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Tilting at Windmills by Alan Swyer Following a Latino Scholarship benefit screening of
his new boxing documentary, Ed Sachs was midway through the Q&A when
he was taken by surprise. Instead of wondering who Ed thought was the
best fighter of all time, or the greatest Mexican, or what Oscar de
la Hoya was really like, a young woman in a Cesar Chavez t-shirt asked
something far more intriguing. "In your opinion," she began, "what's
the saddest thing about boxing?"
"Great question," Ed stated. "I'd say it's that boxers fight their way off the street, only to wind up back there once their careers are over." As a hush fell over the audience, Ed spoke again. "Fortunately, there are exceptions. Oscar comes to mind. Sugar Ray Leonard. Floyd Mayweather. George Foreman, especially because of his grills. And likely Canelo Alvarez as well. But I can't help but think of Jose "Mantequilla" Napoles in Mexico, Wilfredo Benitez in Puerto Rico, Bobby Chacon here in L.A., and far too many others."
After fifteen minutes of shaking hands and posing for selfies, Ed was finally headed toward his car when someone called his name. "Great film!" Billy Leonard, an ex-fighter-turned-boxing-historian, stated while approaching. "And what you said is on the money. What can be done to make things better?" "In one word? Pensions." Billy Leonard pondered for a moment, then nodded. "Abso-fucking-lutely! Can we grab lunch one day and talk about that?"
At a Thai restaurant the following Tuesday, when Billy Leonard asked why boxing didn't look after its own, Ed offered an answer. Unlike baseball, basketball, or football, he explained, in boxing it's every man for himself. Plus it's poverty-motivated, which is why kids in Beverly Hills don't dream of becoming a boxer. You play basketball, baseball, or tennis, but you don't play boxing--you fight. On top of that, boxing requires early entry, which leaves little chance for worldliness or an education. You're up running at dawn, then in the gym until you're too exhausted to do much of anything else. Worse, because of hunger, few people in the sport are willing or able to take a long view. Managers, trainers, promoters, and above all the fighters, want--and more importantly need--to make as much money as soon as possible. Worst of all, since it no longer gets the same kind of attention as it did in the days of Joe Louis or Muhammad Ali, boxing has become a niche sport, dominated in the ring--and in the stands--by people who are not a priority to most politicians: Latinos, Eastern Europeans, a few Asians, and a dwindling number of Blacks. "What can we do to help?" demanded Billy Leonard. "We?" responded Ed. "The two of us together. Can't tell me you don't care." "Sure, I care. But I'm just a filmmaker," said Ed, choosing not to mention his accomplishments as an activist. "But don't you want to help?" Ed hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "So how," said Billy, "should we start?" "Even before speaking to lawyers or brokers." replied Ed, "what we probably need is a figurehead." "A what?" "A champ--or a recent ex-champ--who carries weight not just as a boxer, but as a human being." "I know guys from the old days," said Billy. "But from all the interviews you did, you probably know people from today. Anybody make sense?" "Let me think."
To his agent, his lawyer, and others familiar with Ed's previous films, which dealt with criminal justice, Eastern spirituality, and the diabetes epidemic, it came as a shock when he embarked on a film about boxing. What they didn't know was that boxing had long been part of his life. Growing up in a blue-collar New Jersey town, for self-protection he began boxing at the Police Athletic League, where he was mentored by a middleweight contender named Gene "Ace" Armstrong. Later, living in a room in Paris with only a shared bathtub down the hall, he joined the University Boxing Team, entitling him to a swim and a shower six days a week. Through those experiences, Ed learned that despite its violent nature, a boxing gym is one of the friendliest places on earth, with anyone entering or leaving taking the time to shake hands with everyone there. As a bonus, in a world where far too many people are bland, the boxing scene--fighters past and present, trainers, cut men, managers, promoters, and even historians--had scores of characters who wouldn't be out of place in a Damon Runyon story. Consequently, Ed wound up staying in touch with more of the interviewees from his boxing film than from all his previous documentaries put together. Ultimately, it was a welterweight named Emilio Estrada that Ed chose to approach, and not only because he bright and personable. "Excelente"as he was known--the same way that Ricardo Lopez was "Finito," Israel Vazquez was "Magnifico," and Fernando Vargas "Feroz"--was a charismatic champion whose career came to an abrupt halt due to a detached retina.
Two mornings later, Ed Sachs and Billy Leonard watched Estrada give pointers to a young bantamweight at the Azteca Gym in Bell, California. Once the session was over, they accompanied him to a quiet spot outside. In a mixture of English and Spanish, the three discussed Estrada's situation, which he acknowledged was troubling not just medically, but also financially, since he had hoped for at least a couple of serious paydays before retiring. When Ed and Billy brought up their notion of creating a pension plan for boxers, Estrada frowned. "Where were you when I was starting?" he lamented, adding that he wished he'd planned for his retirement from the beginning, not realizing it could end prematurely. "Can we tell people you endorse the plan?" Ed asked. "Endorse it?" responded Estrada. "Tell 'em I fucking love it!" As he and Billy approached their cars, Ed smiled. "That's our poster child."
Buoyed by Estrada's involvement, Ed and Billy reached out to others on an ad hoc basis, since each had responsibilities owing to a day job. Ed had to pick his spots while prepping a new film examining the once-thriving Blues scene in Houston that yielded Big Mama Thornton, Lightnin' Hopkins, Clifton Chenier, and Bobby "Blue" Bland. Billy, who was a gaffer, doing lighting on sitcoms, similarly was booked except on weekends and occasional days off. Despite the frustrations due to scheduling, the two of them made progress. Boxers past and present expressed interest in the idea: first Willie Hernandez and Flaco Miranda, then Prentiss Brooks, Borys Shevchenko, and Akio Tanaka. Next, they set their sights on cut men: Joey Almonte, Pete Diaz, and Omar Stokely. Then some local trainers: Alberto Concepcion, Gus Tranovich, Antonio Escobar, and Arkadi Petrov. Though some were tentative, each acknowledged it was needed, with over half of them immediately coming on-board. Convinced that he and Billy were on the right path, Ed Sachs was about to reach out to attorneys he knew when a call came from one of the top boxing promoters. He and Billy weren't requested to come in for a meeting with Jeff Aarons. They were summoned.
"Who the fuck are you to start stirring things up?" demanded Aarons when Ed and Billy met him at the Wild Card Gym in Hollywood. "Two guys who care," replied Ed. "You don't think my fighters are looked after?" "Do you?" responded Ed. "Hell, yeah!" "Well, they don't," stated Ed. "And neither do we," added Billy.
Another important promoter--Rashad Parker--was even less hospitable when Ed and Billy were called to his Beverly Hills office. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" Parker snarled. "Two guys boxing needs," answered Ed. "Not my goddamn fighters," protested the promoter. "That's not what they say," countered Billy. "Bullshit! My people are taken care of." "Just one big happy family?" countered Ed ironically. "Bet your ass!" hissed Parker. "And the last thing they need is for two motherfucking nobodies to fuck with their heads!"
"Nobodies?" joked Billy Leonard as he and Ed walked toward the parking lot. "What do you make of that?" "They're rattled," said Ed. "Which means?" "We're doing something right."
Undaunted when the first lawyer Ed and Billy met with suggested that their goal was too idealistic, they persisted. The second attorney considered it worthy, but too uphill, which meant that he would insist on a significant retainer. Unwilling to give up, the men took a meeting with someone who seemed a long shot until they learned that her father had been a regular at the old Olympic Auditorium. As an homage to his love of boxing, Diane Zamora was even willing to do the initial work pro bono. Her first contribution was to put Ed and Billy in touch with folks at two different companies focusing on pension planning. Though Ed's time was getting short with a trip to Houston looming, he squeezed in sessions with both firms, with the understanding that he and Billy would speak long distance so as to make a choice. Then off Ed flew for the initial interviews for his new film. First was Jewel Brown, who sang for years with Louis Armstrong. Next, saxophonist Grady Gaines, then guitarist Milton Hopkins, members of the Upsetters, who once upon a time backed up Little Richard, Little Willie John, then Sam Cooke. All the while Ed was receiving texts from Billy, informing him that Jeff Aarons and Rashad Parker had joined forces to torpedo their efforts. Willie Hernandez and Omar Stokely were the first to say they were having doubts, followed by Prentiss Brooks, then Borys Shevchenko. "They're telling everybody that we're scammers hustling for a payday," Billy reported. "So that we can buy the Lakers? Or private planes?" "They're threatening to withhold fights." "Sadly," said Ed, "there's not a thing I can do until I'm back."
Instead of sleeping that night, Ed tossed and turned. Rather than going over the questions he'd ask during the next day's interviews--about Gatemouth Brown, Katie Webster, Lightnin' Hopkins, plus the impact of desegregation--boxing was on his mind. The last thing he needed was a new mission in life, or an additional form of expression. All that was covered in his documentaries. Nominally about the sport, his boxing film was a means of addressing race, language, culture, economics, and the immigrant experience, as well as the action in the ring. His diabetes film dealt with science and medicine, but also with income and medical inequality. Similarly, his Houston film, as he envisioned it, would be about far more than music. Though boxing was in Ed's blood, he understood far too well all that was wrong with it. Too often the best fighters never got a chance at a title. In contrast, so-so fighters with the right connections could suddenly rise in the rankings. Most pernicious of all, judges decisions too often ranged from questionable to what he considered to be highway robbery. There was no way Ed could possibly fix everything. So why, he found himself wondering, was he tilting at windmills? Not that he didn't have a history of fighting uphill battles for seemingly lost causes. When, a few years before, he decided to initiate a Los Angeles County Teen Court, where first-time juvenile offenders could face a jury of their peers, Ed was told he was dreaming... nuts... even a masochist. Yet through dogged persistence, he persuaded the Chief Probation Officer, the Presiding Judge of Juvenile, the LA County Bar Association, and finally the County Board of Supervisors, with the result that many kids had gotten a second chance. Then there was his quest to save youth baseball in Compton, which resulted in getting at-risk kids off the streets and onto the playing fields. It wasn't as though Ed viewed himself as heroic or brave. Nor did he have the financial security that such efforts usually demanded. Documentaries paid significantly less than other forms of filmmaking. On top of that was uncertainty. He had gone close to a year without a paycheck between his criminal justice film and the one about Eastern spirituality, then even longer before getting funding to address the diabetes epidemic. Still, even if Ed and Billy Leonard couldn't begin to fix everything that was wrong with boxing, at least they were trying to remedy the most poignant aspect: that year after year fighters wound up destitute, their condition compounded by pugilistic dementia or Parkinson's. Though a part of Ed was tempted to throw in the towel, it wasn't in his nature to walk away from a fight. As the first rays of dawn pierced his Houston motel window, he made a vow not to give up.
"More defections?" Ed asked when Billy picked him up at the Los Angeles airport three days later. Billy nodded glumly. "Including Estrada." "They got to him?" "Bet your ass." "Let's go to the Azteca," insisted Ed. "Now?" "Now."
While working with another young fighter, Emilio Estrada winced at the sight of Ed and Billy entering the gym. Once it was time for a break, he approached. "Lo siento," he said to them softly. "I'm sorry." "You're entitled," Ed responded. "But tell us why." Estrada shrugged, then explained that he was offered a bout for a fee he couldn't afford to refuse. "What about your eye?" Billy asked. "It'll be okay." "From what I remember when a middleweight named Sandy Stephens fought with a detached retina, it wouldn't take a shot from a contender to cost you your eye. A slap from Tina could do it." "Who's Tina?" asked Estrada. "My girlfriend, who weighs 100 pounds soaking wet." Estrada's only answer was a sigh. "I don't know who paid off the medical examiner," he went on. "But if I had that job, no fucking way I'd sanction the fight." "Me neither," added Billy, who started unhappily for the exit.
Trying to put his disappointment behind me, Ed flew back to Texas with his film crew. First stop was Austin, where he interviewed Marcia Ball and a couple of other musicians. Then Houston, where the interviewees included C.J. Chenier, plus historians, D.J.'s, and a couple of female singers. On a Friday evening, after several long and demanding days of filming, he got a call from Billy Leonard. "Gonna watch the Estrada fight tomorrow?" "To be able to say 'I told you so'? Not a chance." "Me, neither."
Three weeks later, back in Southern California and driving to the editing room, Ed was surprised by a call from Emilio Estrada. Could he and Billy be free the next morning to meet for breakfast? When Ed and Billy reached Boyle Heights and stepped into La Carreta, "Excelente" was seated at a corner table with a patch over his left eye and a contrite look on his face. "Say it," said Estrada sadly, as they approached. "Say what?" asked Billy. "Was the fight worth it?" murmured the boxer. "No possibility of saving your eye?" asked Ed. Estrada shook his head. "So why are we here, other than to eat huevos rancheros?" asked Ed. "Is it too late for me to help?" "What about Aarons?" asked Ed. "And Parker?" added Billy. "Hijos des putas!" Estrada exclaimed. "Gotta warn you," said Ed. "They won't like it, and it'll be an uphill battle." "Soy boxeador," answered Estrada. "I don't want anybody to make the same kind of dumb mistakes as me. If you guys are willing, vamanos!" Ed studied Estrada for a moment, then shook his hand, as did Billy. If that meant they'd be tilting at windmills, all three of them were ready, willing, and able to fight for what they knew to be important and right.
Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel The Beard was recently published by Harvard Square Editions. His most recent film is When Houston Had The Blues. |
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