Coffee with a Warrior: Bobby “Schoolboy” Chacon remembers

At one time, the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles, CA, was considered the Mecca of Southern California boxing. 

   

It rises skyward from a corner street in a poor section of the city, like a looming presence from another time. Now, it’s a house of worship(,) even though its ticket booths still stand under layers of dirt and grime. Like the man I was about to meet, former two-time featherweight champion "Schoolboy" Bobby Chacon, the building has withstood the ravages of time and refused to give up.

 

Chacon arrives, smiling broadly as he shakes my hand. With him is his friend of over thirty years, Michael Donohue, and his girlfriend, Laura.

 

Despite his mischievous demeanor, Chacon knows the meaning of sacrifice. He suffers from pugilistic dementia, a condition affecting boxers who have suffered repeated blows to the head. Chacon was one of them, taking a lot of punishment in his career. But he’d be the first to tell you he knew no other way to fight. Chacon doesn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself.

 

He started boxing at seventeen years old, when his future wife, Valerie, was his biggest supporter. She encouraged Chacon, who had built quite a reputation on the streets of Pacoima, to fight in the ring, instead of the streets. His first nine fights took place at the Fabulous Forum in Inglewood, CA. Chacon won eight of them by knockout.

 

Chacon might look like a choirboy, but he hit like a mule.

 

He debuted at the fabled Olympic in 1973 against the tough Arturo “Tury” Pineda, a victor in 17 of his 18 bouts. Chacon was 15-0, with 14 knockouts. Pineda started fast. He clipped Chacon’s chin with uppercuts and hooks. He probably thought he was winning. Chacon found the range in round two. His jab began to work. His right hand followed his left like a piston. By round three, Pineda was in deep trouble. By round five, he was on the canvas.

 

Bobby Chacon was a star. He was, along with Danny “Little Red” Lopez, the most popular fighter in Southern California. A bout between the two seemed inevitable.

 

I asked Chacon about his fight with Lopez in 1974.

 

“I used to spar with Danny and he’d whup me all the time,” Chacon recalled. “Then my manager said we were going to fight him. When we were sparring, I was learning so much about Danny. All that sparring made me a better fighter. So, when we fought I was ready. I knew where  he was. My right hand kept finding him.”

 

He stood to demonstrate how he threw his combinations. He dipped and threw the same left hook that had floored Lopez. 

 

Chacon battled the great Alexis Arguello in 1979.  Although almost a head shorter and with a reach disadvantage of eleven inches, Chacon stayed under Arguello’s jab. His short hooks were landing on the inside. Through five rounds, all of the judges had him ahead. In round six, Arguello opened a nasty cut near the corner of Chacon’s right eye. The doctor stopped the fight in round seven.

 

“Again, I wasn’t in that good of shape,” said Chacon. ”He used his jab very well. He was tall like you,” he added, playfully punching me in the shoulder.

 

I mentioned to Chacon that Arguello had died recently. He grew quiet, asking what had happened.

 

I told him that Arguello had shot himself.  Chacon paused before responding, “Like my wife,Valerie.” 

 

His words resonated over the Twilight movie soundtrack blaring from a nearby theatre. 

 

Many of his friends feel that Chacon never fully recovered from losing his wife.

 

Since his demeanor had changed, I shifted gears, suspecting we would return later to the subject.

 

“What about Cornelius Boza Edwards?” I asked.

 

Chacon lifted his head, smiling again.

 

“I fought him twice. The first time I wasn’t ready for him,” he said. “That’s why he beat me. The second time I was ready and got the win. The hardest thing about being a fighter is that you have to stay in shape.

 

“If you want to be a fighter, you have to be disciplined. If you’re not in shape, you’re not going to win,” he said.

 

“Was Bobby the party animal we all heard about?” I asked his friend, Michael

 

Chacon, distracted, turned his head quickly and said, “How’d you know?”

 

We laughed at his timing. 

 

“I was young and having fun,” Chacon said. “Then when I was older, I wasn’t able to party and fight. I’d lose.

 

"The one thing you got to do when you’re a fighter is, you can’t play with that,” Chacon said pointing down to his groin.

 

Chacon fought Rafael “Bazooka” Limon multiple times between 1975 and 1982. Every fight was a war. Their last bout took place at the Memorial Auditorium in Sacramento, CA.

 

“I fought him four times,” said Chacon. “He beat me the first time. I beat him in the rematch. It really depended how serious I was. We fought to a draw. The last fight we had was a hard, hard fight.”

 

I asked Chacon about regrets. His career lasted until 1988. He was thirty-seven years old when he retired. 

 

He hesitated before responding, “My only regret was that I had to stop fighting. I wish I could still fight."

 

Then he added, “Valerie’s a regret.”

 

Valerie Chacon begged Bobby to quit fighting in 1981. She was tired of him coming home beat up and unable to remember things. At the time, Chacon had engaged in 50 fights as a professional. He won the featherweight title in 1975. But as he grew older, he began to absorb some serious beatings.

 

When he was in his early 20’s, Chacon’s defensive abilities were top-notch.

 

“He had a way of moving his head at the last second,” remembered Golden Boy publicist Bill Caplan. “It was uncanny. He didn’t get hit much. 

 

“He wasn’t always a slugger,” said Caplan “He was more of a boxer, but the people liked slugging. Bobby wanted to make the people happy,” he said.

 

By 1982, Valerie was threatening to kill herself if Chacon didn’t retire.

 

“She wanted me to quit. She kept telling me, ’Quit, Bobby,’ "said Chacon. “She was the one who, when we were real young, told me I should fight in the ring. 

 

“Then, years later, she’s telling me to quit. I said one more fight, just one more.”

 

On March 14, 1982, a day before Chacon would fight Salvador Ulgade, Valerie Chacon grabbed a rifle and shot herself.  

 

The pain in Chacon’s eyes was palpable.

 

‘I’ll love her forever,” he whispered. 

 

I reminded him that his fans still love him.

 

Suddenly, that infectious Chacon smile returned.

 

 

Featured in Blood on my Notebook By John J. Raspanti

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