Commentary

The Original Good Fighter

My Tata (grandfather) was a pretty dynamic man. Deeply flawed. Complicated. Tough. Brazen. Stubborn. A bit like life, I suppose.

I was nine years old when he passed away and even then I knew this man was complex. Although I spent a lot of time with him and my Nana Dorthy I remember feeling a deep regret that I would not get to know him as an adult. My young mind knew some of the contradictions that defined him were too complex for me to fully grasp and reconcile. So now, 27 years later, I have come to “know” the man that is my Tata Ralph through stories, yarns, and fables – some true while others are fantasy.

And while his persona was as varied as his trades – janitor, politician, rail worker, jazz musician – people always spoke to me of him with reverence, as if they knew they had encountered a great man, no matter the context of the meeting. Other politicians felt he was a great statesman. Other jazz musicians spoke of his talent being something special. Other alcoholics would retell their drinking stories with the greatest of joy, as if drinking with him was something to behold. I’ve often wondered what made him such a great man in so many people’s eyes.

I’m still searching for a definitive answer, but in my own mind there is one story in particular that I hold dear to my heart, and makes him larger than life. It goes something like this.

See, in his neighborhood, on the Southside of Tucson circa 1950’s, most kids didn’t have enough money to go to the local boxing gym. Seeing that, my Tata Ralph took matters into his own hands, setting up a neighborhood gym right there in the back of the house.

The punching bag was made of sawdust. The ring was a dirt floor. Gloves were borrowed, used or makeshift. Even retelling it makes me think it’s something right out of an “Our Gang” episode. Dusty and poor kids would congregate in the backyard until all hours of the night, working on their jab or hitting the speed bag.

He did this not to create champion boxers – or to create “boxers” at all – but to let the kids on the Southside have an opportunity just like the other kids. He wanted them to know that they didn’t need a fancy gym or new leather gloves to learn the sweet science. And he was right. All they needed was a leader, and they got one in my Tata Ralph.

In doing some of my own work with kids I like to think back to that backyard boxing ring and the dedication it took for my Tata to go out and fill that heavy bag with sawdust, or to sit with a kid and teach him how to “snap” a jab into his mit. It’s what legends are made of, and what turns the memory of a man into something organic, alive and inspiring.

For all his flaws (and trust me, there were many) I’m proud of my Tata for setting up that ring, and teaching all those kids how to box. I wish I could have seen it, experienced it. I’m sure he would be proud to know that those lessons he gave on 30th Street have endured for decades, instilled in me, my siblings and especially in my cousin Eddie, as we all seem to be fighting the good fight.

Thank you, Tata Ralph.

© 2009 Sneaking Suspicion.