Glitter and Grit : Fight Night at Forum: Tinseltown Meets Fist City

Campeon talks fast and from the throat.

“Boxing is beautiful,” says Campeon (Spanish for champion ), a nickname that has stuck to Victor Suarez years after he last put on a pair of gloves.

He boxed in Cuba, Panama and Puerto Rico as a youth, he says. He came to New York from Havana in 1947 and moved to Los Angeles in 1971.

On this night at the Forum in Inglewood, he carries a small camera. A homemade business card typed in Spanish identifies him as a photographer for all occasions.

Campeon, one of the regular aficionados who attend Forum Championship Boxing, says the best fighter he has ever seen is Sugar Ray Robinson; “Ali, so-so”; Ray Leonard, “not bad.”

He defends the sport passionately against criticism that it is too violent. Raising dark and ancient hands in a defensive pose, Campeon says: “The boxer who just wants to kill is a dummy. It’s an art. Dar y que no te den . (‘Hit and don’t get hit.’)”

“We want every show to be an event,” says Hank Groschadl, publicity director of Forum Championship Boxing. “Not just two guys lacing up gloves.”

By the end of 1987, the Forum will have staged 19 fight nights with an average attendance of about 4,500. The main attractions are tournaments, sponsored by Stroh’s beer, that have become a breeding ground for potential champions, Groschadl says. Next Tuesday, for example, Tony Willis and Ramzi Hassan will fight for the U.S. Boxing Assn. light heavyweight title.

Since they began four years ago, the fight cards have not drawn as many fans to the Forum as organizers had hoped. But the matches get a sizable broadcast audience on Prime Ticket Network, a cable channel serving Southern California, Nevada, Arizona and Hawaii. According to Groschadl, Forum owner Jerry Buss wants to continue offering quality fights to expand the small but dedicated following.

“It’s a fraternity,” Groschadl says--a fraternity that embodies the diverse elements of boxing. With a mix of grit and glitter, Forum boxing is a celebration of the culture as well as the sport.

On fight night, Hollywood meets Inglewood.

The former champion of the world weighs 118 pounds.

His name is Albert Davila. He is 33 years old, an aging man of the ring with the body of a lethal child. He has fought five times for the bantamweight championship and lost four times. He wants one more shot at regaining the title before he retires.

Davila holds court in his locker room. He has six handlers wearing blue jackets with his name on the back.

There is also a two-man camera crew on hand. Mickey Rourke, the actor, wants a videotape to study Davila’s preparations for tonight’s match against Juan (Dinamita) Estrada of Tijuana. Rourke will play a boxer in “Homeboy,” a movie to be filmed in New Jersey.

Rourke drops in. He is bearded and talkative. He leans against a wall, making conversation with the ex-champ. Davila sits on a stool in his trunks, head back, smiling briefly.

Rourke leaves after a while. The video camera whirs as Davila proceeds to a small room filled with men and smoke. The brief medical checkup is conducted by a doctor with big forearms who looks like a former pro wrestler.

He takes Davila’s blood pressure and asks him how he feels. He says he feels good.

“OK, Albert,” the doctor says, pounding his shoulder. “Good luck.”

Ringside seats cost $40. They are often occupied by Sylvester Stallone, Rourke, ex-heavyweight champion and actor Ken Norton, and a host of other show business names and faces. There is also a supporting cast of people who look comfortable and vaguely familiar.

Ringside fashions tend toward padded shoulders, sleek warm-up suits, deep tans, miniskirts, leather and gold.

Whether or not they sit at ringside, season ticket holders belong to the Ringsider Club. Benefits include entry to the Forum Club bar, raffles and Ringsider Club jackets.

Fight night also draws a mosaic of boxers, ex-boxers, would-be boxers, promoters, managers, philosophers. This in-crowd gravitates toward the floor areas behind the ringside seats. The language is a mix of English and Spanish, gym and street.

The cheapest seats go for $7.50. Since attendance is sparse and the atmosphere relaxed, persistent fans work their way down closer to the ring as the night progresses.

Welterweight Luis Santana lies on his back on a dressing table. Sitting near him is a 19-year-old featherweight from Brea named Uri Galvan, who looks slightly overwhelmed.

Galvan will fight in a preliminary bout for about $300. After expenses and a manager’s cut, he will end up with about $75.

Galvan is talking in Spanish to Santana, who is from the Dominican Republic, about the night’s schedule. Santana studies the ceiling and answers in monosyllables. He stands to make $7,500--before the others get their cuts--if he wins the tournament semifinal tonight, $5,000 if he loses.

Santana curls to a sitting position. His meditation is over. His hair is close-shaved at the sides and sculpted into a cowl of curls along the top. He has a steady glare, chin down, eyebrows raised. The mask is in place for the evening.

Next door, Santana’s opponent in the welterweight tournament semifinal is Derrick (Hurricane) Kelly, whose shaved head evokes images of Marvelous Marvin Hagler. He dances and throws easy punches, ignoring the traffic of handlers, officials and hangers-on who circulate in and out.

A radio plays dance music. There is an out-of-town Lakers game on television. Once the matches begin, the fighters can watch the ring action on television as they wait.

Rourke’s cameraman tracks Davila amid a phalanx walking down a long hallway. They stop at a curtain covering the entrance to the arena, waiting for their cue.

Davila is in constant motion, rolling his shoulders, kicking out his feet. He faces the curtain, his eyes focused beyond the moment.

The preliminaries have gone fast. Galvan went down in the second round. Quincy (Three-Minute) Hinnant of Inglewood lasted less than three minutes against Tosond Jewell, a rangy puncher from the Hoover Street War Zone gym in Los Angeles.

“ Suerte, “ someone says, wishing Davila luck.

Davila nods; the curtain is swept aside; the entourage surges forward.

Three rounds later, Dinamita Estrada appears determined to thwart Davila’s hopes for a title shot. He has opened a cut above Davila’s left eye, the same cut that cost Davila the championship against Frankie Duarte in June.

The veteran holds his own, but among the partisan cheers for Davila one fan shouts the suggestion that he retire.

Then the fight is stopped. Davila has been the victim of an unintentional head-butt, the referee rules, forcing an immediate decision. Score cards are tallied and Davila is declared the winner.

As the bloodied Davila reaches the tunnel to the dressing rooms, a little boy darts in front of him and shakes his hand. “Way to go, Davila, campeon. “

When Estrada exits, the same boy reappears and grabs his hand.

“ Te robaron la pelea, vato, “ the boy says. (“They stole the fight from you, home boy.”)

Women move with especial delicacy at the fights--particularly the high-fashion women who descend carefully on high heels to the ringside seats, often to the accompaniment of vocal appraisals by the crowd. The voyeurism is institutionalized by the Miss Ringsider Ring Girl competition.

There are six Ring Girls each fight night. They perform a time-honored function: Between rounds, they parade once around the ring in a bathing suit holding aloft a sign that indicates what round it is. Appreciation for this information is expressed by whistling, cheering, clapping, howling and stomping.

Ringsider Club members then cast ballots for their favorite, and the night’s winner advances to the next phase of the competition.

Barbara Lee Belmonte describes herself as an actress-model who has appeared on television shows “Falcon Crest,” “Dallas” and “Houston Knights.” As a Miss Ringsider finalist, she has already won $1,000, a trip to Hawaii and a modeling photo session.

“The girls keep it clean,” Belmonte says. “Class wins.”

Recalling her thoughts about entering the contest, she says: “I didn’t know what I’d be doing exactly. I thought it was like being some kind of hostess. Then I realized what it was. I was a little nervous, but I had a couple of glasses of wine and got up there.”

Belmonte says she met her agent and other movie-industry notables at fight nights.

“I kind of like boxing now,” she says. “What I didn’t like was when I put my hand on the rope to get into the ring and there was blood on it.”

The Kelly-Santana bout, which Kelly ultimately wins, is the battle of the evening. Kelly has power and a swarming style. Santana has superior reach and abundant rage. He goes down twice under Kelly’s barrages, but gets right back up and retaliates.

Both fighters have earned the respect of Troy Washington, a retired Navy corpsman based at the El Toro base in Santa Ana. He is accompanied by several Marine buddies, one of whom favors Santana and periodically leans over to taunt Washington: “Where’s my five dollars, Jack? Get ready to give up my five dollars.”

“This guy’s a Marine,” Washington says. “Marines and sailors been fighting each other for over 200 years.”

Washington says he won a statewide Navy boxing championship while stationed in Alaska years ago.

“I’d never get in the ring again,” he says. “You’ve got to be committed. It’s about money, being taken care of, connections. This is a great fight right here.”

The Kelly-Santana war crescendoes into the final round. The spectators are thundering and on their feet at the bell. In honor of the fighters’ efforts, coins are thrown into the ring, a shower of shining trails through the lights and smoke.

“Gladiators, man,” Washington says, dropping back into his seat. “Gladiators.”