answer to my nagging philosophical query. Straight from a cartoon character, which would have been the first place I would have looked if I were thinking straight
You see The Hero’s I had always searched for are all around this room. You packed venues known as the Olympic, the Forum, the Sports Arena and in long past days, Hollywood Legion Stadium. You gave fans the bouts they clamored to see. Fans didn't wait 12 months much less 12 years for those fights. The pictures of those ring battles lined the pages of my treasured boxing magazines which detailed results, dates, and locations of these thrilling bouts. To a teenager in tiny Union Mi., you sounded like a faraway kingdom of modern day warriors.
I graduated from high school in 1980, found a boxing club and spent the coming years immersed in the gym. During this time I had 20 amateur fights in a very unspectacular amateur career before turning pro and running off 20 wins with 1 loss) Than in December of ‘85 I received the call every fighter dreams of. Matchmaker Johnny Bos was contacted by persons looking for an opponent for Julio Cesar Chavez in one of his first bouts at lightweight. Johnny decided to give the Devil a call.
All the stars were aligned. All my dreams were about to come true. I was going to be Rocky. Less than five years after being shown how to throw a jab, I am fighting the greatest fighter of my generation in the field of my dreams, the Olympic Auditorium. But we are talking about Julio Cesar Chavez. Not Percy or Yitzak. And if I couldn't get the decision, then I take great satisfaction in knowing that he probably remembers the crazy white boy who grinned at him and blew blood on his chest from that shattered nose I got at the end of round one.
Today I've returned to California for the first time since that day just two months shy of 30 years ago and I'm humbled beyond words, beyond gestures, beyond expressions. My thanks to everyone associated with the California BHOF. Most notably Frank Baltazar Sr and Don Fraser for even remembering my name much less making me a part of those personal heroes that I'd always searched for and their Hall of Fame. The friendships I make will bring me back to this place as often as I am able to, but, as law dog and cartoon philosopher, Wiley Burp said, I don't know what's out there beyond those hills. And who knows? I might walk out in front of a garbage truck and my return would be highly questionable.
I'm not a person who talks much about religion but just work with me if you would. Even if you're a non-believer, let just say for the sake of argument that there is a heaven. Now, Valhalla is the massive hall of Norse mythology reserved for those who've died in battle but in recent years it has become a more general term as a martial hall, a fighters hall for those who have passed on. So, say you end up in Heaven, no matter how unlikely your spouse says that is at this juncture, and you now want to find a Valhalla-like hall hosting your boxing friends who have passed before you. If you hate to stop and ask for directions as much as I do, allow me to save you the aggravation. You will easily find Valhalla for boxers if you begin your search on the West Coast of Heaven. Find the southwest edge. Seek out the spotlights in the valley that guide you to the corner of 18Th and Grand. It’s pretty simple, you see? The great ones always met there. I'd like to thank Phil Rice for his help not only with my book but on this trip. Fighters as a species have trouble making good friends during their career. But then after the lights fade either we get wiser or better people find us. The latter seems to be the case with Phil. Thank you, Phil. My mother, Rozanne, Who showed me, not told me, how to pursue a dream when, as the divorced mother of three with two still at home refinanced the only home she had ever known to fund her dream of being an RN. And if you have had a heart attack in Northern Indiana in the last 35 years you might be glad she did. My son Michael who is no longer four, although I dearly wish that he was. Mike eased his dad into retirement. Our children are our second chance at the wonders of life as we see it through their innocent eyes and are reminded of the time when we saw the same. And in 1993, if there was one thing mikes dad needed it was a new set of eyes. And to all my new friends in the California Boxing Hall of Fame: if we've met let’s talk again if we haven't met, I can’t wait to meet you. Thank you all so very much!!!
While in this analysis stage on a Saturday afternoon. My then four-year-old son and I were able to enjoy my new found free time watching one of his favorite movies on VHS at Home where popcorn isn't six dollars a box
During this animated feature, one of the characters, Wylie Burp, a law dog(literally a dog who was a sheriff) told his young charge," just remember that one man’s sunset is another man’s dawn. I don't know what's out there beyond those hills, but if you ride yonder, head up, eyes steady you just might find that you're the hero you've always been searching for"
I sat up in my chair and thought well there it is. The answer to my nagging philosophical query. Straight from a cartoon character, which would have been the first place I would have looked if I were thinking straight
You see The Hero’s I had always searched for are all around this room. You packed venues known as the Olympic, the Forum, the Sports Arena and in long past days, Hollywood Legion Stadium. You gave fans the bouts they clamored to see. Fans didn't wait 12 months much less 12 years for those fights. The pictures of those ring battles lined the pages of my treasured boxing magazines which detailed results, dates, and locations of these thrilling bouts. To a teenager in tiny Union Mi., you sounded like a faraway kingdom of modern day warriors.
I graduated from high school in 1980, found a boxing club and spent the coming years immersed in the gym. During this time I had 20 amateur fights in a very unspectacular amateur career before turning pro and running off 20 wins with 1 loss) Than in December of ‘85 I received the call every fighter dreams of. Matchmaker Johnny Bos was contacted by persons looking for an opponent for Julio Cesar Chavez in one of his first bouts at lightweight. Johnny decided to give the Devil a call.
All the stars were aligned. All my dreams were about to come true. I was going to be Rocky. Less than five years after being shown how to throw a jab, I am fighting the greatest fighter of my generation in the field of my dreams, the Olympic Auditorium. But we are talking about Julio Cesar Chavez. Not Percy or Yitzak. And if I couldn't get the decision, then I take great satisfaction in knowing that he probably remembers the crazy white boy who grinned at him and blew blood on his chest from that shattered nose I got at the end of round one.
Today I've returned to California for the first time since that day just two months shy of 30 years ago and I'm humbled beyond words, beyond gestures, beyond expressions. My thanks to everyone associated with the California BHOF. Most notably Frank Baltazar Sr and Don Fraser for even remembering my name much less making me a part of those personal heroes that I'd always searched for and their Hall of Fame. The friendships I make will bring me back to this place as often as I am able to, but, as law dog and cartoon philosopher, Wiley Burp said, I don't know what's out there beyond those hills. And who knows? I might walk out in front of a garbage truck and my return would be highly questionable.
I'm not a person who talks much about religion but just work with me if you would. Even if you're a non-believer, let just say for the sake of argument that there is a heaven. Now, Valhalla is the massive hall of Norse mythology reserved for those who've died in battle but in recent years it has become a more general term as a martial hall, a fighters hall for those who have passed on. So, say you end up in Heaven, no matter how unlikely your spouse says that is at this juncture, and you now want to find a Valhalla-like hall hosting your boxing friends who have passed before you. If you hate to stop and ask for directions as much as I do, allow me to save you the aggravation. You will easily find Valhalla for boxers if you begin your search on the West Coast of Heaven. Find the southwest edge. Seek out the spotlights in the valley that guide you to the corner of 18Th and Grand. It’s pretty simple, you see? The great ones always met there. I'd like to thank Phil Rice for his help not only with my book but on this trip. Fighters as a species have trouble making good friends during their career. But then after the lights fade either we get wiser or better people find us. The latter seems to be the case with Phil. Thank you, Phil. My mother, Rozanne, Who showed me, not told me, how to pursue a dream when, as the divorced mother of three with two still at home refinanced the only home she had ever known to fund her dream of being an RN. And if you have had a heart attack in Northern Indiana in the last 35 years you might be glad she did. My son Michael who is no longer four, although I dearly wish that he was. Mike eased his dad into retirement. Our children are our second chance at the wonders of life as we see it through their innocent eyes and are reminded of the time when we saw the same. And in 1993, if there was one thing mikes dad needed it was a new set of eyes. And to all my new friends in the California Boxing Hall of Fame: if we've met let’s talk again if we haven't met, I can’t wait to meet you. Thank you all so very much!!!
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.