Always Running (21 page)

Chente opened up classes at the center such as martial arts, arts & crafts and photography. New government programs existed then for agencies like the Bienvenidos Community Center, which ran the youth center; Chente tapped into some of these funds to provide Lomas its first and only recreational facility.

Chente eyed me standing with Chata and Trudy, and came by.

“Luis. I’d like to ask you something.”

“Go ahead dude.”

“In my office, it’s a little quieter.”

I followed Chente to a small room with ancient metal files and a carved-up desk. I stood next to a window which overlooked the billiard-playing area.

“I got a job for you,” he said. “It’s part of the Neighborhood Youth Corps. We got funded for several slots. I’d like for you to have one of them.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Well most of the jobs involve cleaning up parks, painting, carpentry and alley maintenance,” he said. “I want you to run one of the crews. We’ll be hiring next week, but you have to sign up. It’s for families below the poverty level. What do you say?”

“Sure, you know I ain’t working right now.”

“There’s one catch though,” Chente said, looking intently at me. “I want you to consider going to school next semester—to Keppel.”

“What for? I’ve had it with school. Anyway, they don’t want me at Keppel.”

“Listen, there’s going to be some changes,” Chente informed me. “Keppel is getting a new principal, Mr. Madison. He says he wants to meet with the students from Lomas. We’re working on this now. Some of the community have already met with him and he’s agreed to provide a Chicano Student Center, a full-time Youth Adviser and—get this—a school club for Chicano students.”

“No! What a change, man.”

“I’d like for you to go back and get involved. We need strong leaders. We need intelligent voices. We’re going to make deep changes and you’re one person who can help make them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Believe me, I’m sure—what do you say?”

“I don’t know, man. Let me think about it.”

“Okay, all right. You have a whole summer still,” Chente said, shaking my hand. “And don’t forget to come back next week for the job.”

By summer, I worked on an NYC crew. We took an old flatbed truck with wood planks on the sides to use on the various cleanup sites. We piled up the back of the truck with junk which had been dumped on the roadways, parks, empty lots, and abandoned buildings. From there we trekked over to the dump to unload it. We also hung wallboard, did light carpentry and some electrical, and helped build the new daycare and student dropout center next to the John Fabela Center.

Community projects popped up all over. The government brought out a number of teen programs and job placements. Activists came into Lomas with various ideas. They opened up a food co-op run by the Lomas mothers. They hired consultants, grant writers and fundraisers.

I became deeply involved at the center. On weekends, I woke up at 3 a.m. to go with some parents to the farmer’s market in downtown L.A. and pick up crates of fruits and vegetables for the food co-op. During the week, I worked a regular day shift cleaning up the neighborhood. Then in the evenings, I hung around the youth center, often volunteering for various programs, including giving out bags of groceries for families without food.

One time a man named Daniel Fuentes came in to sign up dudes for amateur boxing. There were a number of tournaments opening up: the Junior Olympics, the Junior Golden Gloves, the Golden Gloves and Olympics. I decided to try boxing. Fuentes ran the boxing club out of his house in the Hills. We used the almost-collapsing auditorium of the elementary school just below Graves Avenue to work out. We ran laps around the school’s play yard.

On the days we sparred, Fuentes piled up all the guys into his hand-painted black station wagon and had us ply the rings at the Main Street Gym in downtown L.A. or at a makeshift gym in a South El Monte warehouse.

Fuentes demanded so much of us. He knew he had mostly undisciplined, could-give-a-fuck street dudes to shape up. He had to make skilled boxers out of some difficult, raw material. But he had one thing in his favor: We had guts.

The first days of training, we tried to look like bad-ass dudes with our high fists and our bouncy stances. Fuentes had his son Steve go a couple of rounds with us. At 18, Steve was an experienced amateur, having won a few local titles with almost 100 fights under his belt. He didn’t look like a homeboy. But when he got us in the ring, he tore us to pieces. We had no defenses. We had no combinations. We understood nothing about balance, footwork or even where to place our eyes when we fought.

“You guys think you’re the toughest people around,” Fuentes said. “Well, you wouldn’t last a round in an amateur fight. But this is going to change.”

Every evening we did our laps around the elementary school. On certain occasions, Fuentes dragged us to East L.A. College where we ran our butts off around a large track field. Fuentes taught us how to hit the heavy bags, use the speed bag and jump rope, and he helped build up our shoulders and chest areas.

“The power doesn’t come from your arms,” he said. “It comes from your shoulders. You put the force of your whole body into a punch. This way, you make every punch count.”

Rubén Navarro—also known as The Maravilla Kid—was then a contender for the world’s featherweight title. The Maravilla Kid became our sponsor. We were then known as the Maravilla Kid’s United Teen Pugs.

The Maravilla Kid would pay a visit every other week or so. He drove up in a classic 1930s motorcar, all stocked and shiny. He emerged in a long wool coat, silk shirts and fedora hat. A lot of the dudes lit up at the sight of him. Sometimes a blonde woman sat beside the Kid as he watched us work out.

One day, I sparred with this dude we called Left Brain. The Maravilla Kid looked at us for a while, then got up and stopped us.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

We didn’t have any words.

“Tell me, I want you to explain what you’re doing.”

“I’m trying to protect myself and wait for an opening,” Left Brain offered.

“Protect yourself?”

Then the Maravilla Kid threw a slap from his left side and smacked Left Brain solid on his cheek. Everybody else stopped what they were doing. Left Brain stood there, embarrassed and hurt.

“I didn’t see you protect yourself,” The Kid said. “This is what happens when somebody really hits you. I want you guys to go at it for real. Not this paddy-cake shit. When you’re in the ring, nobody is going to play paddy-cake with you.”

The Kid turned toward me, a look of disdain on his face.

“And you, I want you to go at him like he just spit on your mother.”

Whenever the Kid came, everything turned up a few notches. Sometimes Fuentes got frustrated. He had his own way of training. But the Kid wanted some trophies. He wanted our names to spell fear for the other amateur clubs. He wanted us to take the Golden Gloves and Olympic championships.

The competition between the various boxing clubs in and around L.A. was fierce, almost deadly. A lot rode on the boxing business for Chicanos. Fuentes argued long and hard with the Maravilla Kid about funds. We needed gloves, we needed bags, we needed so many things, but the Kid would only say “in time.”

Soon I came home with the whites of my eyes glazed in red because of broken blood vessels; bruises and welts on my nose, cheeks and mouth. After a heavy night of working out, I’d still work the next day at my Neighborhood Youth Corps job, all beat up and sore.

I had a few fights for trophies with clubs from East L.A., Pomona, Azusa, the L.A. Harbor and South Central L.A. They consisted of three torturous rounds. We put so much into each round, so many blows and energy, that most of us practically died of exhaustion by the end of a bout.

My skills weren’t very good. But I had what they called heart. I came to kill. I rushed up to my opponents and mowed them down. Not much of the sweet science, I must say. The Maravilla Kid didn’t mind, as long as I won fights.

Fuentes asked me to try for the Junior Olympics tournament. I had bulked up to middleweight. The dudes in this division were harder-hitting but not so big they weren’t able to move around and rouse up excitement. The competition proved stronger and better trained. Most of the boxers came from clubs with more money and prestige. The Maravilla Kid’s United Teen Pugs were like everybody’s sick stepchild. Because of our lack of resources, we had this added pressure to be better.

My big chance to make the top of the tournament came with a bout at the Lorena Street Gym in the basement of a church in East L.A. Fuentes worked to build up my confidence.

“This is your big break,” Fuentes said. “If anyone can make it, you can.”

In my enthusiasm, I invited my whole family to see me: My mother, my brother and sisters showed up for the match; the first time they had anything to do with me in months.

The place was packed with spectators. Clubs from all over L.A. came to box. Most of the clubs’ fighters consisted of blacks or Latinos, boxing for us being the proverbial way out.

Fuentes and his assistant, this old pro named Winky, who had slurred speech and the cartilage removed from his nose from being battered so many years ago, gathered the Teen Pugs in the back of the gym for a pep talk. I sat there along with the others—in maroon boxer shorts, shoes, a towel around my shoulders, and Winky going through the ritual of wrapping tape around my hands to protect them from getting broken.

“This is a big fight for you guys,” Fuentes said. “But I believe there’s no better fighters in the world than those sitting right here. You’ve trained hard, considering the conditions we have to work under. But remember the one who wins is the one with the most
jaspia.
If you guys don’t have this, I don’t know who does.”

Jaspia
meant hunger and Fuentes often yelled it at us from the corner to remind us of our motivation.

Hector Sorillo came in, late as usual, with the arms of a pretty, light-skinned Chicana named Delfina around his shoulders. The club’s best fighter and Steve’s former stable mate, Hector obtained most of the trophies and glory. I believed Fuentes hated him because Hector threw his weight around, but the Kid praised him to the gods.

“Hector, you’re looking too pretty,” Fuentes said. “This is a fight. Get your gear on. You’re good, but not that good.”

Delfina sat next to me while I waited my turn to enter the ring. She had on a going-out lavender dress which crinkled when she moved; her light-brown hair piled up nice around her flawless face. I sat there relaxed, gloves on hands and sweat dripping on my lap.

“How you doing, Louie?” Delfina asked. She never talked to me before.

“Not too bad—I got my family out there.”

“You nervous.”

“All the time. But Fuentes thinks I’m going to do good here.”

“What do you think?”

“I think I better think what Fuentes thinks.”

Our team went about half and half with losses and victories. Hector and Steve won their bouts, and even Left Brain managed a victory. But the other dudes were losing. There were some great teams out there. Winky then came in, gestured to me and said: “You’re next.”

I stepped up to the ring. People were sitting on fold-up chairs scattered throughout every corner of the gym. As I climbed the ring, I saw my mom at ringside, Joe and my sisters around her. I could tell she wasn’t enjoying herself. But she came out for me and I felt I had to win this one for her.

Fuentes climbed up with me. The referees gave both fighters the rules. The rounds were three-minutes long. We had on safety helmets and mouthpieces. The judges were officials of the Junior Olympics tournament. The winner of this bout would move up to the next level of tournament, leading to finals at the famous Olympic Auditorium in downtown L.A. As everybody left the ring area but the fighters and referee, I heard Fuentes say:
“¡Jaspia!”

The bell rang. My hands flew up. I rushed to the middle of the ring.
Aquí estoy—
come and get me! The other warrior came up to me. Despite the crowd’s yelling and the countless faces turned toward us, I never felt more alone with another human being than in a boxing ring.

We rattled each other with blows. I came at him the way I usually did, throwing fists from all directions. I pushed the dude around the ring. He tried to get out of the way of the onslaught, dipping and pivoting. I followed his movement by looking straight at his chest, to tell which direction his arms were coming from.

Whenever I entered a boxing ring, I became obsessed. I threw so many blows, most people couldn’t get out of the way. But this dude in front of me proved no sucker. He knew how to get away from many of the punches, gliding and slipping beneath my gloves. He threw only enough at me to keep himself in competition—a clever ruse. I needed to really box him, not just throw blows; otherwise I would find myself punched-out.

The first round ended. People were on their seats and clamoring for more. Fuentes gave me a smile and said: “You got him. He’s yours.”

I peeked over to my mother who just sat there, very still. My sisters whooped and hollered. My brother flashed a grin. I felt great. I must win; so many people depended on it.

The bell rang and I jumped up—ready for my last dance. I jabbed and jabbed.

“¡Pégale, pégale!”
somebody yelled from my corner.

But halfway through the round, my arms became impediments. The weight of the gloves brought my hands below my waist. I wanted to yell as I used every ounce of strength to keep them up, but this took away from my ability to hit. My opponent’s ruse worked: I tired.

There is no pain like being exhausted in the ring—except labor pains, but this explains what I mean. Professionals know this feeling in later rounds; it’s as close to dying as one can get while alive. Every blow opens up something inside, tearing at your resolve while tearing up skin.

The weight of my gloves became intolerable. Amateurs wore heavier gloves than professionals, weighing eight ounces, but in the ring they might as well be anvils. I heard
pégale, pégale,
but I just couldn’t. The dude in front of me backed up and jitterbugged. He threw clean shots—on my arms, my kidneys, through the safety helmet. I cringed with every blow I returned.
When is the bell going to ring?
Everything took forever. The hand motions, mouths and voices around me were all in an aggravating slow motion.
¡Jaspia, Jaspia!
I ducked and swayed. I backed up and felt a barrier of ropes push me back in.
Where the hell is this bell!