Frankie's Garden

By Rudy Giuseppe Coco Gandara

( Lil Rudy G, Tall Tales From El Hoyo Soto)

Back in Boyle Heights, we were kids around 10 years old, still at the age of some kind of innocence. It was me, Frankie, Randy, Crazy Tommy, and Whisky Pete. Barrio boys from El Hoyo Soto, around the hood of Whittier Blvd and Soto St. East of the L.A. River.
Our school was Soto Street Elementary. We all grew up together….during a time when the L.A. Freeways were being built all around East LA., cutting up the Barrios and “Building that Wall”, from City Terrace, Boyle Hgts, The 10, the 110, the 605, the 710 on and on…we were under attack and being Blocked.
The city of Los Angeles was growing fast and we were in the way it seems. Our neighbors were being evicted, houses were torn down, it seemed overnight. Hello, Goodbye, “where is Joey where's Chuy ”? …They were moved out misplaced, misfortunate sons of the barrio war.
NO power to stop it, East Los was up for grabs…and the community had no say. It happened in Chavez Ravine, for Dodger Stadium..so everyone seemed to just accept it and know the drill.

The upside for us little gangsters was our entire hood was like a playground with rows and blocks of abandoned houses between our homes and school. So, we would adopt a house…we each had our own house! Some still filled with furniture? Carpets…Drapes…Tables ..Chairs Family Photos …I remember one house, still had a record player and a lot of Albums. Jazz, Latin. Big Band 40’s, All collector's items today I suppose, but we just used them to toss around like little black flying saucers! One of our favorite things was to throw rocks, rocks fights were the game du jour.
We’d crash up windows…really nice stain glass windows, wood entry doors with leaded glass “bam, crash” ..done!
Once in a while, we’d find a Bum, sleeping off a hangover or squatting in “Tommy's house” or Randys or mine. So out came the rocks, we pretended we were soldiers…at war, quietly approach, and then we’d assault the poor bastard until he ran away screaming about wanting to come back and Kill us! Fuck him…these were ours!
This was the surreal dreamscape to our lives, Fields, and Freeway construction sites, Large Excavation trackers…Van Goghs “Yellow House”, Salvador Dali's “Living Still Life” Diego Riveras “Man at the Crossroads’. This was our crossroads, of our future…the destruction of our communities, barrio in Shambles…. But was still our home. We were the lucky ones that were not forced out? Yet had to live in a ½ abandoned place. Old neighbors gone…the local store is gone…Senora Chela? Mr. Kissoloff, Shuichi Akai? people we loved people we knew for years “Gone” no word, no trail just Gone. This was our reality of reality.

Of our crew, each of the boys had fathers. I was the only one without and they always reminded me of how lucky I was for it.
Our hustle was shining shoes, downtown on Main Street along the Bars, and back home on Whittier in front of the M’s Club. The M’s club was a basement lounge bar, that claim to fame was Frank Sinatra had once sung there. Now it was just another dive bar for Chicano men after work and weekends.
We’d take the bus sometimes during the week, but mainly on Saturdays all day. Up early, return after dark. Along the way, we could jump a fence and steal peaches or apricots…Steal a few sodas or beer bottles off someones back porch and sell for candy, chips and RC Coke or Orange Crush.
On an early Sunday morning about 7am, every now and then we’d meet up, and walk from Whittier Blvd Soto St. all the way to Brooklyn Ave. a couple of miles. Our inspiration was, They would deliver bundles of Sunday papers and dump them in front of local small time grocery stores or a Pharmacy. Now the Sunday paper always sold for more, like .25 cents, it was thick, had a big “Comic Section”, Sports Section, thick news! At some point when we found a Stack of Papers, one of the boys would “look out” for the Police…or strangers. Once we got the bundle, we’d split it up…each stands on opposite sides of the street corners and sell to passing cars! We made a small fortune! Quick and dirty. I found out later in life, that just a few generations before our time here, a local Jewish kid from New York named “Mickey Cohen” was in control of these same streets and he had a deal with the L.A. times Boss to do exactly what we thought was our idea! Selling papers on those streets. Mickey who wasn’t much older than us, had his boys cover the streets up and down and would issue each a corner, for a small piece of the Action. I think he was about our same age, 10 when he was in charge. Of course, he’d moved on to bigger “Gangster” hustles by our time on these streets. We were more pranksters than gangsters.
At the end of each run, whenever we were running the streets, one by one we’d say goodbye or sometimes pop into someone's house for a free sandwich or a little food. Moms where always so nice to our little gang. The Fathers were all a different story.
It seemed Drink and drinking hard after they got home was a way of life. Do your time at any one of the factories in downtown along the L.A. River…or bust your ass at a Steel or Meat Plant in the city of Vernon nearby. The Fathers would come home pissed off, tired and drunk after stopping off at the M’s club or Sabby's, or the Cita Club, The Latin Lover, one of many to choose from.
Little Frankie's father was special though. Not in a nice way, in a creepy way to us all. He would always stay quiet, in a corner…on the sofa or with a beer starring out the window to the backyard.
He worked at a Slaughterhouse somewhere. On his time off, he would go out and find tropical plants,..palm trees, elephant ears…banana trees. I don’t know where you’d find such plants in L.A. but he did, one by one ..year by year. He had what he would mumble sometimes out load was his “Victory Garden”. And as the years passed and the Palms grew thicker and taller, he would disappear in this garden. We never knew what or why he’d go into it. He’d walk in with his Dog and we never see him again for the day.
Frankies mom would just leave him alone for hours in there..until it was so late she had to yell for him to come in.
Big Frank, as they called him was a World War II Vet, from the Pacific theater. He served in many battles I learned and was a decorated War Hero, with ribbons and medals. Little Frankie would show us, boys, sometimes. We’d hold them up, rub them…pass them around then he’d put them back in the boxes and away. We had no idea, what they meant? Or why he got the honors. So, they looked special but held no value to us. Just pretty metals are all with strange names on the Boxes, like Saipan, Iwo Jima, Okinawa…Philippines
As the years rolled on, and the Big Franks Victory Garden grew, so did his madness. The garden was now amazingly a lush Tropical forest. When no one was around we would go in there and get lost, it was that thick. But every time we did that the next day little Frankie would be at school and show us his bruises from being beaten down by this Father. He knew, He always knew. The Victory Garden was off limits, “No One” was supposed to go in there Just him. Years passed, and the story is told that Big Franks depression and drinking became intolerable for his wife Ruth, and she took little Frankie away and we never heard from him again. They separated leaving Big Frank alone to his rum, demons and the Tropical Garden. Neighbors used to hear screaming late at night. Sometimes a gunshot or two. This managed to go on for a while until one day…there was a fire at the house. Firefighters were called after all was settled and the blaze was put under control there was no one in the house.

The Police searched, only found a dead German shepherd the house pet named Fritz. One officer was lured to the backyard, after hearing what sounded like “Rain” drops. Frank had hooked up a water pipe above the garden to keep them green, with a spray nozzle to simulate Rain over the Garden Palms, it was still running.
Looking further the Cop found an entry to ‘The Victory Garden”. Walking into the mud trail, seemed a maze of twist and turns He found a small clearing within…an area with a bench, a small tent, it looked like a scene from a magazine out of WW II. Amongst it all there they found Franks body, in military dress, surrounded by his boxes of metals, loaded silver plated Colt 45 pistol military issue, minus a single bullet. Apparently placing the gun to his mouth, blowing the back side of his head off gleaming with mud and blood.
No one will ever know what he did, what he saw during those years of War, the battles, blood, comrades lost ..but Sargent Frank Ruiz could never escape the Horrors of War, What the eyes see, a wailing soul harbors.
There was no suicide note, just a lifeless body eyes still open, alone in a fetal position surrounded by the small jungle Frank loved and built just for this occasion.

Was it worth it?

By kiki

Was it worth it? In reflection, I asked myself that question about the boys boxing careers. I also question myself: Did I do the right thing in introducing them to the sport?. Of course, I could say that they made the choice of embarking on a boxing career, but even though Frankie and Tony told me one night (at the age of six and three) in 1964 that they wanted to get in the ring, it wouldn't be true because they were too young to make that decision on their own. So, as a Teamsters Boys Club smoker, I decided that the boys would enter the ring very young. Do I now regret it? I do.  

Why regret it if they achieved a small measure of fame and fortune? You ask. With fame and fortune, too, came a bunch of new fair-weather friends. Years later, the fame and riches are gone, and so are the new friends they made on top of the mountain. ~ I have to admit that those days when the boys were sought after for TV fights, with decent pay, no, make that really great pay for those times, were great times for us all. We've traveled the country and met some famous people. We did and saw places that, without boxing, we wouldn't have done so. But at what price? I now ask because now all they have are the memories of those famous people we met and the beautiful places we travel to, but that's only when they can remember the memories. Regret it? Yes, especially when the after-effects of long boxing careers are staring me in the face. 

The slurred speech and lost memory effects of pugilistic dementia are too high a price to pay for a fleeting moment of fame and fortune. ~ Would I do it again? I have to be honest and say that I don't know, but I probably would if we were back in 1964.

Rancho San Antonio

By kiki

In the late '50s, I had a young and very close cousin (now deceased) who should remain anonymous here. My young cousin was a rebellious kinda kid. He would rebel against parental rules, school, law authority, or anyone who would tell him that he couldn't march to his own drummer at a young age. He didn't believe that parental rules or the laws of the land applied to him. So with that attitude, it was no surprise that he would wind up as a ward of the juvenile court. After a short time of being locked up in juvie, the juvenile court placed him at Rancho San Antonio as a wayward ward.

Rancho San Antonio (From Wiki)

"Rancho San Antonio was founded in 1933 by the Catholic Big Brothers. Rancho started as a rented home in Redondo Beach to care for 18 boys. In June 1938, Rancho San Antonio found its permanent home in Chatsworth, CA. In the 75 years since then, thousands of young men have turned to Rancho San Antonio for help and guidance. Since the 1950s, the Knights of Columbus have provided most fundraising for Rancho San Antonio. Within the first three years, they raised enough money to build the chapel, indoor swimming pool, and the first four dormitories on the grounds.

The Rancho campus sits on 19 acres, and with the continued support of the Knights of Columbus, today there are eleven-living units, a dining hall, a gymnasium, an infirmary, a recreation complex, a football, and baseball field, a group home, career resource center, an administration building which currently provides service to 106 boys and their families."

Once he was settled on the ranch Connie and I paid him a few visits. On one of our visits, he asked if he could live with us if the court okayed it. With two babies of our own and just kids ourselves and living in a small apartment on Williamson St. in E.L.A., Connie and I said yes. After a short court appearance, where questions about Connie and me were asked and answered, my cousin, who was about nine years younger than me, was made a ward of the young Baltazar couple. I am sorry my cousin's stay with us didn't work out well for him. He was doing okay during the summer that he was with us, but he just wouldn't go to school when the fall school session started. And the school was one of the conditions the court had put on him. A truant officer picked up my cousin on a morning when he had supposedly left for school. He was then placed back in juvie. After that, he was in and out of trouble, which continued throughout his adolescent years. As an adult, he kinda settled down. He married, worked, and had some kids. My cousin, who died relatively young (about 45 years old), was a good person despite his rebellious attitude. He was a funny guy that just needed to march to his own drummer. 

Two Kinds of Truth

By kiki

There are two kinds of truth in this world. The truth that is the unalterable bedrock of one’s life and mission and the other, malleable truth of politicians, charlatans, corrupt lawyers, and their clients, bent and molded to serve whatever purpose is at hand.

Dear Daughters

An open letter by an unknown Dad

I would like to apologize for my generation's inability to learn from past mistakes. Once again, our fear and ignorance have empowered hate and greed to marginalize our humanity. We have created what seems to be an unbridgeable divide.

I apologize for my laziness and naivete; believing that good work would prevail without enduring effort.

I know a decree of contrition and shame is pointless unless pain is turned into thoughtful action. So, I use this post to declare my promise that I will do everything I can to empower you, to encourage you and to honor you.

Daughters, force our filtered ears.

Crack open our small minds.

Tell us what you need.

Tell us who you are.

Fathers, listen to your daughters. You may never completely understand her or agree with her, but you must amplify her voice-  let it be strong, clear and uproarious.

In my most desperate moments, I turn to the two of you and see wisdom, innocence, and empathy and I have hope. We have put the burden of a fair-minded world on your shoulders. But I trust those shoulders will stand side by side with other shoulders - of every orientation, race, creed, and color - and your uncompromising spirit and innate sense of equality will do what we could not.

We, as a species, need a course correction. I believe you are that change. I can only that - the future is female.

I love you.

Dad

Frankie 'Fernie' Baltazar

                                       Frankie Baltazar

By Rick Farris

After a controversial loss to Reynaldo Zaragoza, Frankie Baltazar would win his next 26 fights in a row, sixteen of those wins by KO.
During that winning streak, Frankie would score thirteen consecutive knockouts including a 4th round stoppage of world ranked Shig Fukuyama, who many will remember as the guy who stopped Danny "Lil Red" Lopez and cut Sean O'Grady to ribbons in a WBA Lightweight title defense. Had that fight been held anywhere but Sean's hometown, the bout would have been stopped and the Japanese fighter would have become Lightweight Champion of the World.

The explosive Rafael "Bazooka" Limon, who would win the Jr. Lightweight title, ended Frankie's win streak at twenty-six, stopping Baltazar in four rounds.
Not one to lick his wounds, young Frankie jumped right back on track with another win streak of ten straight (7 by KO) before dropping a close decision to Eloy Montano in Las Vegas. After that, Frankie Baltazar Jr. would fight just two more times, winning both by knockout.

Frankie Baltazar vs.California Lightweight Champion Jorge Ramon. Frankie won by first round KO

We in L.A. remember the Baltzar boys as winners, as they rarely lost in the amateurs or the pros. How appropriate that after more than twenty years in the ring, Frankie Jr. would leave the sport a knockout winner. How many boxers can make such a claim?

When it was all said and done, Frankie Jr. lost only three times in 44 pro fights, his final record 40-3-1 (27 KO's)

You had one helluva career, Fernie!

The Fraternity

                                                            Frankie Duarte

By Frank Duarte

As he walks through the corridors of the arena where he once fought, passing the restrooms and snack bars where hundreds of people are coming and going in all directions, he goes unnoticed. As he walks down the aisle, passing row after row of seats filled with fight fans in celebration, eating popcorn and drinking beer, he goes unrecognized. And as he sits in his seat, with a slight smile - and a tear - he reminisces of a time when it wasn’t so.

In his day, he fought to standing-ovations as the chant of his name echoed throughout the arena. If you wanted his autograph you had to wait in line because others wanted it too, and on any given day, there might be a write up on him in the newspaper because at that time he was a local hero.

But that was a long time ago, today, his life of glory has made an abrupt turn down the lonely road of reality. No more cheers from admiring fight fans, no more requests for his autograph and no more headlines in the sports pages of today's newspapers. Tonight he’ll be parking cars for a sleazy nightclub owner in the downtown area of Los Angeles, and two months before that, he was working as an unarmed security guard in one of Los Angeles’ most notorious gang-infested neighborhoods; just to earn minimum wages.

At places where men tend to gather, bars, sports clubs, and gyms, nobodies heard of him, at best, he might get a polite “Your name sounds familiar.

”Regrets? He has many. Regrets for not doing the things that he should have, and regrets for doing the things that he shouldn’t have, such as accepting that first beer that led to many.

He dwells in a life of shoulda, coulda, and with a little, more discipline, and perhaps, a little more guidance, woulda made it to that group of elite fighters whose names will live on forever. Instead, he belongs to a fraternity of forgotten fighters whose only signs of accomplishments are flat noses and scar tissue where eye-brows once grew. Its a fraternity where most fighters are designated to; soon after their last hurrah, and this! is the fraternity to which I belong.

I was watering my lawn when Rick Farris phoned me, Rick was a pretty good Bantamweight back in the late 60’s to mid 70’s. Today, he’s an astute historian on boxing and a lover of the sport, and I believe that’s what motivated him to start the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame.

Even though I hadn’t heard from Rick in a few years, I recognized his voice immediately. My adrenaline started pumping because I knew that at any moment I would be taking a trip down memory lane. When Rick and I get to talking boxing, there’s no stopping us. We must have talked for, at least, 45 minutes about the good old days of the Olympic Auditorium, the Main Street Gym in downtown Los Angeles, and on the south side, the Hoover St Gym. The Main Street Gym, and the Hoover St Gym, besides being known for (most of the time) having backed up toilets, had some of the best fighters of all time train there. And the stories we shared about those old school trainers are priceless. Jackie Mccoy, Canonball Green and Jake Shugrue. These guys were so cool; they trained you in their street clothes, you know the look, shiny leather shoes, slacks with a sharp crease; and a button up shirt. They would lace up your boxing gloves with a lit cigarette dangling from their lips, and the great part about is that nobody complained.

Towards the end of our conversation, Rick told me the reason he was calling me was that he would be inducting me into the W.C.B.H.F on October 15, 2017, at the Garland Hotel in Studio City. He asked me if I would appear to receive the induction, to which, of course, without hesitation, I said yes.

On the morning of the function, I must have spent the first 45 minutes staring at the clothes hanging in my closet. Casual or formal, which way should I go. I decided to compromise and go in between with a semi-formal look. I chose a pair of light grey slacks that had been hanging in my closet for the past twenty years waiting to be worn. I only have one sports jacket, so that made it a lot easier for me to choose which one to wear. It’s a light beige wool with a bluish grey tweed running throughout, all brought together with a light blue shirt and a beige tie with faint blue stripes. Oh yeah, I mustn’t forget to mention my dark brown European leather shoes, made in Paris California. I looked in the mirror and gave myself a thumbs up.

                                         Frankie Duarte vs. Albert Davila II

I gave Agnus the address to the venue, and then I was on my way. By the way, Agnus is my GPS. My wife, Lourdes and my two kids, Katrina and Frankie, were also attending, but they were going in a separate car.

While I was driving to the event, the entire time, I couldn’t stop thinking, “What if nobody knows me?” I kept thinking of how disappointed that my kids will be when they realize that their Father wasn’t as popular as he said he was.

As I entered the driveway of the Garland, I began to scan the parking lot in hopes that I would see some of my old boxing friends, and if I did, then I could be confident that I’ll get at least a few cheers upon my induction. I parked my car and reached for my coat that was laying across the back seat of my car. When I got out of my car; from a short distance away, I thought I heard somebody say “ That's Frankie Duarte”. I froze and my ears perked up. I tried to figure out how I should respond, or maybe I shouldn’t respond at all, but how could I not?

I slowly turned my head in the direction from where I heard the voice come from, and I saw a man and a woman approaching me at a fast pace, the man was smiling from ear to ear. The man didn’t even ask me If I was Frankie Duarte, he just introduced himself to me, and then his wife. He told me of how much he enjoyed watching me fight and continued with “you were a real warrior.” He handed me a pen and the program for that day's events and then asked me for my autograph. He thanked me, and I thanked him back, I was flabbergasted. Before we departed, I asked him where the event was taking place. He pointed across the parking lot and told to go through the double doors, then up the stairs.

I began walking across the parking lot, and by the time I got to the double doors, I had been asked for my autograph two more times, one woman asked me if she could take a picture with me, and a picture was taken.

When I got up the stairs, I walked across the corridor then through the double doors that opened onto the terrace. There had to be at least a couple hundred people out there.

Right away, I recognized former world champions Carlos Palomino, Danny ‘Little Red” Lopes, Albert Davila and Paul Banke; they were standing together talking and laughing. more fighters continued to come.

I spent much of the time talking to my old boxing colleagues, but most of the time, I was signing autographs and taking pictures, I was overjoyed.

The event was about to start, so we all started making our way to the venue. when I got inside, I saw some notables sitting near the podium. there was movie actors Ryan O’Neal who was accepting The Tom Kelly Lifetime Achievement award, and actor, Paul Le Mat. Paul was there in support of his longtime friend Albert Davila, Albert was also being inducted. Although Paul’s, played in a lot of movies, he’s best known for his portrayal of John Milner in the classic movie American Graffiti.

The late Dick Enberg was also being inducted for his outstanding work as a boxing commentator. Dick is also a big part of The Olympic Auditorium history, as he commented alongside Micky Davis when they first started airing the fights in 1965.

Rick Farris, at the podium, had kind words as he told of my history as a fighter. He called me up to the podium and congratulated me as he handed me my plaque. I approached the microphone, and I said a few words before thanking the West Coast Boxing Hall of Fame for accepting me as being worthy of the honor of being inducted into their establishment.

The highlight of the day, for me, was knowing that my kids witnessed, first hand, me in my celebrity status. Until then, they had only heard me brag about it, again and again.

I left the event with a new outlook on my life as a fighter and spent the rest of the evening re-hashing everything that happened that day.

The next morning I woke up extra early, and I went straight to my desk. I turned on my computer and began typing a letter to the Fraternity of Forgotten Fighters. It was my letter of resignation.

                                Frankie Duarte and manager Ralph Gambina