What was your single most indelible boxing memory or moment?
His name was Javier Ayala
and he was from Los Angeles by way of Tijuana. He had once gone ten rounds with the great Roberto Duran in 1973 in Los Angeles and also went the distance with Leroy Haley. In fact, in 1975 he lost a decision in Buenos Aires to legendary Nicolino Locche. He was 17-13-1 at the time. Loche was 110-4-14. But on this night, at the Silver Slipper in Las Vegas, his main event opponent was Bruce Finch, whose claim to fame would be that after his third-round TKO loss to Sugar Ray Leonard in1982 in Reno, Leonard would have surgery to repair a detached retina.
Coming into the Finch fight, Ayala, 21-23-1, had lost six straight, including ones to the very capable Jerry "Schoolboy" Cheatham and Dujuan Johnson as well as to rugged Lou Bizzarro. Arguably, he had become a gate through which prospects must pass before going to the next level.
I was visiting my brother at the time (I had been on assignment in nearby Phoenix and flew in for some R & R), but on this particular July night in 1980 I was alone. After several hours of blackjack at Bally’s and dinner at an extortionate steak house, I pursued my real interest of the evening, which was to watch a young lightweight prospect out of Youngstown, Ohio, by the name of Ray "Boom Boom" Mancini. He had won ten in a row and was on the undercard in a eight-rounder against one Leon Smith, whom he blew away in the first round with several unanswered body shots to Smith’s liver that you could hear throughout the hall. I was on the aisle near ringside, and they sounded like muffled bombs. I was most impressed and anything else on this particular boxing night promised to be icing on the cake.
In the next fight, Chris Schwenke fought his first pro fight and won a four-round UD over Bill Fallow. He would then go on a fourteen-fight win streak. There was an uneventful six-rounder before the Finch-Ayala bout between Danny Sanders and Irish Pat Coffey, which Sanders won by TKO in the last round.
At that point, there was a brief intermission, and I remember this young boy of about nine or ten years old who then appeared and was standing just to the rear of my seat. I asked him his name, and he said he was Javier Ayala’s son. He was very shy and humble. We had a nice exchange in Spanish, and I said I hoped his father would do well. As the fighters walked to the ring, I noticed Ayala reach over to pat his son on the shoulder and give him a smile and a wink. The fighters were then introduced amid the usual fanfare and the crowd readied for the main event.
Finch, from Milwaukee, had lost only three fights coming in, and these were to the very capable Tommy Hearns, Larry Bonds, and Pete Ranzany. He had won twenty-one and was touted as having lots of pop in his punches. The much younger Finch looked to be in excellent welterweight shape, while Ayala, at age thirty-seven, looked somewhat shopworn.
As I torched up my Cuesta Rey Corona—thankfully, there was no political correctness back in 1980, particularly in a gambling casino—the fighters received their instructions, touched gloves, the bell rang, and the fight began.
The first two rounds were mostly cat and mouse, with both fighters feeling each other out and getting in a few decent shots. Finch threw some neat combinations and seemed to have taken control by the end of round two.
In the third round, it happened. Both fighters were coming out of a clinch, and, as they set themselves, Ayala moved forward to throw a telegraphed looping right. Finch got there first, unleashing a short and vicious right uppercut that hit Ayala at the point of his chin. You could hear the blow back in the gambling area. Ayala hit the canvas as if he had been hit with a ten gauge shotgun—and that’s when what started out to be a pleasant evening of manly fun became something else. As he landed on his back, his body hit before his head, which then whipsawed onto the canvas. He stayed down as his only handler hovered over him and as ringside officials and the referee quickly went to revive him. He was unconscious and stayed that way between fifteen and twenty minutes, without so much as moving a limb. A stretcher was being readied, the crowd was hushed, and a genuine sense of concern permeated.
Everyone feared the worse. Finch, while elated with his one-punch victory, was visibly concerned. While this was all going on, I glanced over at his son, and I’ll never forget the look on his face or the tears in his eyes. I went over to him, put my arm around him, and said, "Don’t worry. Your father will be fine." He was shaking all over, and it was all I could do to keep myself composed.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Javier Ayala arose to scattered applause, but there was palpable relief as well. He left the ring under his own power, albeit unsteadily, and seemed okay. As he was heading for the dressing room, he stopped and took his son’s hand in his own and they both disappeared from sight as they went into the room. The word that best describes what I witnessed at that moment was pathos—my overwhelming emotion was one of sympathy and pity.
I never found out exactly what happened to Ayala, but I do know that was his last fight. He would finish with a record of twenty-one wins, twenty-four losses, and one draw. For reasons I try to keep immune from intropsective analysis, I just as soon not know where he is today or where his son might be.
As for Bruce Finch, he would go on to win eleven in a row before being stopped by Sugar Ray in 1982. He would then lose six of his next seven fights before retiring.
To this day, when I need a reality check about boxing, I think back to that bad night in Vegas, a night that would leave me with memories of harsh reality.
“If you want loyalty, buy a dog.” Ricky Hatton
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Originally Posted by Tam Seddon
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