Felipe Canela

Felipe Canela was a main event fighter throughout Southern California, including the Olympic Auditorium and the Forum, and Las Vegas, Nevada during the 1980's and was managed and trained by California hall of fame trainer Larry Soto. He had a respectable career with 36 fights; 26 wins with 16 KO's, he lost 7 fights and had 3 draws.

Felipe was a regular at the Main Street Gym during the 1980's and I sparred with him regularly when I returned to the gym in 1980. My brother Dennis sparred with him a year or two later when he was also trained briefly by Larry. According to my friend, Frank Baltazar Sr., Felipe Canale was his son Tony's (Tony "The Tiger" Baltazar) last amateur opponent.

Above two photos: Felipe Canela vs Nino LaRocca, March 30, 1984

Felipe training at the Main Street Gym in Los Angeles


Felipe's career record can be found here at Boxrec.com

More on Howie Steindler

I have had these newspaper clippings of Howie and the prayer book from the funeral, hidden away in a scrap book for thirty years (the accompanying photo was taken from the web). I have never seen these articles or the articles from the preceding post, on the web. Seems like time has not been as kind to Howie's memory as he deserves. He was a iconic Los Angeles boxing figure at one time and deserves to be remembered, for boxing history's sake. Trainers like Howie and Mel Epstein are becoming extinct. I have other various newspaper clippings that I will be posting from time to time.

Howie at his beloved Main Street Gym in Los Angeles

Click on the article below for a larger readable view

Howie Steindler

Click on any photo for a larger readable view

Mickey Cohen

Speaking of Mickey Cohen (we were speaking of him a few days ago), he was a big part of Los Angeles' past, and a small part (very small) of the boxing scene. Along with being a professional boxer he also reputedly, briefly managed former welterweight champ Don Jordan (myth or fact?),who coincidently retired from McDonnell Douglas.

The following is courtesy of Court TV's Crime Library Website

Mickey Cohen, the young boxer

Even though the trail had been blazed before him, Mickey Cohen's rise to the top wasn't easy. He had to pay his dues, and he got his start in the rackets like a number of other wise guys: in the ring. The things that make a good pug and a good gangster are similar. An imposing presence, tough fists and a chin that can take a punch are important characteristics for a racketeer, although the imposing presence is mostly for character. Many of the mob's toughest characters were small men who made up for their diminutive stature with guts and heart that belonged in guys twice their size. Meyer Lansky and Lepke Buchalter are two that come to mind, although this trait is not limited to Jewish gangsters. The Westies' Mickey Featherstone wasn't all that big and he was known for his rock-solid fists and the tenacity of a Jack Russell terrier. Current Genovese family leaders Punchy Illiano and Quiet Dom Cirillo both got their starts as boxers, as did another Genovese member, Li'l Augie Pisano. Illiano earned his nickname because of his boxing background -- and those who know him insist he is anything but "punchy." For his part, Cirillo faced Jake "Raging Bull" La Motta in the ring several times, although he was less than successful. Mickey Cohen was born hustling. A Brownsville, New York, native -- the same neighborhood that gave the world Abe Reles and many of the Murder, Inc. troop -- Cohen was whisked away from the poverty of that Brooklyn slum before he was six years old and moved with his mother and older siblings to the Boyle Heights section of Los Angeles, where his family operated a drug store. Of course, this being Prohibition, the Cohen pharmacy, in the middle of a Russian Orthodox Jewish neighborhood, operated one of the countless small-time gin mills in the area. As a boy, Mickey served as a deliveryman for his brother's moonshine operation, which resulted in his first pinch at 9 years old. The charge was smoothed over by his brother's connections and nothing came of it, but the seed had already been planted in Mickey's mind. "I got a kick out of having a big bankroll in my pocket," he said in his biography. "Even if I only made a couple hundred dollars, I'd always keep it in fives and tens so it'd look big. I had to hide it from my mother, because she'd get excited when she'd see a roll of money like that." Successful hustling, whether it's bootlegging, selling newspapers or swag, requires moxie and the fists to back it up, and that's how the preteen Mickey discovered he liked to box. Although the sport was illegal in California and even more so because he was so young, Mickey found many different ways to get in the ring. Along with the money it gave him, he found he also liked the respect he earned. As he grew, Mickey continued boxing and with the blissful ignorance of youth, his thoughts turned toward becoming a professional. The skill was there, as were the promoters who saw something special in the young teen. The only problem was that 15-year-old Mickey Cohen's mother didn't know he was boxing at all. "One day, the butcher stopped my mother -- who didn't talk real good English -- and said to her, 'Mrs. Cohen, you must be proud your boy's boxing for the championship.' So she says, 'What's this boxing?' "See, she didn't know nothing about boxing or that sort of thing." Mickey won the championship and that sealed it in his mind. With the blessing of his older brother, he told his mother he was "going to the beach" and headed east to become a prize fighter. Fate had other ideas. Mick bounced around the Midwest for a while and landed in New York, where he met some of organized crime's toughest characters. Tommy Dioguardi, brother of the labor racketeer Johnny Dio, was a fight fanatic, as was Owney Madden, the New York killer who would end up running the mob's resort in Hot Springs, Arkansas. "Owney was a really a guy to respect and admire -- quite a guy, a man of his word," Mickey recalled later. "His faithfulness to his own kind is the strongest thing a man can have, and if Owney felt that you were an all right person, there wasn't nothing that he wouldn't do for you." A bad bout with featherweight world champ Tommy Paul ended Mick's boxing career when the champ knocked him so senseless he wandered out of the ring and was on his way to the dressing room before anyone could catch him. "I began to see that I really didn't have it to be great in the ring," he said. "So then I decided I'd had enough of the fight business and everything else."

Mickey's career record can be found at this link on Boxrec.com

Ernie "Indian Red" Lopez

When I saw this photo of Ernie “Indian Red” Lopez recently, I couldn’t help but be moved. You can still see the fighter’s determination, but you can also see the pain of a hard life, whether by his own choosing, or by fate, circumstances and life. I wonder if he realizes just how vital a part of California’s boxing history he is, especially to Los Angeles boxing history, which has become, arguably the best fight town in the country, in terms of a fan base, and in it’s rich contribution to boxing in general. Lopez was inducted into the California Boxing Hall of Fame on March 6, 2004, and he certainly deserved it. Thanks to Don Fraser for making sure it happened.

Ernie “Indian Red” Lopez began his professional career on January 1, 1964, winning a 6 round decision over Armand Laurenco, at The Castaway Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada. They would fight two more times, drawing in the second fight, and Lopez stopping him in their third fight in the first round of a ten round fight. He fought his last fight against future welterweight champion John H. Stracey on October 29, 1974 at the Royal Albert Hall in Kensington, London. He was stopped in the seventh round of a scheduled 10 round fight. In between those two fights he fought the likes of Armando Muniz, Jose “Mantequilla” Napoles, Emile Griffith and Hedgemon Lewis. Lopez and Lewis had three fights, with Lopez stopping Lewis twice, and losing a decision in the second fight. He was a mainstay at the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles, and in the Hotel arenas in Las Vegas. His career record reads: 60 fights with 47 wins, 23 of them by KO, he lost 12 times and he drew once. Not too shabby.

For reasons of his own Ernie seemingly dropped off the planet, beginning in the 1970’s he hitchhiked and roamed the country, coming back from time to time to visit with his family, however briefly. In the early 1990’s he disappeared completely. The family had no idea if Ernie was dead or alive, until early 2004, with the help of the Los Angeles Police Department, he was found in the Presbyterian Night Shelter in Fort Worth, Texas.

Any fight fan knows that Ernie is the older brother of Danny “Little Red” Lopez. I hope that they have reconciled any differences they may have had. One was a champ, one wasn’t. Two different fighters, two different weight classes, completely different opponents, one should not reflect on the other. With or without an official title Ernie “Indian Red” Lopez will a always be a champ to his many fans. He always fought with heart and was crowd favorite. If ever a boxer’s life and career called out for movie to be made, it’s Lopez’. I can’t imagine a more compelling story. We are proud that he is one of Los Angeles’ Greats!

Ernie's career record can be found at this link to Boxrec.com

Ernie "Indian Red" Lopez vs Jose "Mantequilla" Napoles

Ernie with Los Angeles rival Hedgemon Lewis

Deleted "Rocky" Scenes at the Main Street Gym

All photos courtesy of Jimmy Gambina and totalrocky.com

All of the following scenes take place at the Main Street Gym in Los Angeles, California

In the above scene Rocky and Dipper (Stan Shaw) actually get in a street fight in the gym. They should have left it in.

My trainer/manager Mel Epstein can be seen on the above photo on the extreme left, with the white shirt and white hair, standing directly behind Jimmy Gambina (son of manager Ralph Gambina). I was standing to the right of Mel. Not only did they cut the scene from the movie but they cut me from the photo! In fact I was in the two scenes above as well. I still don't know why they were cut, they were actually pretty good.

This gym scene from Rocky V is actually a mock up of the gym. The gym was torn down in the mid 1980's and the movie was released in 1990. They did a fantastic job with the set. That's Jimmy Gambina holding the bag.

Louie Burke of Las Cruces, New Mexico

Courtesy of newmexicoboxing.com

by Louie Burke
As told to Chris Cozzone & Ricardo Trujillo
Photos courtesy of Louie Burke

Compared to the boxers trying to make it in the ‘80s, the professional fighters today in New Mexico have it easy. Back then, there were no local cards. All New Mexico fighters had to go out-of-state to fight—always on someone else’s home turf. There were no padded records because every win was a hard-earned battle. The good thing was, you knew who the good fighters were. Guys like Tommy Cordova. And Louie Burke.

Louie Burke made his bones in the early days of ESPN, fighting the likes of Freddie Roach, Charlie “White Lightning” Brown and Hector Camacho. He beat Roach twice, lost a highly-disputed fight with Charlie Brown and got stopped due to a swollen eye in his bout with the Macho Man. He was on his way to a match-up with boxing legend Julio Cesar Chavez when injuries forced him to retire.

Fortunately for us, Louie Burke remained active in the sport, training and serving on the New Mexico State Athletic Commission for ten years. He continues to train fighters and his boxing philosophy has made him a sort of New Mexican version of Teddy Atlas.

We caught up with Louie at the PAL gym in Las Cruces one afternoon where he was training up-n-comin’ heavyweight from El Paso, David Rodriguez. After the training session, he took us back to the ‘80s and his time in the spotlight . . . .

We were at a post-fight interview after my first fight with Freddie Roach when somebody asked my father: “When did you know Louie was gonna become a boxer?”

His answer: “Six months before he was born.”

That kind of answers how I got into the sport: I was born into it.

My father, Sam Burke, boxed, back in the days when they’d have to hitchhike to different locations to fight. And he also boxed in the Marine Corps until he got shot in Korea. That ended his boxing career as a fighter. He had plans to turn pro, too, until he got wounded. He came back to coach and traveled all over the world with the U.S. Boxing team.

My brother Rocky boxed, too. He’s 8 years older than I am, so by the time he retired from boxing, I was just getting started. Rocky had his first amateur fight at 6 or 7 years old. He went to the Olympic trials in 1976, losing to Bruce Curry who ended up losing to Sugar Ray Leonard—and everyone knows how well he did. Rocky turned pro and had 7 pro fights (7-0) before he retired.

My dad had a problem about both of us fighting on the same pro card. He told us it’d be too stressful for him, and for us. Rocky would always worry more about me when I was fighting, and vice versa: I’d worry more about him when he was fighting.

My older sister would’ve boxed, too. She wanted to box. People don’t realize that my sister is actually the toughest one in the family. If any of us had the potential to be a world champion, it was her. If she’d been a boy, she would’ve pursued boxing but back then, there wasn’t much going on in women’s boxing. And as hard as my sister wanted to, my father wouldn’t let her. So, she missed her calling.

But I got inspiration from everybody in my family. My father, my brother, my sister, my mother . . . My brother was a real hard worker, and my father, a disciplinarian; my mom, she’s the diplomat of the family. So I took a little bit from everybody. In the ring? It’s hard to say where I drew my inspiration. My dad was a fierce competitor and so was my brother. I think we both got that from my father.

My amateur career started when I was 7 or 8. My second or third fight was with the legendary middleweight champion Gene Fullmer’s son, Bart. We fought over here at Williams Gym at NM State University, and it ended up a draw. At the time, my boxing career was sporadic. I was doing other sports: Little League baseball, football . . . Boxing was something I picked up because my father would take me to the gym. The gym served as a cheap babysitter at the time, but I got into boxing that way.

I didn’t take amateur boxing seriously until I was 14 or 15. Then, I went on to win the Silver Gloves state championship. I lost at Regionals but also won several Golden Gloves and AAU championships. I never did win a national championship but I was ranked as high as #3 in the nation. I did the Western Olympic trials in 1980, but lost there. I guess it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway, for that was the year the U.S. boycotted the Olympics. We had some good fighters but none of them got to go.

Six months later, I turned pro.

I was a little indecisive in the beginning. I’d started going to college and I’d been working. My family had a billboard company and I spent my summers digging post holes. I was tired of the manual labor and I thought there had to be an easier way to make some money to put myself through school. So, I decided to turn professional. The money I made supplemented my education. Ironically, I was so successful with boxing that I had to put my education on hold.

The New Mexico boxing scene back then was at a lull. There wasn’t a whole lot going on here and I had to travel out of state. I was fighting in everybody’s backyard, always the underdog coming in.

My first two fights were in San Antonio; I fought on the undercard of Randall Cobb-Ken Norton; the semi-main was Michael Ayala, Tony’s brother, he was the NABF champion at the time. So, I started off fighting on big cards, but all my fights were out of town, up until my 18th fight when I fought in Las Cruces.

What made people notice me was that I was knocking the local guys out. My first 12 out of 13 fights were won by KO. Everybody started to take notice of me and I went to Vegas to fight. Then I fought on ESPN for the first time, winning a 1st Round KO. Everybody said, “Hey maybe this kid could do something . . .” Here was this kid out of the little town of Las Cruces—from a state where there wasn’t anything happening in boxing.

Things started happening for me. I had a few fights on the USA Network when it first came out, and then I got my first big break in 1983: I got to fight Freddie Roach for the ESPN Lightweight championship. It was a 12-round fight at the Showboat, my 14th pro fight. At the time, Freddie had 33 fights; he was 30-3. And I was 14-0, undefeated.

It was a hell of a fight. We fought a war . . . they said it was one of the best fights of the year that year. When it was over, I’d won the 12-round decision and the ESPN lightweight championship. I got a lot of exposure from that and it escalated my career.

Later that year, I had the rematch with Freddie on the undercard of the Hagler-Duran fight at Caesar’s Palace. Those two fights with Freddie Roach were classics. Freddie was one of the toughest guys around.

Tommy Cordova came on the scene about 2-3 years after I started fighting. He, too, won the ESPN championship by beating Freddie Roach. I think it was about 2 years later. There was talk of the two of us fighting, somewhere down the line, but at the time, I was fighting on a different level than Tommy. When he won the ESPN championship, I would’ve had to go down for less money to fight him. And at the time, I was working on getting a shot with Julio Cesar Chavez. I was looking ahead at the time. Eventually, I’m sure it would’ve happened. We would’ve had to meet, and it would’ve been something like a Tapia-Romero fight of the ‘80s.

In July of 1984, I got to fight Charlie “White Lightning” Brown, here in Las Cruces. It was my 18th fight—and the first time I got to fight in New Mexico. We were both undefeated. I was 17-0 and Brown was 23-0.

I lost a very controversial decision. (What’s ironic is, two of my three losses happened in New Mexico.) A lot of the same factors were into play when Johnny Tapia fought Paulie Ayala: Brown had the same promoter, the same circumstances. They couldn’t afford to have Brown lose that night. I won’t elaborate more, but let’s just say a lot of people were very disappointed on the decision and I felt I won that fight. (Charlie Brown’s next fight after me was with Harry Arroyo for the IBF Lightweight Championship—he was TKO’d in Round 8.)

My next big fight was in 1985, when I went up against Hector Camacho.

It was my toughest fight so far, but I think I gave Camacho the toughest fight he’d had at that point. But, he’s such an exceptional athlete. He had such tremendous speed. He was catching me coming in and he swelled up my eye. If it had gone ten rounds, I would’ve had a better chance. My forte was the distance. I never got tired. I could go on throwing a million punches. But I got stopped in the 6th round with the swollen eye. At the time it was stopped, it was a close fight . . .

It’s funny because I’ve seen that fight maybe 5 times in the last 16 years, and I used to hate watching it. I saw it maybe two or three times just recently and one of the guys I work with got a hold of that tape. My co-workers kept asking me for that tape but I’d never give it to them. But finally, someone had a copy. They put it in one day at work and I sat down and started watching it. It’s a lot easier for me to see it now than way back in the ‘80s. I realized that I didn’t do such a bad job against this guy—this guy was one of the best fighters of his time and I gave him a hell of a fight. Now, I’m pretty proud of what I did. Before, I was ashamed. I had that competitive edge. I wanted to win. It was win or nothing.

Looking back, I went in that fight probably a little too aggressive. I had the attitude: I don’t care how bad he is, I’m gonna be badder. And to beat me, he’s gonna have to kill me. Unfortunately, they thought he was gonna kill me, because they stopped the fight.

I had one more fight: Roque Resindiz from Guadalahara, Mexico. It was pretty much a tune-up fight. I mean, I didn’t take anybody lightly, but I’d fought a lot tougher opponents before and I felt I could beat this guy. It was a 12-rounder for the Continental Americas title. But I’d trained hard for this fight because it was a tune-up towards Julio Cesar Chavez.

What ended up hurting me was myself: my lack of eating and drinking liquids. I was trying to make 130. Being a top ten contender in the 130 & 135 weight classes ended up being my downfall. Instead of moving up to 140 like I should’ve done, I stayed at the 130-135 range because you have to be rated in your class to get a shot at a title—and we were talking about a fight with Chavez. Problem was, I hadn’t legitimately made that weight for two or three years, since Freddie Roach. I’d grown out of it. I was 25 years old and had naturally grown into a man’s body, yet here I was trying to weigh less than I did as an amateur. But they were talking about a world championship, which was big money, too. A world title was a dream I’d been striving for throughout my career, all my life. I thought I could make that sacrifice and somehow make the weight. That was my demise.

It almost killed me—literally killed me.

During the fight, I collapsed from dehydration. I had uremic poisoning, and my heartbeat had gone down to 12 heartbeats per minute. A priest came and gave me my last rites. I was in bad shape, but I somehow made it.

Previous to my fight with Roque, I’d had eye surgery. I had a fractured eye socket from the fight before. It wasn’t the first time: the first year I’d turned pro, I had the same surgery done with my other eye. So, between the two eye surgeries and almost dying in the ring, I decided to hang up the gloves. I was tired of getting beat up.

Did I quit too early? I was 25 years old, right at my prime. I was sparring with world champions, and believe me, they weren’t getting the best of me. I was stopping some of these guys in the gyms who were bigger than me. But coming close to dying had put something in the back of my mind that made me doubt that I could fight with the same intensity anymore. I had that question. And I always believed, if you have that question going into a fight, you’re going to get hurt. Before that, my attitude had been, “You’re gonna have to kill me to beat me.” Maybe it scared me that I thought that if I was gonna lose again, I was going to have to die.

If I could go back in time, would I have retired at the same time? Probably not. I think I would’ve stuck it out a little bit longer. I think I could’ve been world champion. According to the trainers I had—Angelo Dundee and Jesse Reid—I could have been world champ.

My final record stood at 20-3, with 13 KO’s.

I still loved the sport and I wanted to stay involved. I wanted to get in as a manager and a trainer. Training was something I always enjoyed doing. I started training kids when I was an amateur. My father always told me that if you want to become a better fighter, get a kid and train him from scratch. Only then do you truly understand why you have keep your hands up, why your balance is so important, and a million other things.

I was committed to coming back to Las Cruces. I worked at a bar I’d bought before my last fight, and enrolled in school again. It was hard to make that transition from a world class athlete to a normal working guy. It’s different. I was used to a lot of people asking me, “Hey when’s your next fight?” and saying, “Hey, good luck . . .” And getting all that attention.

In a sense, this is where my father really played an important role in my life, even though he’d passed away. My father kept me grounded. He was such a good humble guy, he’d always say, “Don’t get too big. Because there’s gonna be a day when you’re gonna have to come back home. You want to make sure people respect you for who you are. Not what you did. If you treat them bad going up, they’re gonna treat you bad coming down.”

So because of that, my transition was easier. But still difficult . . .

The bar eventually became a headache and I was able to sell it after seven years. Then I got an offer to train fighters professionally so I went to Houston to work for Ron Weathers who at that time, was managing and promoting George Foreman for his comeback career. I also hooked up with Joe Costello who had Frans Botha at the time. That was ’91.

The electricity was still there and I still loved the sport. I was still training, still traveling, and I was still involved. What was hard was when I had to quit training professionally and come back to Las Cruces a few years later to get a real job. The reason? I came back to raise my daughter, Samantha.

I take my hat off to the guys who have to go out everyday to jobs they don’t like, just to support their family. These guys are the real heroes. Athletes? They don’t realize what they’ve got. Professional athletes are doing something they’ve dreamt about since they were kids. They have a God-given talent and they’re able to capitalize on it and make tons of money, and get all this glamour. The guys I respect now are the guys who have to go and clean yards, or go up on a garbage truck to make a living for their family. And it’s probably something they don’t want to do but they have to because they’re putting someone ahead of themselves. When I came back to raise my daughter, I cleaned toilets for a year. So, real work I learned to appreciate.

In ’94, I called a buddy of mine who was involved in Toughman contests and we started a promotion company. For a year, we were putting on boxing shows—small club fights—regularly in El Paso, and running the Miss Hawaiian Tropic franchise, concerts, and all kind of promotions. But there was too much traveling involved and I had to stay here to take care of my daughter. I told my partner, “Hey, this isn’t working out. I have to be a dad, also.”

A job with the Fire Department came up and I thought I might like to do that. Sure enough, I got in and learned what it’s all about. It was like learning how to walk again. I never thought I’d want to be a fireman, and all the sudden, I had the chance to become one. I liked the adrenaline rush because it reminded me of what I had to go through in the ring. And what really made me feel good was that I was able to give back to the people of Las Cruces and that made me proud.

Someone asked me whether I’d want to see my daughter get into boxing. She’s only six now but she wants to box and I don’t want her to. I admit, I still have a hard time with women’s boxing. I’ll be honest, I don’t feel it’s feminine. I want my daughter to be feminine. I may admire the girls who get into it, but I’m not totally comfortable with it. As far as my daughter doing it, I want her to be a princess—she’ll always be a princess to me, anyway—but I have a hard time thinking about someone hitting her in the face.

If she comes to me when she’s 15 and says she’s gonna do it whether I like it or not, it’d be a different matter. I’d have to help her out. Because boxing is something I know about. There’s not a whole lot of things in this world I know a lot about, but I know a lot about boxing.

My daughter is my priority right now. Her, and a fighter named David Rodriguez. I think everything happens for a reason. And when I had to come back to Cruces to raise my daughter, I think I was also meant to meet and train David.

I was training a kid for the Toughman contests a few years ago and I needed sparring partners. I met David and I could see he had a lot of potential—a lot of speed but no basics . . . he was a kid who was very raw. He had determination, he had physical attributes that could make him a good fighter, but he needed basic work, a lot of work. So, at that time, the guy I was working with, Rocky Galarza, a trainer out of El Paso, asked me if I’d help him out with David. Shortly afterward, David started coming up to train here in Cruces. Unfortunately, Rocky was murdered in El Paso, but David and I developed a close relationship. He’s more than just a fighter to me; he’s more like a younger brother. I think he’s gonna go places. I strongly feel that. I wish I’d had his natural talent when I was younger. I’m convinced he’s going to be Heavyweight Champion of the World. That’s exciting for me, because I see a lot of me in him. I don’t want to see him make the same mistakes I made. I made a lot of mistakes when I was young, in the business aspect as well as the physical part of it.

That’s what I want out of boxing right now. My main focus is David Rodriguez.

There’s a lot of talent here in the Southwest. In New Mexico, the fight scene has picked up. I’m talking about the grass roots of boxing, the club fights . . . we need them. There’s more activity now than in a long time. There was a period last summer when we were having fights every month. And then Johnny Tapia and Danny Romero would come in and do some big shows occasionally. The boxing scene has picked up, and I have to contribute a lot of that to Tapia and Romero. They’ve made boxing exciting again in New Mexico. A lot of kids—they don’t probably realize it—they’re starting to getting noticed now. It used to be that New Mexico kids were just cannon fodder, like some of the fighters you hear about out of Mexico. They used to have to fight in everyone else’s backyard, like the way I started. We actually have some talent and some tough kids. And now we’re beginning to get people who can move ‘em. Before, you were the underdog going in and it was very hard to get a decision. That’s what motivated me to knock out so many of my early opponents. I knew I wasn’t going to get a decision in their hometown. Unfortunately, that’s been the case in New Mexico for so many years. I think because of Johnny and Danny, they opened up boxing here and made people realize that we’ve got some talent.

In addition to training fighters, I’ve also served 10 years on the New Mexico State Athletic Commission. But there’s a two-term limit in New Mexico, and my term ran out in July of last year. Since then, I’ve worked as the interim events coordinator with the state, helping put the fights together, checking out the fighters, whether there are good match-ups or not, and on safety aspects. I also applied for that position but it went to Max Abeyta.

At this time, the Commission is a very green commission. They have a lot of enthusiasm which I admire, but they don’t know boxing. It’s a different sport . . . it’s a brutal business. It’s not an ethical business and you have to know who you can trust in the sport. That’s where I have a leg up on everybody. You can’t believe what you read on paper—sometimes even records are very deceiving. Take a guy like Quirino Garcia. He started off 0-18. If that guy would try to fight in the U.S. nobody would allow him . .. but he’s turned his record around and fought, and beat, some good opponents and former world champs. He’s a world contender now, not only a worthy opponent, rated 6th in the world in the WBC. Sometimes you get guys who are 40-0, who fight no one but tomato cans found off the street. A boxing person has a big advantage over someone who wants to be involved but who don’t know the ins and outs.

Boxing in New Mexico has a long way to go. Boxing, in general, does, too. There’s too much influence from the big promoters. They influence the judges, they influence the TV, and they’ve turned Boxing almost into Wrestling. You almost know who’s gonna win beforehand. I think that needs to be regulated. The different organizations: they need one champion. We don’t need 5 Super Bowl champions. No one would recognize them. It waters it down. Loses legitimacy. If you have one champion that everyone recognizes, you’re gonna get Joe Public back into boxing. The public can’t keep up with 10 different organizations. You got what? 4 major organizations now? Just too much. If you get one organization, you get one legitimate champ. You can have regional champions. I could go for that. That’s a good idea. But world champs? Just one

Another thing that needs some changing: Bad decisions. People are turned off by so many bad decisions. You need something like you have in the NFL or pro basketball: a group of top notch judges who are always regulated, always going through tests, always going through seminars. Pay ‘em good money but base it on their performance level. That determines whether they do major fights or not.

The people know. They say boxing’s so subjective. Well, let me tell you something—they are just insulting the public’s intelligence. People know who won a fight. You get someone who keeps screwing up like that, hey, send ‘em back down to the minors, or the 4-rounders. Or the amateurs. Send ‘em back to school. Let’s keep a good solid group of officials out there who aren’t intimidated or influenced by the big promoters or big TV or big name fighters.

Start at a national level and let it trickle down. If the US can adopt a system like that, the world will adopt it. The influence and the money and the TV, it’s all here.

Louie Burke & Jesse Reid

Duran, Arguello and Robinson at the Main Street Gym

Muhammad Ali Explains His Anchor Punch

Remembering the Main Street Gym

By Randy De La O

My earliest memories of the old Main Street Gym in Los Angeles are of my father and I going there to watch the fighters workout and spar. This would be in the 1960’s. My father bought all his clothing from the haberdasheries that were found up and down Broadway Street at that time, including Mickey Cohen‘s haberdashery, but that was before my time. I went with him knowing that a trip downtown meant a visit to the Main Street Gym, on Third and Main. My father was a boxer in the army during the 1940’s and remained a fan all of his life, perhaps equaled only by his love of the Los Angeles Dodgers. We would spend a few hours there while my father pointed out the fighters and explained the finer points of boxing to me. We would stop at Crony’s on Whittier Blvd, in East Los Angeles and grab a hot dog or two, before heading home. It was a great time and a great memory.

I would think about those days years later while working out at the gym. At that time I was training under Mel Epstein, who eventually became like the grandfather I never knew. Mel was a trainers trainer, old school and hard core. When I met Mel he was 75 years old and was managing middleweight Mike Nixon, and another young fighter Gary Pittman. His most noted fighter was light heavyweight "Young Firpo", whom he managed and trained in the 1930’s. He also managed and trained boxing writer and historian Ricky Farris. Despite the fact that Mel was a west coast figure, no one evoked a more “Runyonesque” aura. He had been involved in every facet of the fight game at one time or another, including promoting and matchmaking.

The Main Street Gym was managed by that other “Runyonesque” character, Howie Steindler. Howie ran that gym with an iron fist and rarely, if ever, tolerated any bullshit in his gym. Howie managed Ernie “Red” Lopez, Danny “Little Red” Lopez and Alberto Davila. The trainers that I remember from that time are Larry Soto, Memo Soto, Gil Cadilli, Benny Georgino, Teddy Bentham, Bob Armstrong, Frankie Williams, Phil Silvers, Ralph Gambina and Harry Shapiro, who had the habit of reaching over and talking into your ear. It was the only way he would talk. Occasionally other trainers and fighters would come by, usually for some sparring. Joe Ponce and Bobby Chacon would stop by regularly. One of the greatest moments during those years was a spectacular sparring session with Chacon and “Little Red”. It was one of those “You had to be there” moments. These two were true cross town rivals, but they kept it friendly outside of the ring.

I can’t remember the name of the first guy that I sparred with, only that he was a “Main Event” fighter at the Olympic Auditorium. I do remember the bloody nose, split lip, bruised body and black eye that I got. I came back the next day for more. In time I gave as good as I got. I had the opportunity to spar with some good welter and middleweights at that time, as well as some lightweights, and a few light heavies, including Mike Quarry. I was a 147 pounds give or take a few. The toughest guy I ever sparred with, hell, the toughest guy I ever traded punches with period, in or out of the ring was Felipe Torres. Torres had lost a decision to Roberto Duran a few years earlier. Torres was a natural lightweight, but when I met him he was around 165 pounds and working on a comeback. At that time he was managed by Glen Williams, although I think it was more of a friendship than a true manager boxer relationship.

I had turned down an offer by Williams to leave Mel and sign with him. He promised me the world, but I was happy with Mel and declined. I think after that he kind of had it in for me, maybe I’m wrong, who knows. I know that when I had a fight at the Aladdin Hotel in Las Vegas, Felipe was my sparring partner. I had two weeks to get ready. It was only my second fight and it was a six round fight with a ten round fighter named Eduardo Barba from Mexico. I had misjudged Felipe, thinking that because he was a little over weight, and older than me, I would be able to handle him fairly easy. As the saying goes, “when the student is ready, the master will appear“. Well, I suddenly found myself in the ring with a Master, with a capital “M’. He literally tore me apart the fist round. In the second I was determined to get my shot in. I landed a right hand that really seemed to tick him off, he ripped off his head gear and seemed to scratch the ring floor as a bull would, and just tore into me. Every time I stepped into the ring with Felipe, I felt as if I was fighting for my life. This went on for two weeks. What made it worse was that Mel wanted me to spar without head gear, he seemed to think that it toughened a fighter up. I’m not so sure he was right. By the time I got to Vegas for my fight I was bruised , worn and battered on the inside. I lost the decision but it was good fight. It was on the under card of the Mike Quarry - Tom Bethea fight. My fight was the only prelim that night. Bethea lost that night too. Howie Steindler got me that fight, and I remember the night before I left for Vegas, Howie said to me “ You picked your profession, now get out there and do your best”. Some of the guys from the gym said they had seen the fight and thought I had won, but I have to admit, Barba won that fight, fair and square, but I gave as good as I got.

One of the things that I really liked at the gym was the way the heavy bags were set up. There were five or six bags in a row set over raised wooden floors. What was different than most gyms is that the ceiling was so high, a really long chain was needed for the bags. This gave the fighter the opportunity to sway the bag in
circles, follow it or duck under it, something you can’t do on a short hung bag. It makes a difference when training. There were two rings set up and they were always busy. There were two mirror set up for shadow boxing, and a locker room with an old wooden sit up table made by Norman Lockwood. Mel had an ongoing squabble with most of the trainers there over the windows. He wanted them wide open when his fighters were training and every other trainer in the gym wanted them closed. Sometimes he won the argument, sometimes he lost.

There are a lot of great memories from my time at the gym, none more memorable than meeting the legendary Sugar Ray Robinson. He was there quite often in the mid 1970’s. My first contact with him was on a weekday afternoon. I was shadowboxing in front of the mirror. Not the mirror by the door when you waked in, the mirror opposite of the doors, by the windows, near the speed bags. If you trained there you know which mirror. I could see Robinson jumping rope behind me as I shadowboxed. He was watching me. He stopped jumping and just stared at me. After a minute or so, he walked over to me and tapped my shoulder and said “ Excuse me son, do you mind if I give you a little advice?” I looked over at Mel, knowing how he felt about anyone bothering his fighters. Even he recognized the magnitude of the moment for me. He smiled and nodded to me. Do I mind if Sugar Ray Robinson gives me advice? Do birds fly? He gave me a good piece of advice about not drawing my right hand back when I jabbed with my left. He told me to “think of my right as a catcher’s mitt and the other guys fist as a baseball. Just relax and catch it.” To this day when I pass that advice on to someone and they question it, I tell them that Sugar Ray Robinson told me that. It’s almost always good enough. During the time he was working out there we got to be somewhat friendly. we would talk almost every day he was there. One day he stopped coming and I never saw him again. Years later when I heard on the news that he had passed away, I felt bad. I read a few biographies on him over the years and there have been some unflattering things said about him, but to me he was a class act and a nice guy. That’s how I remember him.

The Main Street Gym has been used for so many television shows and movies that I would never be able to list them all, but perhaps the most memorable (to me) is the original “Rocky” with Sylvester Stallone, Burgess Meredith and Talia Shire. The reason it is so memorable to me is that I was an extra in the movie. I’m sparring with Monroe Brooks in the movie. Brooks was stopped by Roberto Duran a few years later. Monroe and I became friends and when I had a fight scheduled with local welterweight Chris Gonzalez, at the Forum later that year he stopped by to wish me luck. The fight was canceled just minutes before it was scheduled to start, still I appreciated him coming by. He was another class act. Brooks is currently a trainer in Los Angeles. Mel and I had lunch with Burgess Meredith, and I remember Meredith picking Mel’s brain for any and all information. I see some of Mel in Mickey.

I had the opportunity to meet so many fighters and famed trainers during those days. It’s been so long that I can’t remember them all, but I do remember meeting and shaking hands with Henry Armstrong, Alexis Arguello and so many others.

After the fight at the Aladdin Hotel, I never fought again. It wasn’t a choice, it just worked out that way. I ended up with a family to support and got a job at Mc Donnell Douglas Aircraft Company. Like most fighters I never really got it out of my system and in 1980 I tried one more time. Things were different now. Mel had passed away that year, Howie Steindler had been murdered a few years earlier and the gym just had a different aura about it. Larry Soto was training me now. Larry was training a fighter by the name of Felipe Canela at the time. I got along well with Larry but he was a completely different type of trainer than Mel, and was pretty vocal about it. His style of training seemed more assembly line as opposed to Mel, who seemed to bring out an individual style. Maybe it was just me. At any rate it didn’t make a difference. That year my father became sick with cancer and I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. So between raising a family, working a full time job with overtime, and going to the hospital daily, something had to give, and it was the gym.

I have great memories of the Main Street Gym. It was a great time in my life and I met some great people there. It was, at it’s peak,, the “Mecca of Boxing” on the west coast, rivaling the best of them, including Stillman’s and Gleason’s in New York. The Gym closed down in the mid ‘80’s and was eventually razed and the spot were the legendary gym once stood is now a parking lot. It was an honor to climb up the flight of stairs, passing Howie’s office, look up and see the sign that read “The greatest fighters in the world train here” and enter the doorway. The sounds and smell of that gym still live in me.

Cotto Beats Mosley!

Photo courtesy of HBO Sports

When I'm wrong, I'm wrong. It seems Cotto has more on the ball than I gave him credit for. Due to "Technical Difficulties" I didn't see the fight, so I'll give my review when I see the replay, but from all that I read it was a clean but close win with Cotto out boxing the boxer. The judges scorecards were 115-113, 115-113, and 116-113. The crowd seemed satisfied with the judgment and there was no controversy. Congrats to Cotto on his win.

I don't know where this loss leaves Sugar Shane Mosley. He is still more than enough for most, still a class act and still a personal favorite. Best of luck to him.

Sugar Shane Mosley vs Miguel Cotto

Photo courtesy of Fightnews.com

I think that when all is said and done this Saturday night it will be less a fight than an undressing and spanking of Miguel Cotto. Despite his age, and his losses to Vernon Forrest and Winky Wright, "Sugar" Shane Mosley is a great fighter, and in spite of his undefeated record, Miguel Cotto is only a good fighter. Never mind the hype either, Cotto is no Felix Trinidad. Aside from that Mosley has the speed and KO advantage, and experience will count here. I expect to see Mosley dominate in every way, speed, power, ring generalship and in the intangibles. Add to that, they will be using eight ounce gloves.....

I don't think I'm being overly optimistic either. From a physical standpoint, this guy is made to order for Mosley. It would have made more sense financially for Cotto to seek a fight with Oscar De La Hoya. I don't think he would win that fight either, but it would have been his one chance at the pot of gold. His stock will head south Sunday morning. I'm still of the mind that Mosley can and will eventually fight and beat "Pretty Boy" Floyd Mayweather. That's the fight I'm waiting for.

Sugar Shane Mosley's boxing record

Miguel Cotto's boxing Record

Charlie Chaplin in "City Lights"

I just had to post this old fight scene from an old Charlie Chaplin movie "City Lights". It is hilarious! I was laughing out loud. It's fair to say they just don't make them like this anymore. Enjoy it.