Boxing Cleans Up Its Image in County : Champion Drops By to Knock Out Fans

Suddenly, just after the evening’s fourth fight has gotten under way, the ring no longer is the center of attention. There is a huge commotion in the back of the crowd. Nearly all the 1,410 spectators shift their focus.

They have lost interest in Genaro Hernandez and Dino “Machine Gun” Ramirez, junior lightweights who must defer to their sport’s deity.

Muhammad Ali, who lives in Los Angeles, has arrived in the Grand Ballroom of the Irvine Marriott. And apparently, so has the sport of boxing.

Security people hover around him as though he was the President. Here, he is much more than that. They chant, “Ali, Ali, Ali” with the same fervor they would have 15 years ago.

During the fourth round, as Hernandez continues to pummel Ramirez, The Champion sluggishly makes his way toward ringside. Pestered by autograph seekers who shower him with typical adulation, he takes a seat several rows from the ropes.

He is here to see Robert Shannon, a super bantamweight from Edmonds, Wash., who fought in the 1984 Olympic Games. The 22-year-old Shannon is a friend of Ali’s. His is the next bout on tonight’s card, and he feels a deep sense of privilege that he has, as a member of his audience, the most renowned figure in boxing history.

“It’s great to have friends like Muhammad,” Shannon will say later, after he has won a split decision over Ralph Gutierrez.

“He’s comin’ on good,” Ali said. “With a little more experience, he could be a top contender.”

Just after the piped-in strains of Kool and the Gang die down and just before Shannon and Gutierrez take center stage, ring announcer Danny Valdivia introduces to the crowd 1956 Olympic heavyweight gold medalist Pete Rademacher. Controlled cheering greets Rademacher. He is dressed in casual attire and tonight, at least, never would have been recognized as a former champion.

Moments later, Ali steps into the ring to the accompaniment of a standing ovation. In a navy blazer, his appearance, which may or may not be deceptive, is one of good health. There is no denying that the good looks remain, though they are a few years removed from his glory days.

Playfully, he spars with Rademacher, then proceeds to steal the show. He displays his classic “Ali shuffle,” if only for a few seconds, but his point is made.

“Ali, Ali, Ali!”

His appearance this night had come as a complete surprise to those gathered in the nearly packed ballroom, and they were ecstatic.

“That’s a shot in the arm,” says Roy Englebrecht, marketing and event coordinator for Don Fraser Promotions, which is responsible for Irvine’s monthly boxing series. “It gives us credibility. All 1,500 will go home, and tomorrow there’ll be 10,000 people that will say they saw Muhammad Ali.”

Six rounds later, Shannon has raised his professional record to 5-0. Ali has seen what he has come to see. Unlike nearly everyone else in the ballroom, he has absolutely no desire to watch Huntington Beach welterweight Hedgemon Robertson fight Eddie Nuno in the first of two main events. He rises from his chair deliberately and slowly moves toward the exit, shaking an occasional hand that works its way through the throng of admirers, hangers-on and security guards.

In a makeshift dressing room usually reserved for corporate meetings, perhaps 15 people from Ali’s and Shannon’s congregations have assembled. The elation belongs to the young fighter, but the moment clearly belongs to Ali.

He is still the showman. Before speaking to anyone, he takes a pen and inscribes a message on the cloth draped over a table in the center of the room.

“Muhammad Ali--” it starts in impressive script. “After me there will never be another. June 24-85.” Underneath, he draws a smile face and a miniature boxing ring. Again, in irrefutable terms, he has made his point.

“These are mediocre fighters,” he says of tonight’s card. He relays his observations without contempt, but there is no doubt he was relatively unimpressed by what he saw.

“These are not top contenders,” mumbles an expressionless Ali.

The boxing awed Ali, 43, to a far lesser extent than he had awed the crowd. Now he returns the favor. He sounds sincere.

“I was surprised to see so many people,” he says. “It was a good fight crowd. They were enthused. They had good vibes.”

He is asked if the white-collar crowd made the atmosphere different from a typical boxing arena.

“Same atmosphere,” he stoically responds.

“Let’s have a nice hand for Rene Bonilla,” ring announcer Valdivia says at 8:12 p.m. The opening fight of the evening begins at 8:09 and is over two minutes and nine seconds later. Greg Puente of Alhambra has given Panama’s Bonilla a merciless welcome into the ranks of the professionals.

The crowd seemingly couldn’t care less. A few scattered cheers are of little consolation to the fallen Bonilla, who leaves the ring as fans leave the room for gin and tonics and white wine at $2.50 a glass.

The brass letters above the wood counter in the hotel hallway spell out the words BALLROOM REGISTRATION, but tonight the window has become a bar. A small blackboard lists the prices and alerts customers that beer and wine are available inside the ballroom.

“Everything is on the rocks,” says bartender John Greenawalt, 62. “It would be the same at a baseball game.”

But this is boxing. Low-class. Dirty. Drunkenness. Fights in the crowd as well as in the ring.

Not here.

Back inside, business begins to pick up at the concession stands. Smartly dressed hotel employees serve food from silver-plated chafing dishes that decorate a long table. Hot dogs are $2.50 apiece, pizza $2 a slice. Roast-beef sandwiches go for $5. Beer is selling for $2.50 a glass. On a separate table, packets of mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise and relish sit in neatly arranged bowls. Plenty of pickles and sauerkraut are there for the taking.

“People in Irvine like everything organized,” says Ed Proenza, the hotel’s director of marketing. “It’s a planned community.”

The ballroom is organized and planned to perfection. It hardly fits boxing’s traditionally grimy image, but that is the idea. It is an attempt to sell a sport that in the past has fallen on its face in Orange County. To avoid a similar fate, Proenza was perceptive enough to make potential fans comfortable, to place them in their own element and out of boxing’s.

Only two incidents in the five nights--both were fights--have tainted the image of perfection. But even those could not damage the reputation.

“A drop in the bucket,” says Jim Arvizu, the hotel’s director of security. “The atmosphere is very pleasant. It’s high-class people here to have fun.”

The atmosphere is more conservative than last summer’s Republican National Convention. Even the ropes surrounding the ring are red, white and blue. Elegant patterns are designed in the carpeting. The wallpaper fits right in, functional and restrained, with unassuming geometric shapes. There are intricate glass chandeliers that seem as big as the ring itself. For those with even the slightest doubt about their good looks, ornamental mirrors embellish the walls. A notice, signed by J.W. Marriott Jr., president, assures everyone that “Your safety and security are of the utmost concern to us . . . “

Remember, the Grand Ballroom is a boxing site only one night each month. When it isn’t used for banquets, corporate types convene there to talk business. The morning after the fights, the room will turn into eight smaller rooms as 17 meetings are scheduled.

But tonight they are selling boxing.

Outside the ballroom are smaller rooms, also used for business meetings. Tonight, they are dressing rooms. The Irvine Room is reserved for Robertson and David Gutierrez. The Berkeley Room is for Eddie Nuno and Westminster’s Georgie Garcia. The Anaheim Room is for the fight doctor. The dressing rooms contain no metal lockers nor smells of sweat--just brass light fixtures and pictures of flowers on the walls.

“It’s a plush atmosphere to have a fight in,” says Irvine photographer Greg Quaid, 35, who has been to all five shows, his first exposure to live boxing. “But I can’t get a cup of coffee. That’s my only complaint. I’ll give ‘em a buck a cup; I don’t care.”

Ten minutes later, Quaid returns to his third-row seat, smiling. He holds a saucer, on which rests a cup of piping hot coffee.

The attorneys in impeccable suits and their wives in luxurious dresses return to the ballroom with cocktails. Those more ordinarily dressed--in jeans and T-shirts--carry beer back to their seats. There is some variety in the people here, but not a great deal.

“It’s very ‘WASPy,’ ” promoter Don Fraser says. “It’s just the area. If you go to see an Anteater (UC Irvine) game, what are you gonna see? You’re gonna see palefaces.”

Fraser estimates the ethnic breakdown to be 90% white, 7% Latin and 3% black. But as the second fight begins, a common bond links them all.

“Get loose, Johnny!”

John Armijo, a middleweight from Huntington Beach, is ready for his third professional fight. His opponent in the four-round contest is Frank Martinez of Los Angeles. The crowd has made it clear who they favor.

But that status belongs to Armijo only temporarily. When the first round ends, he relinquishes it to Bryn Ryan, a model from Newport Beach who is one of tonight’s two ring-card girls.

She parades around the ring wearing a barely noticeable black, one-piece bathing suit. In her outstretched arms she carries a large yellow sign above her head that declares ‘2’ . As if any of the men in the ballroom really care what round it is after seeing her.

“Get ‘em, Johnny! Get ‘em in the kidneys!”

The fans shift their attention away from the ring-card girl and back to the fight. Armijo is on his way to a unanimous-decision victory. His undefeated record will remain intact.

The second round is over and Jennifer Miller climbs into the ring. She sports a bright blue, two-piece bikini, the top of which has only one strap. The men seem to like her just as much as they do her partner. The cheers are equally loud. It’s too close to call. A split decision.

“She’s a little too quick,” Englebrecht says to the other girl. “Slow it down a little bit. We have a whole minute, so take your time.”

At the end of the third round, after Bryn takes her place at ringside, an obviously well-off man with a tie, jacket and front-row seat, leans forward and says, “You girls need an agent.”

The girls, who are paid $50 to carry the cards after each round, turn slightly, smile with practiced politeness and ignore him.

“It’s just a fun way to spend an evening,” says Don Leigh, a 22-year-old warehouse supervisor who lives in Irvine. It is the first live fight he has seen, and he has brought his father, Mike, along with him. It is a late Father’s Day gift.

“I’m definitely gonna come back,” Don says.

The fights continue. San Diego welterweight David Gutierrez, possibly the finest boxer on this evening’s card, raises his record to 9-0 when Norman Gabourel of Los Angeles is unable to answer the call for the sixth and final round.

Though more people are interested in the presence of Ali, Genaro Hernandez is unfazed as he wins a unanimous decision over Dino Ramirez.

Then Shannon defeats Ralph Gutierrez, and local favorite Hedgemon Robertson delights the fans with a fourth-round knockout of Eddie Nuno.

Another local steps into the ring and the last fight of the night begins. Georgie Garcia, a bantamweight from Westminster, has about 100 friends in the crowd. The others are also rooting for him. His opponent, Tadashi Maruo, is from Tokyo and doesn’t have much of a following here.

“Last time he was very mad, ‘cause I didn’t make it,” says Pablo Calderon, a good friend of Garcia’s who missed the fighter’s first Irvine appearance. Calderon, 35, lives in Tustin but works in Irvine at Smith Tool Co., the same place Garcia used to work.

The ballroom erupts as Garcia knocks out Maruo with 2:59 gone in the final round. He has raised his record to 22-3-2. Outside, in the corridor, he celebrates with friends and family.

“I love boxing in Orange County,” he says. “The crowd is more peaceful. You don’t have to worry about walking up and down the aisle with the crowd hitting you. We get a better variety of people here. They can see something and appreciate it. And they can all come here with peace in their minds.”

Immediately after Garcia’s victory, the boxing atmosphere begins to disappear. Trash is picked up. Chairs are stacked. The ring is taken down. A large crew works through the night, preparing things for the first business meeting, scheduled for 7:30 a.m.

One-hundred tickets went unsold for Monday’s fights. It was the first time in five shows that the ballroom was not sold out. But it hardly mattered. The boxing was good. And Muhammad Ali was here.

And Monday night, July 22, was already penciled in on a lot of boxing fans’ calendars.