Hopefuls Keep on Punching : It’s Hard to KO Dreams of Fame at Boxing Club

Andy Warhol said anyone could be famous for 15 minutes, but fame was much more fleeting for Robert (Black Magic) Smith, a junior welterweight with bridled talent and expansive dreams.

Smith’s moment in the spotlight lasted one round--three minutes--inside a smoky Tijuana arena, where he had a world contender on the ropes for 180 seconds. But Smith--who hails from Denver and has been in San Diego only a few months--will have those first three minutes to talk about for the rest of his life.

From the second round on, it seemed that Smith was fighting a different opponent, and less than 10 minutes after the first round ended, Smith’s corner sent a white towel flying into the ring.

Remembers It Like Last Week

Smith, 25, who says he sports a 5-5-2 professional record, was recounting his star-crossed moment with destiny the other day at the Fifth Avenue Boxing Club downtown. He remembers the contest, which took place earlier this year, like it was last week. He was up against Felipe Fuente, who was ranked No. 10 at the time.

To hear Smith tell it, Fuente was reeling on the ropes throughout the first round, but the Mexican fighter adjusted quickly, and midway into the second round Smith could see the blurred handwriting on the wall.

“I almost knocked him out in the first round . . . . All the guys I’ve ever hit couldn’t stand the punch. But I can never follow through,” he said.

But Smith attributes the loss to his violation of one of boxing’s most inveterate “rules.”

Two hours before the fight, he said, he was in a Tijuana hotel room, enjoying a

passionate session of blissful sex.

“I was wasted before the fight began. I’ve screwed up a lot of my fights by getting drunk and high and by, well . . . . We almost had him. We had him beat. We came close, huh Poppa?” said Smith as his manager and trainer, Joe Lopez, walked by.

“Close only counts in horseshoes,” said a disgusted Lopez, who kept on walking into the gym.

Dozens of Robert Smiths

Lopez, who is well-known in West Coast boxing circles, has seen dozens of Robert Smiths during his 25 years on the San Diego fight scene. He has seen guys walk through the door of his boxing club, in the gut of the Gaslamp Quarter, whose abundance of talent was undermined by a lack of dedication.

The postage stamp-size gym, which is tucked away in a downtown area that is being revitalized with chic restaurants and artists’ lofts, comes to life at 5 p.m. weekdays. About 15 to 20 fighters and would-be fighters spar and go through their daily workouts, observed by curious passers-by who crowd the doorway to peek inside.

More than half the gym is taken up by the ring, which is usually crowded with fighters shadowboxing and bouncing off the ropes between sparring sessions. In the background, the rat-tat-tat of the speed bag ricocheting off its backboard and the rhythm of feet skipping rope vibrate throughout the ancient, high-ceilinged brick building.

Creaky hardwood floors covered by layers of paint groan as the fighters, moving in a constant circle, pound the heavy bags that dangle from the ceiling. Yellowing posters announce dozens of matches from yesteryear, and the smell of sweat and leather help give the place its pungent identity.

Virtually every man and boy who walks through the door of Lopez’s gym is convinced he has what it takes to become a world champion. Such dreams are as common as the sweat on a boxer’s face, and, Lopez sighs, recitals of them are as monotonous as the staccato of the speed bag.

Nevertheless, dreams permeate the gym like the odor of sweat and leather that wafts through the open door to the street. Most of the 12 professionals and 20 amateurs in Lopez’s stable are destined to remain club fighters, but there is always the hope that one of them will be a world contender, an honest-to-goodness meal ticket.

‘I Guess We’re All Dreamers’

“Every fighter I’ve worked with has told me that he’s gonna be world champ,” Lopez said. “I also get guys who tell me: ‘Look at my record. I’ve fought this guy and that guy.’ They’re dreamers. But I guess we’re all dreamers. I also dream of handling a world champ one of these days . . . . I may have a world champ here. You never know.”

Lopez managed a contender once. Almost two decades ago, his ex-son-in-law, Mike Mayon, was ranked as high as No. 5 in the lightweight division. Mayon, who still works out at Lopez’s gym, is a legend in San Diego boxing circles. He was what promoters and matchmakers call a crowd pleaser, a hard hitter who didn’t stop punching until he’d knocked out the other guy or was knocked out himself.

Lopez, who is also an accomplished cut man (a person whose sole assignment during a fight is to take care of cuts to the fighter’s face), has worked some big fights in his time. He was in Ken Norton’s corner March 31, 1973, when Norton broke Muhammed Ali’s jaw in the first round and won a 12-round split decision.

Today, Jorge (The Beast) Rivera, a junior welterweight from Mexicali, is Lopez’s top prospect.

Rivera, 23, has a record of 11-3 with nine knockouts and is a no-nonsense fighter who trains religiously. He was a last-minute substitute when he traveled to Fresno last month to knock out in eight rounds Steve Gutierrez, who was touted as a contender for the state crown.

Rivera is the subject of another of Lopez’s “what if” stories. Lopez wonders how high he and Rivera might be flying today if it weren’t for Lopez’s girlfriend’s teeth.

Let Loose With a Left

Rivera’s career suffered a temporary setback about five years ago, when he argued with the girlfriend over the use of a clothes dryer at Lopez’s home. The woman, who was also a boxer, refused to give in to Rivera, and The Beast, a southpaw, let loose with a left cross.

The woman staggered but didn’t fall. One of her front teeth was knocked out, and the other was dangling when Lopez arrived to mediate the dispute. Rivera’s ego suffered when the woman taunted him for failing to knock her out.

But the worst was yet to come. Rivera’s left hand was injured in the punch and later required surgery, forcing him to go on the disabled list for awhile. The hand hurts him to this day and swells after every fight and workout.

As if to remind Lopez and Rivera of the perils of pugilism, photos of Lopez’s girlfriend, featuring a tremendous gap where her teeth used to be, are included in a glass case by the door that is full of pictures and other boxing mementos. The smiling young woman, a former professional boxer, is shown posing with legends such as Archie Moore and Ali.

Among the dreamers and fighters who train every day at Lopez’s gym is Jerry Rodgers, who is a combination of both. Rodgers, a weight lifter whose bulky build looks as if it must have been carved by a Greek sculptor, has his sights aimed at the heavyweight crown. His aspirations are not dimmed by the fact that he has yet to make his professional debut and that, at 24, he is rather old to embark on a pro career.

However, Walt Esmailian, Rodgers’ fast-talking manager, sees dollar signs radiating from Rodgers’ 275-pound body, which contains less than 3% fat.

“What do you want?” he asks his behemoth enthusiastically.

“I want the world,” answers Rodgers, who began training about a month ago and had his first sparring session last week. After three rounds of sparring, it was clear that a lot of time and patience will be needed before Rodgers is skilled enough to get in the ring with heavyweight champion Mike Tyson.

The other fighters in the gym snicker at Rodgers’ “Cadillac body” and limited talent, made more pronounced by his awkward moves.

“We’re gonna prove the whole world wrong. . . . He’s gonna be the strongest person to ever get in the ring,” Esmailian said. “The man’s got a brilliant future. It’s gonna take the right people. That’s why we’ve got Joe here to help us.”

But Shelton Redden, Rodgers’ sparring partner, offers a more realistic assessment.

“He’s still wild,” said Redden, who also worked as a sparring partner for former champion Sugar Ray Leonard.

Redden, a soft-spoken, articulate man, is not your typical pug. He is a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy and was a captain when discharged from the U.S. Marine Corps in August. Redden has returned to school to earn a degree in computer science because “my degree in mechanical engineering is a little outdated.”

The current attraction in the gym is Martin Juarez, 22, a super featherweight who once beat Olympic gold medalist Paul Gonzalez as an amateur. Juarez, who lost in the 1980 Olympic trials, has a 2-4 pro record and is making a comeback after being sidelined for a year by a bad back.

“My record doesn’t look very good because I started the wrong way,” he said. “Because I had more than 365 amateur fights, my manager put me in with pros who had already had a number of fights, and I was fighting six- and eight-rounders from the beginning. . . . I’m gonna be a champ. I’ve dreamed about it since I was a kid. That’s why I’m here, with Joe. He’s gonna help me.”

“Four years ago, when I was an amateur, I used to own this gym,” Juarez said. “I was a flyweight (112 pounds) and used to spar with guys who weighed 140 pounds, and they couldn’t touch me. They knew who I was. I liked that.”

Winning a championship can certainly mean riches for a fighter, but for now, most of Lopez’s must hold down a job in order to eat and pursue a fighting career. If they relied on their purses alone, most would be living below the poverty line.

Rivera earned $1,000 from his last fight, and, after paying his corner men and expenses, had little left for groceries and other necessities. Juarez said he earned about $2,500 from his six professional fights.

Lopez tries to be as accommodating as he can. Rivera, Smith and another fighter who made his professional debut last Friday sleep in the gym. Each man marks a spot for himself on the padded ring, which is shared with Smith’s dog.

Unlike Rivera, Smith and Juarez, not all of Lopez’s charges dream of winning a world championship. David Ishii, an east San Diego mailman, brings his 7-year-old son, Brian, to train in the gym so the youngster can earn some respect in his tough neighborhood.

“Some kid on the street has some brass knuckles and knocked him out cold . . . “ Ishii said. “This is giving him more confidence, and the kids aren’t picking on him anymore. He’s earned some respect. . . . Joe got him that respect.”