R.I.P. Henry Baltazar

 By kiki

These are sad times for me, as one of my favorite cousins, Henry Baltazar, has taken his last cruise around the barrio. But I know that he refuses to fall into that dreamless sleep; thus, he is having a great time at a beer party at The Blue Sky Lounge. I can just hear him saying, "I'm saving you a cold one, Cuz."

So I will write about some of the fun times Henry and I had; some of it will be in excerpts of stories I wrote before his passing. The fun, to be sure, was at Henry's expanse: let me explain: Henry was a very short man in stature, thus, the ribbing by friends and foes alike. But, on the other hand, Henry had the heart of a giant; he would give you the shirt of his back on a freezing day.

I became very close to Henry when we moved to La Puente in 1968; he was a La Puente native. We loved each other like brothers, and I guess that's why he put up with my bullshit. And he did so with a smile and always his favorite words, "ya, right."

Back when the child car seat law had just become the law of the land, we were visiting his parents, Tio Magdaleno and Tia Senovia, in Portville, Ca. (they had moved when my Tio retired). So Henry asked me if I would give him a ride to the next hick town; I said yes. As we walked out of the house, I picked up a child car seat from a couch; Henry asked me, "Cuz, what do you need that for?"  I gave him a smile and said, "I need to strap you down; you know that's a new law." He shook his head and said, "ya, right."

An excerpt: "Playboy Lounge:" Circa 1983, I walked into a local watering hole, the Playboy Lounge. As I walked in, I spotted my cousin Henry and his friend Rudy sitting at the bar; their little feet were dangling high above the floor as they sucked on their beers, now Henry and Rudy are two really short guys, more like glorified midgets, both are about 4'11 if they wear lifts. Henry might be about half-inch taller than Rudy; I used to kid Henry all the time about liking to hang with Rudy because Rudy was the only one shorter than him. 

One time Henry and I were hanging out by the curb in front of my house, and out of the blue, I said to him: "Cuz, you're a lucky man" he gave me a funny look and asked, "how, Cuz?" So I put my arm around his shoulders and gave him a smile, and I said, "well, if you wanna commit suicide, all you have to do is jump off the curb. "ya, right."

When I was in the boxing business, I told Henry that I was branching out to wrestling and could use him, " how, working the corner, Cuz?" I didn't think so. "No, Cuz, it's more like putting you in the ring; I can make you a star in a midget tag-team. "ya, right."

An excerpt: "Looking For A Good Barber:" I talked to my cousin Henry and told him how I needed an excellent barber. Henry told me to go see Jimmy at 'Jimmy's Scissor-cut' on Valley Blvd and Puente Ave and to be sure to tell Jimmy that "Big Henry" sent me. I think Henry was looking to get ten percent of whatever business he sent Jimmy's way or at least a free haircut. Jimmy and his son, One Eye Dino, turned out to be two great barbers.

In the mid-1980s, Henry went camping with my family and me to the Eastern Sierra. After two or three days, the cooler ran out of beer, so we went to a small general store in a small town. I walked in first with Henry behind me. I walked up to the counter to buy some Pall Mall Reds, and Henry went to the beer fridge; the clerk looked over my shoulder and yelled at Henry, "Hey, kid, you can't buy beer; you're not old enough." HWith'stache and beard, Henry turned around and yelled back, "say, what?." The clerk with a red face said, "I thought he was your kid." Back in the motorhome, I told Herny what the clerk had said. "ya, right."

Much more Henry short (no pun intended) stories can be told, but enough with picking on my cousin with the colossal heart; besides, if I keep picking on him, he will drink the beer he is saving for me. Henry later on in life became a river rat;, living around the Bullhead City area. He used to jokingly claim he was on the lam. R.I.P. Cuz. Love you.

Playboy Lounge

 By kiki

Circa 1983, I walked into a local watering hole, the Playboy Lounge. As I walked in, I spotted my cousin Henry and his friend Rudy sitting at the bar; their little feet were dangling high above the floor as they sucked on their beers, now Henry and Rudy are two really short guys, more like glorified midgets, both are about 4'11 if they wear lifts. Henry might be about half-inch taller than Rudy; I used to kid Henry all the time about liking to hang with Rudy because Rudy was the only one shorter than him. 

I ordered some beers for the three of us, and as we were bullshitting and drinking our beers, I noticed some ladies sitting on a table in the back of the lounge. 

Soon one of the ladies, a massive one, walked up to us; she greeted Henry and Rudy, who she knew; after saying hello, she asked Henry, "and who is this?" meaning me, after Henry introduced us; she asked me "wanna dance?" now I stand 5'8 and at that time weight about 145 lbs., she stood at least 6 feet if not an inch or two more and carried at least 250 plus pounds on her big bones, I gracefully decline, at that Rudy jumped off his stool and bouncing a couple of times off the floor said, "I'll dance." 

As we watched them dance. I started laughing; Henry asked me, "Cuz, what are you laughing at?" "Look at Rudy dancing with that big broad; he looks like a flea on a dog," I said, and that got Henry laughing too. After finishing their dance, Rudy and the big girl walked back to the bar where Henry and I were sitting; Big Girl then asked Henry, "what were you guys laughing at?"  "We were just laughing at a joke," Henry replied, at that big girl said to Henry, "you know what I'm going to do to your cousin here? First, I am going to beat the shit out of him. I'm going to f*%k him to death," I told her "for sure you can beat the shit out of me, you're big enough to do so, but you're not going to f*%k me, Biggie gave me a hard look as she turned around and walked back to her girlfriends, Henry, Rudy, and I went back to our beers. - Kudos to Rudy for not backing away from life.     

Excuse the salty language, but that's the way it went down.

Life is beautiful, but it can be cruel at times

 By kiki

Life is beautiful, but it can be cruel at times: case in point, I was once young, robust, and vibrant. I could party and play with the best of them, used to drink good liquor, smoke great cigars, and could go to work on two hours of sleep. Had nice threads to go nite clubbing, drove new cars going out to dinner. Then one morning, I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw a stranger looking back at me, "who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my bathroom?" So, of course, I asked the stranger, who I was beginning to think was Sancho. But before he could answer, it dawned on me that I was looking at the old-new me. 

The old-new me is a senior old man having a tough time just getting around the house. Getting more withered and sere by the day, my doctor told me I was losing my mind, and I told him he was full of shit. The good liquor, great cigars, nite clubbing in nice threads, and going out to dinner in a new car are all a thing of the past.

I don't party; I can't party! The way I used to. I don't drink or smoke, don't go nite clubbing, or go out to dinner much. Don't have nice threads or a new car. But I have great memories to draw on when I start feeling old and broken down.

Jake Horn and Robert Windsor

 

By kiki

In the mid-1970s, some Los Angeles open-class amateur fighters of note, who, for one reason or another, were unable to partake in the Los Angeles Golden Gloves tournament, went to Las Vegas to fight in their Golden Gloves tourney. Among the top L.A. amateurs that I can remember at this late date were Herman Montes and Frankie Baltazar. 

There were others of lesser note: One was Robert Windsor. Robert was mentally challenged. Thus, he wasn't allowed to box in California state-sanction amateur bouts. Las Vegas could care less. Well, our open-class fighters of note were quickly eliminated. Of all the L.A. fighters, Robert Windsor was the only one to make it to the finals. Robert lost by decision, but he gave a good account of himself -Jake Horn and Louie Jauregui were Mando Muniz's first managers, and around 1973 they booked Mando to fight Manny Gonzales in Tucson, AZ. 

So along with Mando, Jake, Louie, Johnny Cabera, and a host of amateur fighters, Robert Windsor being one of them, we drove to Tucson in Mando's van and Jake's car. 

Mando had a tough fight, but he won. Now we were heading back home on I-8; Robert was riding with Jake, and during a pit stop in Yuma, Robert said that he wasn't going to ride with Jake anymore because Jake drove too fast, "Jake is crazy," said Robert, "hell, I was only doing 100 miles per hour" retorted Jake, and he was. Jake couldn't get nobody to ride shotgun with him.

Rich Or Very Rich

 by kiki

Early this morning my imaginary friend Beto was yelling into my good ear," wake up dude, I have a question for you" He didn't need to yell since I was already awake. "shoot" I replied. "what is the difference between being rich and being very rich?" he asked. The first thought that enters my mind was, why is he asking such a question as he is neither rich nor very rich? In fact, the dude is dirt poor: he is a throw-back to the 1930s, as he still puts cardboard in his shoes, lest the pebbles come in through the holes in the sole of his shoes. But, it was too early in the morning to play games, so I shine him off. "I don't know, now go away" And with that, he was gone. So, my friends, rich or poor, do you have an answer for Beto?

Payday Louie

By kiki 

Thanks to President Biden, and the Dems, who voted for his 'Rescue America' plan, I can now make a small down payment to my bookie and loan shark, 'Payday Louie' 

Louie is known as "Payday" because he sends his henchman 'Ollie The Ox' out on Fridays to collect money from losers owed to him. Ollie, built like an ox, likes to visit debtors carrying a baseball bat. He has the bat, he says because he loves baseball, but my spook friend Beto says that is hogwash; he said he once saw Ollie swing the bat like Babe Ruth, so, thanks to President Biden, The Ox won't be swinging his bat at me, not for a while anyway. 

A Frankie Duarte Story

 Frankie Duarte: A STORY JIM MURRAY WROTE ABOUT ME AT THE BEGINNING OF MY COMEBACK IN 1984.

A Throwback Punches In on Comeback

By JIM MURRAY

SEP. 26, 1985

The fight mob calls them club fighters. They’re good but not very. They’re usually long on bravery and short on skill.

Not for them the bright lights and hundred-dollar seats of the Garden, the outdoor ballparks, the instant stadiums of Vegas. They make their livings in the creaky arenas in the old neighborhoods, or sometimes in fancier places where the customers eat steak and drink beer.

Their fights are mini-wars. They bleed like bad bulls but they never throw in a bad fight. They fight for short money and sometimes they have to have 9-to-5 jobs to go to between the nosebleeds. They make their fights like a guy on a ledge. They fight other guys who are tough, canny, impervious to pain. They act as if it’s a mortal sin to step backward.

Their payoff is scar tissue and laryngitis. Sometimes they bleed where it doesn’t show, like in the head. They treat defeat with a shrug, victory as luck, and they are frequently the nicest people in the skein of sport. They know there’s somebody out there just as tough as they are, something a guy in a three-piece suit who has three phones and a rug on the office floor may never get to think about. It makes them better persons.

They used to be what fighting was all about in the days before it became just another TV spectacular or a Saturday afternoon extravaganza in between the log rolls and the stunt skiing.

Twenty years ago, Frankie Duarte would have been a club fighter, a hero in the neighborhood but unranked nationally. But fighters today aren’t pros. They’re performers, hype artists, and there’s only a handful of them who have any clear idea what they’re doing in the ring.

Frankie Duarte knows. He could write the book on what to do in the ring, he’s been in so many of them. Frankie knows all about slipping punches, hooking off the jab, covering up in the corners and how to cut off a ring.

Frankie was one of the best in the business when he started his pro career. He knocked out 14 of his first 16 opponents, some in the first round. He had a dazzling left, and his right came in like a falling safe. His nickname in the projects was El Huero or Paleface, but El Campeon was not entirely out of the question the way he started.

Then, our huero did what countless fighters out of the barrio--or the log cabins--had done historically: He overmatched himself.

He took on the bottle, the parties, the street drugs. He palled around with the back slappers, the fast talkers, the deal-makers.

He could handle himself in the ring but he began to take some shots to the liver from a glass that no glove could deliver, and some shots to the lungs that Jack Dempsey couldn’t have landed. Frankie had a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

He had trouble not only making the weight but also getting up in the morning. He finally fought Albert Davila, and it was like watching a train wreck.

Davila used Duarte’s head as a light bag and, when Frankie looked in the mirror after the fight, he thought it was two other people.

Frankie got $13,000 for that fight and a terrible headache. “Heck, I didn’t train,” he says. “I couldn’t make the weight and I weakened myself more. You might say Davila took me out in the fifth round, but I took myself out.”

Davila went on to title shots. Duarte went back to the bar and the guys who would tell him what he’d do to Davila the next time.

There was no next time. Davila didn’t need him anymore, and neither did anyone else.

Duarte drifted into retirement and culture shock.

“I palled around with Raul Rojas,” he said. “We used to go to this Scotchman’s bar near where we lived, and to me (Rojas) was a celebrity. He had been the featherweight champion of the world, after all, and I’d see the way these people treated him when we’d be drinking, like, ‘Oh, yeah, Raul Rojas, he’s getting kinda loud, I think we better go now.’

“Here’s a guy, he beat champions, and they treat him like he’s dirt! I couldn’t get over it.

“Then I went to Santa Monica College, and we go through this roll call and nobody even remembers me. I mean, I’d been on national TV, even. I’d fought contenders, and they didn’t even know who I was.”

Frankie even tried a pool-cleaning business for a while. “I wasn’t even any good at that,” he said. “I didn’t always show up.”

One day, he took stock and realized that booze and cigarettes roughed him up more than a dozen Albert Davilas could have.

“I quit,” he said. “I haven’t had a drink or cigarette or anything in 2 1/2, 3 years now.”

He even got his nose fixed. “I never got married. I’m kinda shy, but I thought maybe if I got my nose fixed, I might get to have a family.”

Instead, though, he went back to get it broken some more. Frankie Duarte had his first fight in 1973, and his last one had been in 1982 when he decided to return to the ring this year.

“At first, I turned purple in the gym,” he said. “I felt like I was underwater. I kept thinking the canvas was loose and it was making my legs trip. Then I realized it was my legs that were loose.”

Duarte fought his sixth fight in his comeback on the Al Goossen fight card at the Country Club in Reseda the other night. They handed him a tough kid out of Denver, Ron Cisneros, a banger who was sneaky-quick and highly undiscourageable.

It took El Huero a few rounds to decipher Cisneros, but when he did, he painted a picture on him. Cisneros’ face looked like a sunset by the eighth round, when his corner stopped the fight.

At 31, Frankie Duarte is the classic club fighter, a throwback. His fights are as impersonal as a mob hit, as professional as a funeral. But the fight game being what it is today, the club fighter is the elite of his craft.

Frankie hopes that age and cunning will get him another shot at the top. This time, he’ll know what to do with it, and if he spends his money in a bar, it’ll be to own it.

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