My View from the Corner

by Angelo Dundee

  Me? I was still hustling. My living was the preliminary kids. I would go with the prelim fighters and make a buck or two. I'd go to Ridgewood Grove and work a corner and make twenty-five bucks and have it in my kick. But even those jobs were few and far between, drying up like the rest of boxing in New York. As Ray Arcel said, "Tough times make monkeys eat red pepper."

  My brother Chris, having correctly read the handwriting on the wall, had moved lock, stock, and promotional kit bag down to Miami Beach, where he took over the local promotion at the Miami Beach Auditorium. I still don't know what prompted the move. Some said it was something to do with Blinky Palermo, with whom Chris had a casual friendship. But as far as I knew it was Cy Gottfried, the referee, who brought him down.

  I never did know. You see, from the day my father called Chris "a bigga shot," he was always a hero to me. So maybe I saw him through tinted rather than clear glasses. For Chris was an imperfect man in an imperfect world. He could have had dealings with Palermo and the mob, but I knew very little of his business goings-on because, in that closemouthed way of his, he never confided in me. But I prefer to believe, to this day, that Chris merely had what he called "a better idea" and made tracks to Miami Beach on his own counsel.

  Anyway, when he left to go to the Beach, he left me with a bunch of fighters but no boxing venues to work them in. After several months of fruitless hustling and making "short bread," I figured it was time to consider my future. And it didn't look like that future was in boxing. Or in New York, for that matter. I even considered going back to my old nine-to-five job at the naval aircraft factory in Philadelphia—or, more correctly, Johnstown. That's how desperate I was.

  So I called Chris and told him, "No way New York." The weather was bad, and the work was nonexistent. I told him I'd either come down to Florida to work with him or I would have to go back to inspecting aircraft at the naval factory. That's when Chris told me to come on down.

  And so, in October 1951, Angelo Mirena (aka Angelo Dundee), a thirty-something trainer-in-training, was on a train heading south to Florida with two of his fighters in tow—Alex Fimbres, a featherweight, and Bill Neri, a lightweight. They took the crapshoot, too, figuring that even if things didn't work out at least they could get a good suntan. Another of my fighters, Bill Bossio, had been taken over by Al Braverman, who had promised me a percentage of his purses. Unfortunately, Al was the kind of guy who, if you reminded him that a debt was a year old, he'd send it a birthday card and never sent me anything. But, hey, I didn't care. It was a whole new start to my career, such as it was.

  There I was again, working on all of Chris's promotions—the boxing shows, the wrestling shows, and even the circus. And for the same seventy-five dollars a week. Talk about upward mobility! And once again Chris conveniently forgot to pay me. When I approached him about my back pay all I got was: "Angie, what are you worrying about? If you want to worry, worry about how bad business is. Look, Angie, I'll take care of you. Don't worry so much." And with that he turned away, shouting over his shoulder, "Listen, Angie, the Continental Restaurant wants twenty tickets for the fight tomorrow night. Will you take care of it?" End of conversation.

  Forgetting my pay for the moment, which I did, my brother Chris was one helluva promoter, probably the greatest promoter of all time. If he were around today he'd bury all the other promoters. Let me tell you about his Tuesday night shows at the Auditorium, an arena built by the city of Miami Beach in 1950 for boxing. Always hustling, Chris would feature local talent against what he called "opponents that were always dependable, that could give a good account of themselves and lose." His bouts were always crowd-pleasers, and Chris catered to his patrons, knowing every face and every name. And if he saw a strange face in one of the seats, he would shoo them out. One time Chris noticed that one of his regulars wasn't in his seat and called him to ask why he hadn't shown up. "Chris," the regular said, "I was in the hospital." "Well, why didn't you tell me, I'd have sent you flowers," Chris said, ever mindful of his paying customers. It was a social gathering, and the fans loved it, repaying his efforts by showing up every Tuesday night, almost two thousand strong.

  After two years of an uphill battle, Chris finally found the local talent he had been looking for in Bobby Dykes, probably one of South Florida's most popular boxers at the time. The fight crowd also took to Billy Kilgore and adopted both Ralph Dupas and Willie Pastrano as their own. And Miami's Cuban community embraced the imports from Cuba, one of whom, Frankie Otero, became one of Chris's greatest gate attractions. Suddenly the weekly shows at the Auditorium became an overnight success, even if that overnight had taken two years.

  If there was one problem in developing homegrown talent it was the lack of training facilities in Miami Beach, the nearest gyms being over across the causeway, in Miami. Unlike Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney, who would always say, "We have a barn, let's put on a show," there was no barn to rehearse in for the big Auditorium show.

  That is, until the 5th Street Gym.

  To say that the 5th Street Gym was ratty and tatty would be an overstatement. Grungy might have been more like it. But, hey, it was home for me and my family of fighters.

  Chris had purchased a second-floor walk-up in a ramshackle old building on the corner of Fifth Street and Washington Avenue that had once been a Chinese restaurant and put me in charge. As a souvenir left by its previous tenants the entire floor smelled like egg-drop soup. My job was to make it into something faintly resembling a gym. And so I got to work, plasterboarding the walls and plywooding the floor. Then I bought bags and a ring and got some seats from a jai alai fronton that cost fifty dollars a row just to haul over. Together with Allie Ridgeway, Jerry and Dave White, and Pat O'Malley, who all chipped in, we put the gym together by putting up speed bags, heavy bags, and the ring. Next I had to have the place painted—although some smart alecks said demolished might have been more like it. For that I turned to a vacationer who came down every winter from Boston and whom I had let train in the gym. Feeling he had to do something for me in return, he volunteered to paint the joint. When it came time to paint the front of the building he asked me what to put on it. And I told him to paint it "5th Street Gym," and that's how the name came into being.

  The two flights of stairs leading up to the gym were well worn, so I had them linoleumed. The gym had windows from the left completely across the front that I had painted and left open because, with no air-conditioning, it was hot as hell during the day due to the Miami Beach sun beating down on the building's tin roof. On the right side was a middle room, just an attachment with more plasterboard separating it from the main room, complete with red carpeting for "special" fighters. And, in the back of the gym, just past two speed bags and a wall of posters of Chris's fights and some Schenley whiskey signs covering the holes in the wall, was a door leading to the lockers and two showers, of sorts. That and a landfill of a desk and a locked phone on the left side of the gym for Chris and one pay phone—soon to be disconnected after suffering a severe case of acute indigestion due to an abnormal intake of slugs—were the bare bones of the 5th Street Gym. Chris was very proud of me for the money I didn't spend making the gym a reality.

  Soon the gym was filled with fighters, many of whom were part of Chris's ongoing import business as he brought fighter after fighter over from Cuba—fighters like Florentino Fernandez, Luis Rodriguez, Doug Vaillant, Ultiminio "Sugar" Ramos, and José Legra among dozens more. There were so many imports that Chris told me to learn Spanish, the only Cuban fighter who spoke English being Rodriguez—and that halting at best. So I came up with a language that could, at best, be called "gym Spanglish," a mélange that was one part Italian, one part Spanish, and one part hand signals. (Lou Duva would say that I "spoke five or six languages—Argentinean, Puerto Rican, Dominican, Mexican, and Cuban." And then he'd add, "But I get upset when he gets me thrown out of the corner for cursing in Italian.") Over and above Chris's imports I also added some of my own, like Ralph Dupas, Willie Pastrano, and H
arold Gomez. And later, Lee Canalito.

  But no gym was complete without its regulars, those Damon Runyon-esque characters who give a gym its flavor. And almost before the last nail was in place, the 5th Street Gym was overrun by many of those who had once formed the nucleus of Stillman's and had moved down to the Beach. Maury Waxman came down to Florida, and I put him to work. I wouldn't let Moe Fleischer retire, same thing. Lou Gross came down to Florida, and I put him to work training fighters. Johnny Burns, former referee, ditto. Same for Duke Stefano, Petey Scalzo, etc. It soon became a gathering of the fight clan, almost a "Hail, hail, the gang's all here" as the 5th Street Gym became Stillman's South.

  Like Stillman's, we even had our own gatekeeper, Emmett Sullivan, better known as plain ol' "Sully." Sully was a work of art, an early Picasso. He sat at a table atop the stairs and, through clenched cigar—despite his own sign reading, "No Smoking, This Means You"—mumbled something that sounded like "fifsen." No one was ever quite sure, but they paid their fifty cents, later raised to a buck. No exceptions. That is, unless he recognized you as one of the fight mob. Then he let you just breeze past. One writer, flashing his press card, tried to walk past Sully once, but our Sully was equal to the task and tackled the trespasser, making him pay the entry fee.

  It didn't take long before the 5th Street Gym began to take on a used look. The showers began to develop clogs, the mirrors cracks, the paint chips, and the plasterboard holes. And the floor, rickety to begin with, became a trampoline as fighters had to look for good spots to skip ropes and do their shadowboxing lest they fall through the holes. And what the fighters didn't break the termites ate. These termites were extra-strength big brutes who, in gloves, would have been odds-on favorites to beat every fighter in the joint. Those suckers chewed up everything, including Chris's desk and the supports for the ring. To them, it was a never-ending picnic. One time I had to stop a fight fan coming up the stairs, telling him, "You can't come in now, the termites are working. You'd be disturbing them." It was that bad.

  Every now and then I'd go out and buy some plywood strips, which for some reason termites don't like. And then I'd lay them down on the floor to cover the holes. But that was somewhat like an aging woman of the streets trying to tart herself up. It didn't make any difference; the 5th Street Gym still looked used and down-at-the-heels.

  However, we weren't alone in our "appreciation" of the 5th Street Gym. As good neighbors, we thoughtfully shared our fortune with those downstairs. Gottlieb's Bar & Liquor Store, conveniently located directly under the gym, was flooded every time the showers overflowed or a hole developed in the floor. And those in the drugstore downstairs could only watch in amazement as the ceiling swayed every time a fighter upstairs jumped rope or did his exercises, fully expecting it would all come tumbling down—ceiling, fighter, and all.

  But even as the waterlogged floor around the showers began to resemble black tar, the termites continued their nonstop handiwork, and the plasterboard walls grew holes made by boxers punching them, I still considered the 5th Street Gym my little slice of heaven, made all the more so by the most wonderful guys in the world: my fighters.

  Those early years in Miami Beach were the most wonderful years of my life. I married the girl of my dreams, sweet Helen, got an efficiency apartment in South Beach for seventy-five dollars a month—so small that you needed to open the door just to stretch your arms—legally changed my name to "Dundee," and finally got a driver's license and a car. (Here I was, the same schnook who had given a speech at my high school graduation on "How to buy a car," and I had never owned one till then. And wouldn't you know it, the car was a stick shift and I didn't know how to drive it. So Helen did.) Helen and I would walk over to Lincoln Road for a movie or go fishing from the MacArthur Bridge—I had the fishing pole, and Helen had the drop line. It was wonderful.

  At this point in time I was taking opponents over to Cuba on a weekly basis, shuttling back and forth by plane. And the promoters, like Cuco Conde and Oscar Canil, whom I had gotten to know well, wanted me to move there to train their fighters. Even though I considered it, there were a couple of compelling reasons for me not to. First of all, I had more than enough to do in Miami Beach, what with my bride, Helen, and the 5th Street Gym taking all of my time. And second, as the decade wore on, the shadow of Castro loomed over the island and all of professional sports. Knowing that their time in Cuba was coming to an end, the Cuban boxing crowd would give me their jewelry and money to bring back to the States every trip home. One time I was body searched—no, make that cavity searched—but fortunately that was the one time I didn't have anything on me, not even my shorts. Nevertheless, that experience alone gave me more than enough reason not to move again but to stay at home, home now being Miami Beach.

  I still had a lot to learn about being a trainer. For even though I had learned at the knees of such greats as Chickie Ferrara, Ray Arcel, Whitey Bimstein, Charlie Goldman, and others, what I didn't know about training could fill a book—a large-sized book at that. I needed hands-on experience. And I was getting that every day at the 5th Street Gym.

  The lot of a trainer is not an easy one, the very word trainer a catchall covering a complex job. You've got to combine certain qualities belonging to a doctor, an engineer, a psychologist, and sometimes an actor, in addition to knowing your specific art well. The job also comes with a lot of headaches, which aren't included in the job specs. In short, there are more sides to being a trainer than those found on a Rubik's Cube.

  Take judging prospects, for instance. Bill McCarney, a fight manager back in the early days of the past century and known to be a great judge of talent, was in a bar one afternoon when he felt a thwack on his back. Whirling around, McCarney saw a somewhat seedy, blue-bearded youngster standing in front of him whom he described as "the toughest egg I ever laid eyes on." The tough-looking egg asked, "Are you McCarney, the fight manager?" "Yes," answered the startled McCarney, still rocking from the get-acquainted tap that had been laid on him. "Well, I'm a fighter, a heavyweight, and I can lick any of these guys around this part of the country," the tough egg said. Then he added, "I'm looking for a manager." "You don't look like no heavyweight to me," came back McCarney. Then he asked, "What's your name anyway?" "Jack Dempsey," answered the back-thwacker. The very idea that someone would call himself Jack Dempsey after the former great middleweight champ so upset McCarney that he told the applicant, "Nothin' doing." And with that he turned his back, both on the fighter and on the millions he would have made handling the future heavyweight champ.

  Then there are those prospects you think have everything, but you don't find out till the heat of battle that they are something less than you expected. Whitey Bimstein used to tell the story of a fighter who could hit but when he had his man on the brink of a knockout always seemed to lose him. One night against a very tough opponent, as Whitey told the story, "The guy's eye came up like a grape." After that his warrior refrained from hitting the eye, and the opponent came back, making up lost ground. Before the last round Whitey begged his fighter, "I ain't cruel, but just a touch on the eye would do it." And his fighter said, "I'm sorry, Whitey, but I can't ... I'm allergic to blood." As Whitey said, "That was one helluva time to find that out."

  As I've always said, you learn by watching. And I did, learning some of the tricks of the trade used by the masters. For instance, I was watching Ray Arcel one night when his fighter hit his opponent with a shot to the chops and the opponent went down with a thud.

  The referee started the count, tolling off the numbers at a snail's pace. As the count finally reached a torturous and prolonged "five," Arcel showed up at the top of the steps, robe in hand, and put it on his kid, inspiring the ref to quickly pick up the count and count the opponent out. I used the same trick with my fighter, Bill Bossio, who was fighting Pat Marcune at the Garden. Same thing. Bill hit Marcune with an uppercut, and Marcune went down. The referee's counting, turns around, sees me with the robe in hand, and gives Marcune a quick count.
You learn from watching other people.

  Still, I didn't actually put my training abilities to work until I went to Miami Beach. Then, I put it all together, borrowing old tricks and coming up with new ones. Like when the referee or doctor comes in the ring to examine my guy I "stretch my ass," making it almost impossible for anyone to see the fighter over my shoulder. Or when, in a fight between Florentino Fernandez and one of the Moyer brothers, the doctor came in to examine Florentino between rounds and I said, "You'd better go over and look at the other guy .... I think he's got a broken nose." And wouldn't you know it, the doctor did, stopping the fight and awarding Florentino a technical knockout.

  There are times, however, when a trainer's mental and verbal sleights of hand fail to work. For instance, when Pinklon Thomas was fighting Mike Tyson I was in Pinklon's corner, and between rounds the Nevada State Athletic Commission's doctor, Flip Homansky, came into the corner. I pushed him away, saying something to the effect of "Get the hell out of here ... what are you doin' up here?" Homansky, not used to trainers questioning his authority, said, "You can't talk to me that way...." And with that, I fairly shoved him out of the corner and down the stairs; Homansky fled so quickly he almost fell down the steps. After the fight, which Pinklon lost, no amount of help in the corner able to save him, a commission official came up to me and said I couldn't talk to their doctor that way and fined me one thousand dollars. I yelled at him, "He didn't know what the hell he was doin'." With that, he said, "That'll cost you fifteen hundred dollars." Again, I shouted, "That man is a menace to boxing and doesn't know anything." "That'll cost you two thousand dollars," said the humorless official. At two thousand dollars I finally gave in and said, "All right, I'll shut up," my opinion duly noted. And duly penalized.