Hands of Stone - Christian Giudice [178]
In Chorrillo, I saw the sorrow sad, slow descent into the ground of former world champ Pedro “El Rockero” Alcazar, as thousands of fans said goodbye. I remember the surreal scene of his casket being first driven through the streets while a fellow boxer followed in a slow jog. Alcazar was twenty-two years old.
I remember walking into the Jesus Master Gomez Boxing Gym in Barrazza to see a trainer stitching back together the remnants of a boxing glove. The speed bag was wrapped in tape. The protective headgear was falling apart. In a Curundu Gym, the roof couldn’t contain rainwater from a storm and would flood often. The back bathroom was gutted and dirty. The locker rooms doubled as bathrooms. Yet, the fighters found solace in the disorder. Hope grew in small pockets of the gym, while the Government looked away.
In the Papi Mendez Gym in San Miguelito, boxer “Chemito” Moreno’s glove flapped in the wind as he pounded away at his trainer’s hand pads. His stablemate Ricardo Cordoba was busy lifting rusty weights, while preparing to spar in a ring that had potholes under the canvas. There was no running water and the electricity was about to be turned off. The wires were duct-taped together. Another stablemate, Pambele Ceballos, walked around with holes in his sneakers. Fighters slept in a bedroom in the gym. They never complained. Each one treated me like family.
The amateur boxing program barely stayed afloat. In fact, during an evening of bouts in the Rommel Fernandez Stadium, the fighters depended solely on handouts from parents and coaches for proper equipment and food. It didn’t change the mood of the evening, as the little kids belted away. The lack of security at fights was forever a concern, as anyone in the crowd could run up to the ring apron unopposed. In one instance, a mother ran into the ring to get avenge her knocked-out daughter, yet to many it only added to the collective chaos. That was Panama.
Trainer and close friend Celso Chavez Sr. passed away, but provided a presence and a smile for any kid who wanted to dedicate himself to the sport. Pedro Alcazar left too soon, and journalist Alfonso Castillo also died during this research. And as I look back, I will think of the fighters who knew there was no future, but who had to keep fighting to pay bills or support their families. There were those who were ravaged in the ring, yet returned out of necessity. This book was written for those fighters.
This journey would not have been possible without the unwavering help of friends, my entire family and the people of Panama. Without them, this would still be nothing more than an ambition. I can never forget the Panamanian people who took me in and supported me, a stranger. When I think of Panama, it was the legacy of Duran for which I searched, but I found the love of the Bravo family of Poppa Juan, Edilma “Mimma”, Romellin, Itzel and the rest of the family who introduced me to patacones in Sabana Grande.
I would not have completed this biography without the support and lifelong friendship of Carlos Gonzalez. It is essential that he knows how much he means to me. It would take me years to properly thank Greg, my best friend, for his devotion to this book, and endless one-on-one games. Amy and Ali always supported me, and I love you for it. Tair was my heart and soul throughout. Nora Davila gave me advice, platanos and Barillito rum. Ildemaro and Munchi gave me life in Panama, and educated me on the baseball rivalry between Chitre and Chiriqui. Hector Villareal, Ludo Saenz, Fredy Moreno, Celso Chavez Jr. and his wife were always there for a meal or to steer me the right way. Guarare resident and friend Daniel Peres led me to places I never would have reached, and gave me somewhere to stay. Every Panamanian taxi driver kept me entertained