Somebody Up There Likes Him, and So Do Many Down Here

It almost seemed too hokey to be true. Something out of a 1930 Warner Bros. movie. A made-to-order script for Mickey Rooney and Spencer Tracy. A three-handkerchief picture. The street kid and the tough but kindhearted cop. Nine reels of tears and smiles. Boffo box office. It would make “The Champ” look like a taut psychological thriller.

It even had a smash finish. The Olympics themselves. A windup worthy of Rocky IV. Oscar stuff.

The cast, in the order of their appearance, was poor but honest: Paul Gonzales, a son of the barrio, a big-eyed kid in a hurry to be a crime statistic, well on his way to becoming just another playground pool of blood, and Al Stankie, LAPD, ex-vice cop, ex-pug, now on juvenile detail breaking up gang rumbles, always on the lookout for a new golden boy to come out of the ghetto and on to the fame and fortune of the prize ring.

As the scene opens, our hero, the cop, has our hero, one of the littlest gang members, in an armlock, trying to take him out of the middle of a mini-war in the projects, where bottles and rocks and boards fly through the air.

It’s a mismatch. Officer Stankie, all 180 pounds of him, has this little outlaw, all 65 pounds of him, in a bear hug and chokehold, but it’s like trying to stuff a wildcat into a wallet.

It’s a clear case of police brutality. What 10-year-old Paul Gonzales is doing to the police is brutal. He’s kicking, biting, punching and spitting. For a guy who’s giving away 100 pounds, a foot in height and a lot of reach, he’s leading on points. He is making the fight all the way. All Stankie can do is hang on.

In spite of himself, Patrolman Stankie is impressed. He has had 31 fights in the ring but here this, well, baby, of all things, is raising lumps where No. 2 contenders couldn’t.

“Listen, kid,” he pants. “If you can do this in a ring, I could make you champ. Why don’t you come down to the Hollenbeck division gym?”

The kid looks at him as if Stankie quit two fights too late. The last place Paul Gonzales wants to be is a police station. Leo (Spit) Gorcey never told a cop off with more vehemence and hate. “The look he gave me, you could have chopped trees with,” Stankie said.

The kid doesn’t want to do his fighting in a ring. An alley is more down his line. He doesn’t want to mess around with a referee and the Marquess of Queensberry. Tire chains and irons are more his style.

He’s in the right place for that. The violence escalates as we cut to the kid’s street life. One day, near the Pecan Park war zone he frequents, a passing car empties a shotgun blast at the back of his head. He’s lucky they can dig them out.

Against all odds, he survives. Then, one day, when he is all of 15 years old, he sees his cousin get killed right in front of his eyes, not five feet from his home. A knife all but severs his head.

The kid goes crazy. He runs into the house, crying, looking for a weapon, any weapon. All he can find is an umbrella. He goes after the killer with that. Fortunately, he can’t catch him.

It is at this point that he notices the brave street warriors he looks up to. They are standing around, picking their teeth, enjoying the fight, pretending it’s none of their business.

Paul Gonzales is shocked, then disgusted. The streets are full of fake tough guys.

He decides he is through. He presents himself at the gym. “OK,” he tells Al Stankie. “Who do you want me to knock out?”

The film cuts now to the cliche montage shot. Paulie Gonzales winning the AAU, Paulie winning the Golden Gloves 10 times in a row, Paulie beating the Russian 1980 Olympic gold medal winner, Paulie beating the Cuban champion.

Finally, there is the scene in a gym where he spars with the reigning light-flyweight champion of the world, Hilario Zapata. It’s hard to tell who’s the champ. It’s a toe-to-toe rumble. Zapata is in the shape of his life. He wins his title match in the Cow Palace in San Francisco, and he tells the press: “That kid down in the gym in Los Angeles got me ready for this fight. He was tougher than this guy.”

Every flick needs second-act conflict. Gonzales provides it. Although the public doesn’t know it, he busts his right hand and hurts his elbow beating the Soviet before the Olympics.

He keeps it a secret. He even tries acupuncture. It doesn’t work.

He wins the Olympic gold medal and gets voted the best fighter of the Games one-handed. His right hand won’t even open mail.

OK, that’s a wrap. Fade out, cut and print. We got picture! Right? Sneak it in Santa Barbara.

But that’s only the Perils of Paul, Part I. The sequel starts to shoot Aug. 11, the first anniversary of his Olympic triumph.

On that day, at the Hollywood Palladium in the afternoon, our hero will make his professional debut on a card featuring two other Olympic heroes, Henry Tillman and Frank Tate.

This picture has a chance to end up like an Italian import, after all. CBS, which will televise the show, is insisting on casting it, too. Instead of the obligatory palooka fall-easy for his first opponent, Gonzales gets a 35-fight veteran spoiler named Jose (Pulga) Torres.

We could get one of those endings where everybody goes home crying.

Jack Warner would fire the director, throw away the script, suspend the cameraman and tell them to reshoot the whole thing and end it with the American flag waving and a John Philip Sousa march sounding in the background.

Get a stuntman for the Pulga Torres part and get him a bottle of ketchup to break over his head. I mean, if we want people to cry, we’ll cut onions. Pictures are for cheering. If worse comes to worse, put in a dog.