San Francisco has
long been a boxing town with a long list of world-class talent having graced
this coastal gem, plying the toughest of trades for large crowds and giant
purses. “It wasn’t just a hub of boxing. It was THE hub of boxing,” said late boxing
historian Bert Sugar to The Ring editor Michael Rosenthal regarding the rich history of San Francisco and boxing
( craveonline.com/blog/123725).
Starting most notably with the man Rosenthal aptly calls “the modern father of
scientific boxing” James J. Corbett and ebbing significantly with the fall of
Newman’s Gym in the early-‘90s, San Francisco has seen the peak and the valley
of boxing.
Famous lawman Wyatt
Earp refereed the December 2, 1896 heavyweight title fight between “Sailor” Tom
Sharkey and Bob Fitzsimmons here in San Francisco to allegedly dubious effect.
He was later exonerated in court:
At 312 Leavenworth Street,
in what is known as the Tenderloin, Newman’s Gym opened in 1924 when Billy
Newman leased the dining room of the Cadillac Hotel on Eddy and Leavenworth
Streets. His brother, Herman, would later buy him out. For 60 years, the gym would
house champions like Jack Dempsey (the former heavyweight champ met his manager,
Jack Kearns, in San Francisco), Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano and George Foreman.
Famous photographer of musicians Jim Marshall shot Miles
Davis sitting in a Newman’s corner in 1971 ( webarks.tumblr.com/post/473759936/).
The jazz great’s boxing ties are chronicled by author Bill Scherer here: http://suite101.com/article/.
Davis’ soundtrack for Bill Cayton’s documentary about Jack Johnson, “Breaking
Barriers,” is considered by some critics to be his last great work. If I’m
Willie Nelson (the boxer, not the “Red-Headed Stranger”), I come out to this
every time:
This clip is from a local newscast from August 16, 1974
of George Foreman working out at Newman’s Gym “as a champion” two months out
from his loss to Muhammad Ali in Kinshasa, Zaire. https://diva.sfsu.edu/collections/sfbatv/bundles/190440.
Ali also trained at Newman’s after he came back from the
Olympics. One story said Newman helped Ali when he returned from the Olympics
after Ali ran out of money at the airport. Years later, on July 2, 1967, the
young champion would give a talk at Muhammad’s Mosque No. 26 on Fillmore Street
shortly after getting stripped of his title for refusing to be drafted into the
armed services to go fight in Vietnam.
This first clip is a newsreel from that day:
The second is more of a raw clip introduced by a local
film historian:
As boxing moved to Las Vegas casinos and the regional
fight game died in the ‘80s and ‘90s, San Francisco’s hold on boxing, like the
rest of the country’s, slipped away.
Fifteen years after Newman’s closed its doors, another
gym, Straight Forward Boxing, opened up in the Tenderloin but it appears to
have also closed in recent years. What is left beyond The City’s always
prolific choices of martial arts, (Bruce Lee’s Jeet Kune Do was born in nearby
Oakland, CA and Jiu Jitsu gyms abound) are white-collar boxing gyms that offer
clean facilities but lack the grit and hard-earned lessons of a real boxing
gym. The choice is clear: head into SF’s Mission District for the one gritty,
pro boxing gym available, World Class Boxing.
In searching for a new boxing gym to call home, I also
needed to know where the hub of professional activity was located. On this side
of the Bay, this is apparently the spot.
The Mission is a colorful neighborhood. I wouldn’t
attribute a particular race to it. It’s poor. That’s just about anywhere these
days. This particular stretch on Mission, heading north toward the teens, is
one you don’t want to be tuning out on your iPod in. My second day to the gym,
I was strolling in the early afternoon sun when a homeless cross-gender fight
broke out. This ageless woman was beating the holy hell out of a guy who
apparently hassled her for some reason over her sunglasses. It’s one of those
moments when you wonder if you should call the cops until the woman lands a
nice right hand and the guy capitulates by bowing his head and offering her his
unopened two-liter bottle of soda.
Yeah. I’d found the right spot.
Located in the Mission District, World Class Boxing is a
storefront gym. You enter and to the right, mounted on the wall, is a large TV
playing classic fights that generally end in knockouts. This is definitely a
gym in the hometown of Barry Bonds. At the far end of the room, beyond the
standard-sized and sturdy gym, is the bathroom and shower. To your right at the
door is the counter, the hub of all activity in a boxing gym. Under the TV
begins a row of various weights. Nothing too heavy. Some medicine balls and a
speed bag face a wide-open floor and wall-length mirror for jump rope and
shadowboxing. Beyond that, just before the ring are two rows of three heavy bags
on each side of the room. The set-up is perfect to work the bag and circle it.
Unlike in some gyms, each bag features room to maneuver about it.
In L.A. gyms, the standard is that pros train from 10
a.m. to 1p.m. Here, where pros are also holding down blue-collar jobs, the pros
come out after five. This is not the hub of fight activity SoCal is. This is
NorCal, where a few gems lurk here and there and the “elite” label is reserved
for only one fighter: super middleweight champion Andre Ward. Hailing from
Oakland, his reign seems far away from this room.
My first day there is around 3:00 in the afternoon. It’s
just me, a portly Mexican guy in his mid-30s working the bag in the back, the
counter man, Atta and Frankie Moore, a former fighter now training here at the
gym. It’s quiet. No one is looking to steal a prospect or climb any particular
ladder. Just me, Frankie and Atta watching Ali lure Foreman into the ropes.
My second day there, Friday, I went a little later. I
finished up around six and as I did, a young trainer brought two students into
the ring. Each might have been Hispanic. It was hard to tell. It didn’t matter.
Both were about 12 but the taller one, a tan kid with dark hair, seemed to have
just had a growth spurt. While he had size on the blondish, shorter kid, he was
a little awkward. The balance was off; he was unsure of what to do.
The game was simple.
Shoot the jab; block the jab. Step in; step out. Hit; don’t get hit. Jab and
block. They went with the shorter kid sliding in and popping the jab, blocking
and moving out and doing it again. The older kid clowned a moment then nearly
got popped for it. He smiled and then had it taken off him. Then he forgot how
the rhythm went. And the blonde kid didn’t.
A round later, they
were free-forming, staying in control but not adhering to an agreed pattern.
The older kid discovered how to win the game by charging forward and jabbing
hard. The little kid adjusted but I could see the fighter with the confidence of
knowing he was a few steps ahead in the game was now a little kid who
understood the rules, learning how to adjust them toward his ultimate goal of
victory.
A year ago (even a
few weeks ago), I was watching world-class fighters spar up close in any of the
best gyms in the world I wanted to be in. I was located in the hub of fight
activity for this part of the world if not all of it. Now I stand in a seedling
of a gym in the shadows of what was once “THE hub of boxing,” learning so much
from watching where it all began in this little corner of the world.
You
can email Gabriel at maxgmontoya@gmail.com,
follow him on Twitter at www.twitter.com/gabriel_montoya and catch him every Monday on “The Next Round” with Steve Kim, now at its
new home, www.blogtalkradio.com/thenextround.
You can also tune in to hear him and co-host David Duenez live on the
BlogTalk radio show Leave-It-In-The-Ring.com, Thursdays at 5-8
p.m., PST.
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