Uncrowned champion in the twilight: Armando Muniz keeps punching

The toughest, most determined fighter I ever saw.

Former welterweight champion and Boxing Hall of Famer Carlos Palomino

One of the nicest guys I had the pleasure of meeting during my years in Southern California. 

Boxing historian Jerry Fitch

The first time I saw Armando Muniz fight was in 1971. I was up late on a Saturday night. I was 14. In my room - (my cell, as my mom called it). My old TV was on to an extent. Most of the channels were snow or static. 

I had encountered this before - boredom until I remembered a local channel would occasionally broadcast fights from the fabled Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles. My grandfather - who lived in Southern California, had told me about the Olympic. I was dying to go there. 

The channel in question was 54. It rarely worked, even with rabbit ears, but I felt like trying. The static was mocking me. I hooked up the ears and started playing with the channel dial. I stomped on the floor.   

Ready to give up, I suddenly heard a voice say, "Muniz lands a hard right. Caffey looks hurt."

The voice was Jim Healy, and as usual, he was excited. So was the Olympic crowd. The old arena was rocking with chants, "Mando, Mando!"

Who was this guy?

The fight with Caffey was over by round seven. Muniz was the winner. He waved to the crowd and smiled through puffy lips. I admired his grit and determination. No showboating. Just work. 

"As a kid, I was a chicken," Muniz told me several years later. "I wanted to prove to my father that I was worthy of becoming a man. He paid his dues. I admired him. Sometimes I’d come home from school crying cause some kid would pick on me. I was too scared to fight."

Too scared to fight? 

Not Armando Muniz. Watch his fights. He was relentless and aggressive, stalking his opponent and throwing punches. His short arms made this a challenge. To get inside, Muniz would take several punches. No quit, no surrender. 

Muniz had earned a spot on the 1968 Olympic team. He captured the AAU amateur boxing title the following year. He turned professional in 1970 at where else, the Olympic, winning by knockout.

His win over Caffey was the ninth of his professional career. Muniz would fight 51 more times. Many were flat-out wars. Some were robberies. 

Angel Espada in Pueto Rico. Muniz was told before the fight, "You won’t be winning tonight."

For the next seven years, I read about or watched every Muniz fight I could. My grandfather would send me newspaper clippings of his fights. 

Victories over Adolph Pruitt, Clyde Gray, and Ernie Lopez were impressive. Muniz entered the fight against Hedgemon Lewis, an underdog. He exited the winner.

The world welterweight title should have been his in 1975. Champion Jose Napoles was in serious trouble. His eyes were slits. Blood was everywhere. Muniz was taking some punishment himself but kept moving forward and punching. 

By the 12th round, Napoles was reeling. His face was a mess. Referee Berumen was helping in every way he could. He shockingly engaged in a conversation with a ringside official. 

Napoles needed saving, and as Berumen ended his conversation, that’s what happened. The referee stopped the fight. The ring physician had advised him that Napoles could not continue.

Muniz had done it. He was the world champion. His dream of winning the championship had finally happened.

He had, right?

Shockingly, the referee grabbed the ringside microphone and declared Napoles the winner by “technical decision.”

Devastating. Insane. 

"I was very saddened by the verdict," Muniz told me. "It did change my life and for those close to me. I will never forget the look on my father’s face that evening in Acapulco."

Muniz would fight for three more years and earn three more shots at the world title. He lost a 15-round war to Carlos Palomino but still had enough to avenge a loss to Zovek Barajas. He was slowing down and knew it. 

"I had nothing in the second Palomino fight," said Muniz. 

He was 32. It was over. An eight-year career. All the give and take over the years. The blood. The beatings.   

Boxing is a brutal sport. Fans cheer the violence and rarely think about what can happen later in a boxer’s life. It’s about now, but the punches can add up - and affect their lives even when relatively young. 

Jerry Quarry and Bobby Chacon were in their 40s when pugilistic dementia struck them.  

It seemed that Muniz had ducked the boxing bullet. Or so I thought. When I met him and some of his family several years ago, his mind was sharp. He had recently retired from the Riverside school district. We spent all day talking. 

We spoke on the phone over the years as often as we could. He told me his balance was iffy, but he sounded like the same Armando Muniz, joking about his condition. 

Getting him on the phone became more difficult. Recently, his daughter Alice updated me on his condition. 

"My dad has vascular dementia," Alice told me via a text. "He has difficulty doing anything independently these days. Physically, he has trouble balancing without falling back onto the seat. He needs a walker and can’t be left unattended. 

"Mentally, he forgets a lot, but still recognizes me and most family members." 

Alice told me that her father has no regrets. He loved boxing but is "disappointed that his current condition is likely because of boxing."

I went numb. 

Budd Schulberg, author of On The Waterfront and The Harder They Fall, said it best. 

"I love boxing, and I hate boxing." wrote Schulberg.

I hate what boxing has done to Armando Muniz and so many others.

I hate that his wonderful family is suffering.

But I know that despite this, I’ll continue writing about boxing - purely to witness the deep-rooted guts and determination that some fighters possess.

"Mando, Mando!" - no quit, no surrender, and always punching.