The morning light came in at a slant. September 1961, downtown Los Angeles. A small gym on Pico Boulevard, three blocks east of the freeway. The kind of gym that did not have a sign worth looking at. The handpainted lettering above the wooden door said Spozosito’s Boxing Gym. The paint was 40 years old.
The door was older. You opened it and you smelled the place before you saw it. Sweat, leather, linament. The smell of hard work that does not belong to anyone but the man doing it. Inside the gym was one long room. The ceiling was high. There was a single industrial window mounted near the top of the back wall, and at this hour of the morning, it sent long diagonal shafts of dusty light across the wooden floor.
The exposed brick walls were painted in places and peeling in others. The floorboards had been worn down to a soft polish by 60 years of footwork. Heavy bags hung from steel chains along one wall. Three speed bags were mounted on wooden platforms. A faded American flag was pinned to a brick pillar. Framed black and white photographs of dead fighters lined the wall behind the front desk.
The desk was a small wooden table with a leatherbound register and a chipped white coffee mug full of pencils. The man behind the desk was named Sal Esposito. S was 71 years old. He was a thin, wiry man, 5’7, with a full head of white hair combed neatly back and the deep wrinkles of a face that had been in this gym for a long time.
He was wearing a plain white t-shirt under dark suspenders. He had a stopwatch hanging from a cord around his neck. He had owned the gym since 1939. He had been a featherweight himself in the 1920s. He had fought 28 times professionally and won 18 of them. He had bought the gym with the money he saved from a fight he had lost in Detroit in 1934.
He had run it ever since. S had seen many things walk through the door. He had seen champions and he had seen wash outs. He had seen old men come in to sweat out their drinking. He had seen young men come in with shoulders too narrow for the sport and leave with shoulders too narrow but with something else.
He had seen Friday night brawls and Sunday morning prayers. He had seen in 1947 a young Mexican-American kid named Hector walk in off the street and ask if he could clean the gym in exchange for being allowed to train. Hector Vasquez had been 28 years old in 1947. He had grown up in East LA. He had been working in his uncle’s auto shop.
He had a temper that frightened people. He had a right hand that frightened them more. He had cleaned Sales Espazito’s gym for two years. He had trained at night after the cleaning was done. By 1949, he was fighting professionally. By 1953, he was ranked. By 1956, he was the number five ranked heavyweight contender in the world.
In June 1957, he had stepped into the ring at the Olympic Auditorium against Floyd Patterson, who had just won the heavyweight championship of the world from Archie Moore. Patterson had outpointed him over 12 rounds. The decision had been correct. Vasquez had landed maybe one good right hand in the entire fight.
Patterson’s hand speed had been like nothing he had ever seen. Vasquez had started drinking that night. He had not stopped for 4 years. By September 1961, Vasquez was 42 years old. He had not fought professionally since 1958. He had come back to Espositos the year before, hatin hand, and asked S for work.
S had given him a job training the young fighters. Vasquez was good at it when he was sober. He was bad at it when he wasn’t. S kept him because S believed in second chances. And because Vasquez, on his good days, could see things in young fighters that no other trainer in Los Angeles could see. But Vasquez had bad days.
He had bad days because he could not stop thinking about Patterson. He could not stop thinking about what his life would have been if he had landed three more punches on the night of June 14th, 1957. He could not stop thinking about the world, heavyweight championship of the world. He could not stop thinking about the way the men in the gym looked at him now.
The way they looked at the photograph on the wall behind Sal’s desk. The photograph of the 1957 fight. The photograph of Vasquez with his hands raised in a in stance that had not been good enough. He carried this with him every day. Some days he carried it well. Other days he didn’t. September 11th, 1961 was one of those other days.
That morning, Vasquez had come to work hung over. He had opened the gym at 6:00. He had made coffee. He had been short with the first three fighters who came in. By 8, he was in the ring working with a young middleweight named Ronaldo Chavez, who was 22 years old and who had a fight coming up in October at the Olympic.
Vasquez was holding focus mits. He was shouting more than he needed to. Chavez was patient with him. Chavez had been patient with him for 3 months. At 9:00, the door opened. A man walked in. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, older, maybe early 50s. He was wearing a plain light tan long-sleeve work shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark wool trousers, a leather belt, plain brown leather work boots.
He was holding the door open with his right hand. He was looking around the gym with steady, curious eyes. The morning light from outside backlit him for a moment. He stepped in. The door swung shut behind him with the small bell at the top jangling once. Sal Esposito looked up from the register. Sal had been in the boxing world for 57 years.
He had met four heavyweight champions. He had trained two ranked contenders. He had refereed golden gloves in three states. He had seen famous men walk into his gym before. He had never seen this man walk into his gym before. S’s pencil stopped moving over the page. He felt the back of his neck go cold and warm at the same time.
He set the pencil down very carefully. Mr. Wayne, the man in the doorway looked at him. He smiled the small, quiet smile that Sal had seen on movie screens since 1939. Morning. How you doing? I am. I’m fine, Mr. Wayne. I am fine. Howard Hawks said you’d take care of me. He said you were the only honest man in this part of town.
That is That is kind of him to say. Wayne walked across the wooden floor toward the front desk. The fighters in the gym noticed him as he came. The young fighter at the heavy bag stopped punching. The bag swung on its chain. The rope skipper slowed and let the rope fall still. The shadow boxer turned his head.
The older trainer in the white t-shirt lowered his focus mitts. The gym had been full of the sound of work. It was now full of the sound of stopped work, which is louder. Wayne reached the desk. He set his hat on the wooden top. He held out his right hand. John Wayne Sal es Esposito. Mr. Wayne, I have.
I’ve known who you are since 1939. That long? Since stage coach. I saw it three times that year. My wife and I. It was It was a thing for us. Glad to hear it, S. I was a kid then. So was the picture. You were a kid then. You’re still a kid now, Mr. Wayne. By me. By me. You’re still a kid. Wayne laughed. It was a quiet laugh.
He looked around the gym. Sell, I’ll tell you why I’m here. My Curtis is directing a picture I’m in. The Comancheros. We’ve got a fight scene at the end. Mike says my throwing of a punch looks like an old grandfather throwing a sock at a cat. He says he’s tired of having to hide it with editing.
He told me to find a real boxing gym and a real coach and learn how to throw a punch that looks real. So, here I am, Mr. Wayne. You You came to the right place. Howard said you would say that. He said you have a man here who used to be ranked. Hector Vasquez. Sal’s expression shifted. Something passed through his eyes. Hector? Yes, he is.
He is in the ring there. Hector is. Hector is having a hard morning, Mr. Wayne. Maybe today is not the right day. Hard morning? How? In hard morning. The way men who used to be something have hard mornings. Ah, Wayne understood it then. He had seen it before. He had seen it in old soldiers. He had seen it in old actors who could not get work.
He had seen it in his own face in the mirror sometimes. S if today is not the right day. I will come back tomorrow. Maybe that is best. Mr. Wayne, maybe. All right. Tomorrow, Mr. Wayne. Yes, S. He has not seen you yet. He is not. He is not looking. If you go back out the way you came in, he will not. He will not have to know.
Why does that matter, S? S. looked down at his pencil. He picked it up. He set it down again because he is he is in a place. He is in a place where he might where he might. S did not finish the sentence. Wayne understood that too. He nodded slowly. He picked up his hat. He turned toward the door, but it was already too late.
In the ring, Hector Vasquez had finished a combination on Rinaldo Chavez’s gloves. He had stepped back. He had looked across the gym to call for water. He had seen what was happening at the front desk. He had seen the tall older man in the workshirt. He had not recognized him. Vasquez was many things, but he was not a man who watched movies.
He had not watched a movie in 11 years. He had stopped going to the cinema in 1950, the year his first wife had left him. He did not own a television. He did not read magazines. He knew the names of fighters. and he knew the names of his children. And he knew the names of the men he drank with on Friday nights, and that was the extent of the names he carried.
He saw a tall older man in plain workclo talking to S at the front desk. He saw S looking up at the man with widened eyes. He saw the Jim had gone quiet and he felt something in his chest that he had been feeling on and off for four years. The heat. The wrong heat. The heat that came from nowhere and belonged to nothing and that was looking for a place to go.
He raised his voice across the gym. Sell. Sell looked up. Sell. Who is the abuelo? The Spanish word for grandfather. The word he used when he wanted to make something small. Ronaldo Chavez in the ring with him said quietly. Hector. No, Hermano. Vasquez did not look at Chavez. He kept his eyes on the man at the desk.
S, I asked you a question. Who is the grandfather? S’s face had gone very still. He set his pencil down carefully. This is Hector. This is a guest of the gym. He is. He is here for a private appointment. Private appointment? Vasquez laughed. It was not a happy laugh. We do private appointments now. We are a country club.
We are taking grandfathers in for tea. Hector, I am. I am asking you please sell the grandfather is in our gym. He is our guest. You said so I am. I am being a host. The man at the desk turned. He had been about to leave. He stopped. He turned back. He looked across the gym at the man in the ring.
He looked at him for a long moment. Then he set his hat back on the desk. Son, he said. The word came out the way it would come out from a man who had not raised his voice since 1953 and did not need to raise it now. My name is John Wayne. The gym was silent. Ronaldo Chavez in the ring let his gloves fall to his sides.
The young fighter at the heavy bag took one step backward. The rope skipper did not move. The shadow boxer’s mouth was open. Hector Vasquez stood in the center of the ring with his wrapped hands on his hips. He looked at the man who had just spoken. He looked at the work shirt. He looked at the dark trousers.
He looked at the leather boots. He looked at the way the man stood. He looked at the way the man’s shoulders sat. Something in Vasquez’s face changed. Then deliberately it changed back. He smiled. John Wayne the actor. Yes. You came to my gym. Sal’s gym. The same. It is not the same. It is Cell’s gym.
Vasquez laughed again. The wrong laugh. All right, Mr. Movie Star. You came to Sal’s gym to do what? To learn from you, son. Howard Hawks told me you were the best heavyweight teacher in Los Angeles. I came to learn how to throw a punch from me. From you. You came to the heavyweight contender to learn how to throw a movie punch.
I came to the man Howard Hawks recommended. Vasquez nodded slowly. He walked across the ring. He stopped at the rope nearest the front desk. He leaned over the top rope, both wrapped hands gripping it, and he looked down across the gym at Wayne. Mr. Wayne, yes. You have made how many movies? I don’t keep count. A hundred.
Something like that. And in how many of them does John Wayne lose a fight? A few. A few. So in most of them, John Wayne wins. And John Wayne is the man who wins. John Wayne is the toughest man in every saloon, every bar, every street corner in the West. Yes. Those are pictures, son. Pictures. Sigh pictures.
And in the pictures, the man you knock down is also a picture. He is a stuntman. He is a small actor. He is a man Howard Hawks pays $100 to fall down. He is not a real man. He is a picture. That’s right. So, you have spent 30 years pretending to be a fighter, Mr. Wayne. And now you come into my gym at 54 years old and you ask me to make your pretending look better.
That is yes that is what I am asking. Vasquez was smiling now. The full smile. The bad one. Mr. Wayne, I will tell you something. I do not teach pretending. I teach fighting. I teach men how to break other men’s noses. I teach men how to take a hook to the liver and stay on their feet. I teach men how to die a little in the third round and come back alive in the fifth. That is what I teach.
So, I think you are I think you are at the wrong gym. I think you should go to Hollywood. I think you should find a man who used to be a stunt man. I think you should pay him to teach you how to to pretend better. All right, son. All right, what? All right, I’ll go. Wayne turned toward the door. Said, Mr. Wayne, I am.
I’m very sorry. Please, please come back tomorrow. I will. I will train you myself. S, it’s all right. It is not all right. It is, Mr. Wayne S. I know what’s happening here. It is all right. He is having a hard morning. I’m not going to take it from him. Vasquez heard that. Vasquez heard the older man, the man who Howard Hawks had sent.
The man he had just embarrassed in front of the gym. Talk about him as if he were a child having a tantrum. Talk about him with kindness. Talk about him without anger. It would have been better if Wayne had been angry. It would have been better if Wayne had shouted back. It would have been better if Wayne had said anything that gave Vasquez something to push against.
Instead, Wayne had said he is having a hard morning. I’m not going to take it from him. And Vasquez felt it land in his chest exactly where he could not. If to have anything land, he came down off the rope. He came around the side of the ring. He climbed down and walked across the gym floor toward the front desk.
His bare feet made no sound on the wood. The fighters around the gym went quiet in a different way than they had been quiet before. This was the quiet that came before fights. This was the quiet that the gym knew. This was the quiet you heard before you heard glass break. Vasquez stopped about 6 ft from Wayne. You said something.
Wayne turned. He looked at the larger man. I did, son. You said I was having a hard morning. I did say that. You said it like you understood. I think I do understand, son. A little. You don’t understand anything. That may be true. You have spent your life being John Wayne. You have spent your life with people calling you Mr.
Wayne and clapping for you and writing your name on theater mares. You don’t know what a hard morning is. You don’t know what it is to be ranked number five in the world and to lose to a man whose hands you cannot see and to wake up the next day being nothing. That is a hard morning. That is what a hard morning is.
You don’t understand that. I might know a little about that. Son, you don’t. Son, what? Son, get back in the ring. The gym went still. Sal Espazito put both his hands on the wooden desk. His knuckles were white. Mr. Wayne, no, Mr. Wayne, please. S, it’s all right. It is not all right, Mr. Wayne. He is.
He is. He has hands like rocks. He is 20 years younger than you. He weighs He weighs 100 pounds more than you, Mr. Wayne. Please, S. Yes, Mr. Wayne. I appreciate your concern. I do. But this man and I are about to have a conversation, and we are going to have it in your ring. Because that is the only place a conversation like this can be had. Vasquez’s smile was gone.
You want to fight me? No, son. I do not want to fight you. Then what? I want to give you what you are asking for. I’m not asking for anything. You are. You have been asking for it since I walked in the door. You are asking for someone to come and stand in front of you and let you hit them. You think it will fix it.
It will not fix it. But you are not going to listen to me say that. You are going to have to find that out for yourself. So get back in the ring, son. I’m going to let you find it out. Vasquez looked at the older man for a long time. Then he turned. He walked back across the gym floor toward the ring.
He climbed through the ropes. He stood in the center of the canvas. He started loosening his shoulders. Wayne looked at S. He took off his work shirt. He folded it once. He set it on top of his hat on the desk. Underneath he was wearing a plain white undershirt. He rolled his shoulders.
He walked across the gym floor in his trousers and undershirt and leather work boots. He climbed through the ropes. He stood in the center of the ring opposite Vasquez. He did not put up his hands. He stood with his arms relaxed at his sides. Vasquez raised his fists. He took the classic boxing stance.
Right hand forward, left hand at the chin, weight on the balls of his feet. Wayne, put your hands up. No, son. Put your hands up. I’m not going to hit a man with his hands down. You will if you want to hit me, son. Because I am not going to put them up. Vasquez stood there with his fists raised. He looked at the older man across the canvas.
He looked at the work boots. He looked at the white undershirt. He looked at the broad shoulders that were broad for an old man, but that were 30 years past their prime. He stepped forward. He threw a jab. A short, fast left jab, the kind of jab you throw to test a man’s distance. The kind of jab a heavyweight contender had thrown 10,000 times. A Wayne did not move.
The jab passed within an inch of his nose. The gym held its breath. Vasquez stepped back. Wayne Madre Dios move. Throw the right, son. What? Throw the right. The big one. The straight right. The one you used to throw at Patterson. Throw it hard, Wayne. Throw it, son. Vasquez looked at him.
Then something in Vasquez snapped. the small last thread that had been holding him in any kind of place that morning. And he stepped forward and twisted his hips and drove his right fist forward with everything he had. The full weight of his 270 lb. The full speed of a man who had been ranked number five in the world four years before.
The full bad heat of four years of drinking and grief and loss going down his arm into his fist and out his fist toward John Wayne’s face. It was the best punch Hector Vasquez had thrown since June 14th, 1957. It did not land. What happened next was witnessed by 12 people. Their accounts varied in detail. They agreed on the basic facts.
Wayne’s head turned a/4 in to the right. His left shoulder lifted maybe an inch. The wrapped fist passed within a hair of his cheekbone. In the same motion, his left hand came up. It did not strike. It caught the inside of Vasquez’s right wrist just past the wrap. His right hand came across his body.
It did not strike either. It caught the back of Vasquez’s right elbow, the soft place where the joint hinges. He stepped his left foot forward. He let Vasquez’s own forward momentum. The full weight of 270 lbs in motion carry the larger man past him. It looked to the witnesses like a man helping a friend down a staircase.
Vasquez went down. He did not go down hard. Wayne lowered him. The big heavy weight hit the canvas on his side and rolled onto his back. His face was up. His eyes were open. He was looking at the ceiling. He was breathing in short, shocked breaths. The right hand had passed Wayne by about an inch.
The fall had taken less than a second. The whole exchange from Vasquez stepping forward to Vasquez on his back. It had been about 2 seconds. Wayne stood over him. He did not raise his hands. He did not say anything. He looked down at the man on the canvas. Then slowly he knelt. He went down on one knee beside Vasquez.
He set his right hand on the canvas to balance himself. He looked at the bigger man. Hector. Vasquez’s eyes moved. They focused on Wayne’s face. Hector. Listen to me, son. Vasquez did not say anything. Hector, the fight you lost in 1957, you did not lose it because you were not good enough.
You lost it because Floyd Patterson on that night was the fastest heavyweight who has ever lived. There was no man in the world who would have beaten him on that night. Not Marciano in his prime, not Lewis in his prime, not Dempsey in his prime, nobody. He was that fast. You stood in there with him for 12 rounds.
You went the distance with the heavyweight champion of the world. There were 10 million men in this country that night and only one of them could have done what you did. You were that one. So when you wake up tomorrow morning, son, I want you to remember that. I want you to wake up and I want you to remember that you went 12 rounds with Floyd Patterson.
And I want you to remember that the next 30 years of your life do not have to be punishment for that. They can be the rest of your life. You are 42 years old. You have You have a lot of time. You can train these boys. You can be Sal Espazito for the next 30 years. You can You can do that. I’m telling you, you can do that. Vasquez’s eyes were wet.
He did not say anything for a long time. The gym was completely quiet. Sales Espazito was standing at the front desk with his right hand pressed against his mouth. Finally, Vasquez spoke. Mr. Wayne. Yes, son. How did you How did you do that? Do what? That what you just did to me? With my right hand. How? Wayne smiled.
The small smile. Son, I have been making movies since 1926. I have been in 500 fight scenes. Yakima Kut taught me how to make a punch look real. He also taught me how to keep a real one off my face. Because in the early days, when the cameras weren’t quite right, sometimes the other man’s punch was real.
So, I learned I learned a long time ago. I just don’t ever use it because there is no point in using it. Most men, you let them throw the punch and they don’t connect. And then they go away and they think about what they did. That is enough. That is usually enough. You let me throw. I let you throw because you needed to throw, son.
You have been throwing that punch in your head for 4 years. I let you throw it for real. Vasquez closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the tears were running down the sides of his face into his hair. He raised his right wrapped hand slowly. He extended it toward Wayne. “Help me up, Mr. Wayne.
” Wayne took the wrapped hand. He bowled. Vasquez came up. The two men stood in the center of the ring. Vasquez was a head taller. Vasquez was 100 pounds heavier. Vasquez was bare-chested and tattooed and 20 years younger. Vasquez bowed his head. He bowed it deep. The gym did not applaud. The gym did not breathe.
Sal esposito at the front desk lowered his hand from his mouth. He took off his glasses. He cleaned them slowly on the front of his white t-shirt. He put them back on. He turned away from the ring. He walked into his small office at the back of the gym. He closed the door behind him. The men in the gym heard very faintly the sound of an old man crying.
They did not look at each other. They did not say anything. They went back to their stations. They went back to work. The heavy bag fighter started again on his bag. The rope skipper picked up his rope. The shadow boxer turned back to the mirror. The young middleweight Ronaldo Chavez climbed into the ring. He stood at the corner. He waited.
In the center of the ring, John Wayne and Hector Vasquez talked quietly for about 10 minutes. Nobody heard what they said. When they were done, Vasquez nodded. Wayne nodded back. They climbed out of the ring together. Wayne walked to the front desk. He picked up his work shirt. He put it back on. He buttoned it. He rolled the sleeves to his elbows.
He picked up his hat. He looked towards Cell’s office door. He waited a moment. He set his hat back down. He walked to the door. He knocked once quietly. S. There was a pause. Yes, Mr. Wayne. I will see you tomorrow morning. 8:00 if that’s all right. Another pause. Yes, Mr. Wayne. Hector is going to coach me.
A longer pause. Yes, Mr. Wayne. Thank you, S. Wayne walked back to the desk. He picked up his hat. He set it on his head. He walked out the wooden door of Espazito’s boxing gym at 9:45 in the morning on September 11th, 1961. The bell jangled once above him. The door closed behind him. The next morning, Wayne came back at 8:00.
He came back the morning after that. He came back every weekday morning for 6 weeks. Hector Vasquez coached him. Vasquez did not drink during those six weeks. He came in at 6. He made the coffee. He worked with the young fighters. At 8, he worked with Wayne. Wayne paid him $40 an hour, which was a lot of money in 1961 for a coaching session.
And Vasquez took the money because Wayne would not let him refuse it. By the end of the six weeks, and Wayne could throw a punch on camera that did not look like an old grandfather throwing a sock at a head of the Comancheros came out in November 1961, the fight scene at the end of the picture was the uh best fight scene Wayne had ever done.
The trade papers commented on it. One reviewer said Wayne had aged into a kind of physical authority that he had never quite shown before. Another reviewer said the climactic fight was directed and acted with a realism unusual for the genre. Mike Curtis, the director, gave Wayne a small wrapped present at the rap party.
It was a framed photograph. The photograph showed Wayne and Curtis on set. Curtis had written on the back to the Duke who finally learned how to hit a man. Better late than never. Wayne kept the photograph in his office until he died. Hector Vasquez did not stop drinking after that. He drank again.
He fell off and got back on. Fell off and got back on for the rest of his life. But he did stay sober more days than not. He coached at Espazito for the next 43 years. He trained two welterweight champions and a middleweight ranked number three in the world. He developed a reputation as the best technical heavyweight coach on the west coast.
Young fighters came from as far as Texas and Oregon to train with him. He never told anyone about the morning of September 11th, 1961. Sal Espazito did not tell either. S died in 1979 in his sleep at the age of 89. S had told his wife once. His wife told nobody. She is also dead now. Ronaldo Chavez, the young middleweight who had been in the ring with Vasquez that morning, told one person.
He told his trainer 20 years later on a long drive back from a fight in Las Vegas. The trainer told nobody. The trainer is also dead now. The other 10 witnesses in the gym that morning kept it. Some of them knew who Wayne was. Some of them, like Vasquez, hadn’t known until they heard the name.
All of them knew that what they had seen was something that did not belong to them and that telling it would be a kind of theft. So the story stayed in the gym. It stayed in the gym for 43 years. In 2004, Hector Vasquez died. He was 85 years old. Heart failure. He died in the small house in East LA where he had lived for 50 years.
His son, Hectovasquez Jr., who was 38 years old at the time, was the one who cleaned out the house. He spent two weeks doing it. There was a lot of stuff. His father had been a man who kept things in a metal toolbox in the back of his father’s closet. Beneath some folded boxing trunks and a faded championship belt, Hector Jr.
found a small cassette tape. The tape was unlabeled. Hector Jr. took the tape home. He put it in an old realtore recorder he had inherited from his uncle. He pressed play. The voice on the tape was his father’s. The recording was dated in a handwritten note that had fallen out of the toolbox to October of 1981. Vasquez would have been 62 years old when he made it.
The recording was 23 minutes long. On it, Vasquez told the story of September 11th, 1961. He told it from beginning to end. He named names. He described the scene. He repeated as best he could remember them the words that had been said in the ring. At the end of the recording, his father’s voice said, “I am making this recording because my friend S will not let me tell this story while he is alive, and I will not tell it while he is alive. He asked me not to.
So, I am putting it on this tape, and I am leaving it in the box. And someday when both of them are gone and I am gone, my son will find this and he will decide what to do with it. Migo, if you are listening to this, I want you to know that I would not be talking to you right now if it were not for that man.
I would have killed myself in 1962. I had it planned. I had the day picked. The reason I did not is that he came to my gym in 1961. He gave me the next 40 years of my life. They have not all been good years, but they have been mine. And every day of them is because of him. So if you find this tape, Miho, you are listening to a recording made by a man who would not have existed without John Wayne.
That is what you need to know. Whatever you do with this recording is up to you. But that is what you need to know. Hector Jr. listened to the tape three times. He cried. He thought about it for two months. In December 2004, he took the tape to a journalist named Marcus Reyes at the Los Angeles Times.
Reyes was writing a series on East LA boxing history. Hector Jr. gave him the tape on the condition that he be allowed to read the article before publication and on the further condition that no detail be invented or embellished. Reyes wrote the article. It ran on Sunday, January 16th, 2005 on the front page of the calendar section.
It was titled The Morning A Heavyweight Met the Duke. It included a transcript of the most important parts of the tape. It included photographs of the gym, which had been closed since 1989, and which was at the time of the article being torn down to make way for a strip mall. The article spread. It got picked up by the wires.
It ran in newspapers across the country. The boxing community responded with quiet appreciation. The Wayne community responded with the kind of response they had been responding with for decades, which was that they had always known there was more to him than the pictures showed.
The tape itself is now in the boxing hall of fame in Kanto, New York. It is in a small glass case. Beside it is a single index card written in Hector Vasquez Jr.’s his handwriting. The card says, “He came to my father’s gym to learn how to throw a punch. He left having taught my father how to live the next 40 years.
The kindness was not the punch he didn’t throw.” The kindness was the words he said while my father was on his back. That is the kind of man the Duke was. That is the only kind of man worth remembering. The site where Espazito’s boxing gym used to stand is now a CVS pharmacy. There is no plaque. There is no marker.
The shafts of dusty morning light that came through the high industrial window do not exist anymore. The wooden floor that was worn down by 60 years of footwork has been replaced by polished tile. But sometimes late on a quiet morning, an old man in East Los Angeles will be walking down Pico Boulevard. He will pass the CVS.
He will stop. He will look at the ground for a moment. He will think about a morning a long time ago. He will think about a smell of leather and sweat. He will think about a tall older man in a work shirt who walked him through a wooden door at 9:00 and changed something that did not have a name.
He will not say anything he will walk on. That is how this works. That is the only way it works. September 11th, 1961. Esposito’s boxing gym, Pico Boulevard. A 64 heavyweight with bad mornings. Invive seven Italian gym owner who carried it for 18 years. a 22-year-old middleweight who carried it for 20 more and a 54 year old man in plain workclo who walked into learn how to throw a punch and walked out having taught a washup how to live.
There is no debt. There is just the doing. That is the lesson. That is the whole lesson.
