To the End, It Figures His Son Was a Fighter

Bill Caplan is an L.A.-based boxing publicist, and although I usually like to ignore him when he starts gushing about the sport I find ridiculous, the other day he e-mailed to tell several of us about “the bravest person” he has ever known.

Caplan has been George Foreman’s sidekick for almost 40 years, and even though he looks as if he eats off that grill six times a day, Caplan has a heart so big it’s tough to tell him to get lost when he starts talking, or e-mailing.

He’s a full-fledged sports character from way back. He had a 30-year friendship with former Times and Herald Examiner sports columnist Allan Malamud, who died in 1996, calling Mud his brother and placing a picture of Mud above the family’s kitchen table, “so he can still join us for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day,” Caplan said.

He’s sentimental weird like that, and if you put him in the same room with another one of his longtime pals, Tom Lasorda, the two of them could generate enough hot air to warm up the entire city of Green Bay.

Caplan is also a family man, Sandy’s longtime husband, a father of five and “Poppy” to nine grandchildren. His daughter, Debbie, works beside him publicizing fights and until now -- try as hard as she has to get her name mentioned on Page 2 -- her father has always come first.

I’m a father too, so when Caplan e-mailed the other day to tell several of us about “the bravest person” he has ever known and then mentioned it was his son Harold, I read on: “The bravest person I’ve ever known, our son, Harold, lost his fight with liver cancer yesterday.”

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HAROLD CAPLAN was 47. He was Caplan’s oldest child, his second son to die in the last three years. Charlie Caplan, 41, died in his sleep, leaving behind his wife, Tommie, who “is more our daughter than daughter-in-law,” Caplan said, and two grandchildren.

“We’re not meant to lose our kids,” Caplan said Thursday, hours before a memorial gathering for Harold. “It’s a parent’s nightmare.”

I wanted to know what image he holds the dearest now that Harold is gone.

“You don’t pick favorites with your kids, and we never have,” he said, “but the thing I will carry with me forever is the first time I ever saw Harold.

“Back in those days they didn’t let you in the delivery room. They had the father gown up and come to the mother’s room after the baby was born. I was prepared, after seeing lots of TV, and expected to see a funny-looking newborn all scrunched up with a red face. But what they put in my arms was a beautiful baby with perfect coloring: my Harold.

“You know, I don’t care what religion you are,” he added. “You’ve just got to believe there is some kind of heaven, some kind of place where we’ll all be together again as a family. I’m telling you, if I can’t have that belief, then this would be unbearable.”

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FUNNY HOW you know someone but really don’t know them. Caplan and I have been to dinner together, talked sports and argued about the Grocery Store Bagger. He likes him. I bought tickets for the daughter to watch an Oscar De La Hoya fight, and a year later Caplan told me he had ripped up the check used to pay for them. For some reason he insists on calling my wife a saint.

He’s always upbeat, never letting on how much he hurt after the death of Charlie. Never once mentioned Harold’s suffering.

Harold, a radio man all the way even when dad was telling him he ought to try acting, as did Harold’s Chatsworth High classmates Val Kilmer, Mare Winningham and Kevin Spacey, underwent brain surgery years ago when doctors discovered internal bleeding. It ended his radio career.

The brain problem was addressed successfully, but Harold’s speech had been affected, and he began suffering seizures, which left him disabled and unable to work.

Seven months ago they discovered liver cancer, and since then Harold had been in and out of Cedars-Sinai a dozen times.

“Dr. Nick Nissin and the liver transplant people worked so hard to keep him alive; it was like they were working on the president of the United States,” Caplan said. “Harold was disabled, had no money and was living on Social Security, but these people came in on their days off, worked around the clock and why? I think they came to love Harold, and came to see how much we loved Harold, and that’s why they worked so hard.”

Caplan’s wife became Harold’s nurse, “mother taking care of her baby once again,” as he noted, and two days before Harold died, mother and son talked.

“Sandy asked him what we should do if things got worse and he was put on a machine?” Caplan said. He told her, ‘I want to live, Mom.’

“He didn’t want to give up; he was so brave. But then the three worst words I have ever heard in my life, I heard from Dr. Nissin: ‘Harold’s heart stopped.’ ”

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WE TALKED some more about family, anything to keep him from talking boxing, and he laughed. Charlie was a bagger when he was young, and Caplan thought that was funny. Harold remained single all his life, and “so we never had to share him with a daughter-in-law,” Caplan said, and we laughed about that too.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve learned from this,” he concluded. “You’ve got to hug and kiss your kids every day while you have the chance.”

I’m on my way home right now.

(Today, I might even hug the Bagger. That should hold him for a couple of months.)

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T.J. Simers can be reached at t.j.simers@ latimes.com. To read previous columns by Simers, go to latimes.com/simers.