Neal Pollack

They needed to be taught a history lesson. Like how when Alex Pinto moved into this neighborhood in the 1960s he had to fight Irish, Polish, and Italian toughs just to get to the store to buy milk and bread. Back then the Latins were considered cockroaches by the tough-ass white working class. When the Latins and blacks grew in numbers the whites moved away. White flight they called it. Then the fires started. And the gangs came. And slowly the neighborhood began to die. Killed by neglect from the city’s power brokers and the young men with guns, knives, and drugs, with no sense of community or pride. But Alex Pinto would never leave Humboldt Park. It was where his memories lived.

He never got to explain that to the young man because Pinto wasn'’t on the streets of 2005 Chicago. His mind was busy remembering a fight from thirty years before. He stopped on the corner as the fumes from the 72 bus blasted into his face. He thought he was inhaling the smoky air of the Chicago Coliseum. It was 1975 again. “Jungle Boogie” played on all the boom boxes on North Avenue. President Ford was on TV talking about his new federal program, W.I.N.—Whip Inflation Now. Jaws was the big hit at the movie theater on West Division. Everyone was talking about how the Arabs were becoming world players and had learned to dole out oil with a boycotting flare. Cars lined up on Cicero Avenue for an hour wait to get a full tank of gas.

1975 was a good year, at least for Pinto. All his hard work was finally paying off. All those runs in the early morning hours through Humboldt Park. All that time in Brick Gym. Jumping rope. Sparing. Working the heavy bag until his hands bled. He was finally catching a break. The Trib lauded him as a local fighter ready to battle for a championship belt in his hometown.

Pinto stepped off the curb and felt like his legs were once again twenty-five and full of taut muscle. He saw himself as a young Latin boxer about to make his mark on a city. Strolling down the sidewalk, he felt as if he was moving like a big wild cat. The people passing by saw a slow-walking gray-haired man with a face that had caught too many punches.

Pinto smiled as he remembered that after the 1975 fight—if he won—he was going to hit Felicity Disco and meet up with his backers and the best of the local ladies. He would have a championship belt and the city would be his. Pinto passed in front of Kim’s Grocery as the Korean owner cursed at a Mexican shoplifter running away from the store. All Pinto heard was the referee telling him the fight was over. He’d lost on a technical knockout. He never made it to that disco.

Pinto had fought well that night. At the end of the fourteenth round he was ahead on all the scorers’ cards. Pinto knew it. His corner knew. The rabid crowd knew. In three minutes their local boy would be crowned the new light heavyweight champion of the world. Alex Pinto, the five-to-one underdog, was about to upset the legend of Bob Foster. And there was a lot of local money riding on Pinto. Chicago was about to have a big payday.

But Bob Foster had other plans. He’d been champion for years. He was the best boxer the division had ever produced. He was smart, quick, and was always in a fight because he had a powerhouse right that gave him a puncher’s chance. He sat on his stool staring at Pinto. Feeling his years. Angry that this kid had caught him unprepared. He thought this was going to be an easy fight. Figured Pinto was a rookie just happy to be in the ring with a legend. Foster saw a cocky young kid thinking the fight was his. He knew he had a short window to earn his redemption.

He came out in the fifteenth round and knew he had to knock Pinto out to keep his title. They met in the middle of the ring and touched their gloves. That would be the last time Pinto touched Foster. Foster hit him with a series of right jabs and left hooks that would have knocked out a lesser man. It was like Foster had set him up. Let him think he had it won. Pinto had boxed masterfully for fourteen rounds and now this. The crowd fell silent as Foster beat him senseless. It was like a force of nature had entered the ring. Pinto held onto the ropes as Foster punched him with sharp blows. The ref stepped in and ended the fight, perhaps saving Pinto’s life.

On the corner of North Avenue and Troy Street, Pinto blinked up at sun and felt like he had just woken up. The August heat of the sidewalk was cooking the soles of his threadbare sneakers. As he looked at the Humboldt Park Library, he wondered how he’d got here from his Armitage Avenue boarding house.

He walked into the library and felt relief at the cool air pumping in from the vents. Pinto went to the microfilm desk, handed over his library card, and took out the August 1975 Chicago Tribune. He would spend this hot afternoon reading about the young man he once was.