The sweat-filled air rolled out the door of Velez's boxing gym in Seattle whenever a would-be fighter walked through. It was dark. Dirty. Old fashioned poolroom lamps hung from the ceiling. The 'ring' was three feet above the floor in the center of the room. In that hollow space, you could hear punches whacking human flesh like carpets.

       Around the room were kids, young adults, and a  few older men. Some had dreams of whupping their best friend or whipping the school bully. Some had dreams of prolonging their youth. Most had never taken a punch from anyone tougher than a fifth grader.

 Joey Velez, Seattle prize-fighter, was my hero. A small man with a big heart. He welcomed my brothers and me into his boxing school. My dad thought we needed to learn to defend ourselves. At 11, in 1957, I was scrawny and small. A perfect target for any boys larger than me and that was most of them.

 A speed bag hung from a circle of plywood like a large teardrop. Jump ropes lay coiled like tired snakes on wooden benches or hung from hooks on the east wall. Good ropes with ball-bearing handles. I loved those ropes and tried to find some years later.

 A thickset, older guy slugged the heavy bag in another corner. Every time he clubbed the bag, he would "hiss" with pursed lips. I didn't know then, but he was over-the-hill in fighter's lingo. Probably 35 and washed-up. But he was there, still training. Believing he might regain what he had ten years earlier.

 The sagging ring ropes were a memento of all the fighters who leaned on them for support. Joey Velez gave lessons to hundreds of Seattle area kids in a time when learning to box was considered an important step in a young boy's life.

 We went to Joey's gym once a week to learn the science of boxing. The art of self-defense. We weren't aggressive types, we weren't even streetwise. My oldest brother was a skinny bookworm and my other brother was a dude who wore Italian shoes before he was 14. None of us had really been in a fight, except for those moments when we grappled in the living room.

Growing up in the suburbs, we lived in a Ricky Nelson sitcom. We had the Korean War behind us, Ike was President. On Friday nights, between razor blade commercials, we watched Gene Fullmer, Bobo Olson, Carmen Basillio and Sugar Ray Robinson. Maybe we could be fighters too.

 At the gym we were not even allowed into the ring, much less put on gloves until we had trained. I didn't understand since the gloves they were using were BIGGER than our heads. They looked like large brown marshmallows with laces. You couldn't hurt Jello with gloves that size.

 Joey Velez was a top fighter. He had some stories, too. We heard about Rocky Graziano, Sugar Ray and Willie Pep, fighters who could put their fists through walls. We heard about fighters who could go 15 rounds in 100 degree heat. It was all dreamy stuff. We wanted to be like that. Like Joey. Tough, gritty, with busted noses and fists like rocks.

 Joey told us how to get there. Hundreds of push-ups, thousands of reps with the jump rope. None of that ONE , TWO, THREE, O'LEARY. Velez picked up the rope and skipped. He danced from one foot to the other, twisting the rope back and forth in front of him. He changed cadence. The rope whistled over his head and down. Over and down in rapid succession. Fred Astaire could not move that way.

 The speed bag wore scars left by Velez and dozens of others. Raising his fists to chin level (the perfect level ) Velez could roll his knuckles like a wheel. The bag responded with a staccato chatter. Smooth. Musical in its rhythm. I wanted to move the bag like THAT! I wanted to be a champion. I needed a soapbox to reach it, but I was hungry.

 The first time I whacked it wasn't perfect. The bag went rocking off in five directions. I swung at air. The jump rope got me too. I maxed out at 8 hops, caught my shoe and stumbled. I was no Joey.

 That's how it went all summer. I got a little better, made the bag behave and managed to skip the rope as well as the other kids.

 But I didn't have the stuffing to become another Joey Velez. He had the extra piece, the heart to hang around, keep banging the bag when everybody else went home. Somehow, even at 11, I knew that too.

 When he passed away last week, they held no ceremony in his name. Maybe I'll hold one of my own, if I can find that old punching bag, those balloon sized gloves. I don't wanna hurt myself.

Tim Robinson

Robinson Newspapers, Seattle, WA.

December 18, 2002

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