Joe Cantada— admired by Filipinos for over three decades, from the 1960s through the early 1990s— still captures the imagination of even casual sports fans like me.

Born March 15, 1942, Jose Cantada left an unforgettable mark on Philippine sports broadcasting. He studied at San Beda and Ateneo, and built a reputation for deep knowledge, thorough research, and remarkable on-the-spot commentary. He rarely used notes. He didn’t need to. He was a natural speaker, the kind who could hold your attention with just his voice.

Joe wasn’t just a broadcaster— he was an athlete too. He played basketball, trained in bodybuilding, and loved boxing. He joined many PBA broadcast panels, where he worked as both a commentator and analyst. In 2005, the league honored him for the excellence he brought to live play-by-play in the 1980s.

His voice stood out most— a deep, clear baritone that commanded attention. He wasn’t just known locally. He went global. Joe was the announcer for the Thrilla in Manila, introducing the legendary fighters in that historic match. 

His simple, booming “Introducing…” made crowds wild and made Ali and Frazier seem even more epic.

I like to think it was my dad who gave him the nickname “Smokin’ Joe.” I could be wrong, but I don’t think either of them would mind me saying so. They were close friends, and their bond only deepened after they worked together on Ali–Frazier III. I remember seeing them in conversation often— over bottles of San Miguel, shared food, and cigarette smoke. Whether they were in our family home on Tolentino Street in Quezon City or later in San Francisco, those moments stayed with me.

Boxing has a way of connecting people. My father Hermie Rivera and Joe were proof of that. They formed a strong team, covering important fights featuring champions like Frank Cedeño, Dodie Boy Peñalosa, Rolando Navarrete, and Luisito Espinosa. Their friendship remained solid all the way until Joe’s passing on March 22, 1992.

But his legacy wasn’t only behind the mic.

In 1982, during a visit to Dagupan City— known for bangus and its coastline— Mr. Cantada gave me a Nikon FM SLR camera. He said I should try photography or find a hobby that involved capturing life as it unfolded. That small gesture pushed me to pursue something that’s stayed with me all these years.

Joe also loved music. He had a soft spot for ballads and even recorded an album called ‘Joe Cantada in 12 Rounds’. My sister Charina still has the vinyl copy we got from our parents. He was family to us— he was also my younger brother Gerardo “Andy” Rivera’s godfather.

My father once said: “Joe had a voice made for radio, a physique fit for the movies, and a mustache that changed the face of Philippine sports broadcasting forever.”

Even now, I find myself wondering how Mr. Joe Cantada might have called more recent fights or events.

We’ll never get to hear that. But if he were behind the mic again, one thing’s for sure:

That broadcast booth would surely be Smokin’.

If you’re a fan of boxing, basketball and politics here in the Philippines and abroad, chances are you’ve seen his artwork in multimedia form (physical and virtual) —charcoal, watercolor, clay, pencil, oils, for example. 

He’s been liberally called the personal, de facto or resident painter for the great Emmanuel D. Pacquiao by respected broad sheets, titles he reluctantly accepts. To his friends, family and fans, however, he is simply (The Official) Jun Aquino.

He discovered his passion for the arts at age 6 at his stomping grounds up in the hills of Antipolo, Rizal province. His first paint brush was a lock of his mom’s hair tied to a stick. His first medium was diluted mud on paper, he relates.

In college, he honed his skills studying Fine Arts at the University of the Philippines, Diliman, Quezon City. He was in charge of political artwork for the venerated Philippines Free Press (est. 1908) for 25 years until it closed down in the mid-1970’s.

Amidst the struggles we face in the world today due to post-pandemic woes caused by Covid-19 (SARS-CoV-2) — an invisible nemesis with palpable and debilitating effects on everything tangible — we can find solace in witnessing beauty through Jun Aquino’s eyes and masterful brush strokes.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:

Its loveliness increases;

               It will never pass into nothingness

Through his celebrated body of work, we are reminded that beauty persists through art.

Album

Boxing didn’t start as just a sport. 

It has always been more… part art, craft, and science. 

Its origins reach back well before Greece and Rome ruled the world. Ancient carvings from Egypt and Sumer, dating to the third millennium B.C., show two men squaring off, fists raised. 

By 688 BCE, the Greeks had added boxing to the Olympics. The Romans later turned it cruel. Their gladiators wrapped their fists in cestus, thick leather arm and fist straps adorned with deadly spikes and studs. 

These weren’t contests of skill. They were trials of endurance…and survival. Footwork and timing had no place in those brutal spectacles.

It was in 18th- and 19th-century England that things began to shift. Bare-knuckle brawls were still brutal, but some saw something beneath the surface. 

The British called it pluck and bottom, a combination of bravery and endurance. Slowly, boxing started to reveal a rhythm.

Pierce Egan, the hand behind Boxiana, believed that boxing wasn’t just muscle and blood. He saw strategy, movement, and something honorable. He wrote in 1824:

To Egan, pugilism was the art of character in motion— where presence met principle, and fists spoke louder than weapons. He saw in fighters like Broughton, Cribb, Molyneaux, Richmond, and Mendoza not just brawn, but craft. Mendoza, above all, brought rhythm and feint, turning the ring into a dance of timing and wit. 

In Boxiana, Egan framed the fight as noble— a contest that ended not with vengeance, but with respect. That vision, idealistic as it may seem, still endures.

As boxing reached American shores, men like James Corbett, Joe Gans, and Jack Johnson refined it further. They moved smarter, hit clean, and vanished before fists could find them. 

In the Orient, something different was taking shape.

The Arrival of Boxing in the Philippines

In 1899, when the United States occupied the Philippines, they didn’t just bring soldiers and battleships— they brought sports. 

The Army was tasked with introducing baseball. 

The Navy was to spread boxing. 

Both were promoted as tools to build discipline, improve physical education, prevent desertion, and minimize vices— meant to boost morale among the troops and the newly acquired citizens of the Yankee empire. 

The islands were ready. Baseball faded. Boxing caught fire. 

It was the Army— the 24th Infantry— that ended up being the first to teach Filipinos the sweet science.

In 1926, sportswriter Damon Runyon recalled an early sign of this transformation. After U.S. troops captured San Mateo, they discovered something unexpected:

“They found among the possessions abandoned by the fleeing insurrectos a set of boxing gloves…brought in by a renegade soldier from the 24th Infantry. He had been schooling the Filipinos in their use.”

Those gloves, made by Sol Levinson of San Francisco, were more than gear. They were proof that the Americans weren’t just fighting Filipinos— they were teaching them to fight back.

Filipino Martial Arts

But long before gloves landed on Filipino soil, the people already knew how to fight.

Kali, Eskrima, Arnis— collectively known today as Filipino Martial Arts— had been refined over centuries. 

These systems didn’t rely on brute strength. 

They were built on timing, deception, and movement. 

The blade was just an extension. 

The real weapon was the body in motion.

So when Filipino fighters entered the boxing ring, they didn’t start from zero. Their feet were already trained. Their instincts were already sharp. 

Not only did the Filipinos pick up the fight game— they made it their own. They didn’t just adopt boxing— they transformed it. 

Gaudencio “Kid Dencio” Cabanela embodied that transformation. He had no formal training, and many believed he was the finest Filipino fighter of his generation. Frank Churchill, the Tait brothers, Edward Gallaher, Joe Waterman, and writers like Bill Miller and Maurice Goldner praised his natural brilliance.

In 1919, British-Welsh champion Llew Edwards arrived in Manila expecting easy victories. He faced three top Filipinos: Francisco “Filipino Tiger” Flores, Eddie Duarte, and finally, Kid Dencio.

Edwards’ 10-round win against Flores was sensational. The KO-3 over Duarte was spectacular. And his April 5 bout against Kid Dencio was unforgettable. The Manila Daily Bulletin called it “the most sensational fight ever witnessed in a Manila ring.” Dencio was lighter, faster, more elusive. His movements felt instinctive, almost pre-written.

The Dance of Battle

Edwards later recalled:

“A tenacious little scrapper with a good pair of hands. His footwork was clever.”

In 1921, Cabanela collapsed during the 13th round of a bout against Bert McCarthy in Melbourne, Australia. He smiled faintly before falling into a coma. He never woke up. But his influence lived on. 

Before leaving the Philippines, Edwards passed his knowledge to Cabanela’s protégé— a young fighter named Francisco Guilledo. That boy would become Pancho Villa, the Philippines’ first world champion, defeating Jimmy Wilde in 1923.

Years later, Edwards remarked:

“When our party first visited the islands, dancing was their favorite pastime…When boxing took firm hold there, dancing lost many of its patrons.”

Or maybe the dance never stopped. Maybe it just changed forms.

A Rhythm Remembered

Filipino dance and boxing share the same heartbeat. Tinikling, with its rapid, rhythmic steps between bamboo poles, mirrors the slip and slide of evasive movement. Sayaw sa Bangko builds balance and poise, like dancing on the edge of the ring. Maglalatik and Sakuting, tied to Eskrima, train reflexes and body control. Pangalay and Itik-Itik echo the fluid unpredictability of elite fighters.

Visayan and Bicolano dances like Kuradang, Pantomina, Escotis, and Sinulog focus on shifting weight, angles, and lateral flow. Sinulog’s rhythm— two steps forward, one step back— feels like it was choreographed for the ring. Maybe it was muscle memory. Or something passed down without words. Filipino fighters didn’t need to learn footwork from the West— they already had it.

The Modern Inheritance: Footwork as a Legacy

Under Spanish rule, Filipinos caught practicing martial arts were punished. Many were executed. Blades were banned. Movements were outlawed. But the rhythm survived— in dance, in festivals, in quiet repetition. That rhythm stayed behind— quiet, steady, and alive.

When Master Danovis Pooler and I  visited his academy back on March 4, 2023, Guro Dan Inosanto spoke about history and survival. He explained:

“We preserved our (Filipino) martial traditions by hiding them in plain sight— through dance, through ritual, through rhythm. When colonizers tried erasing our fighting systems, we disguised them in celebration. The footwork, the angles, the timing— it was all there. What looked like a performance was actually preparation. What looked like culture was survival.”

Disciples of the Dancing Flame

Luisito Espinosa, a two-division world champion known for his dazzling footwork and pinpoint punching, once said, “Footwork is the key to everything. If your footwork is right, you can hit clean and not get hit.”

Fleet-footed puncher Morris East, the youngest Filipino to win a WBA world title, agreed, “Your feet control the fight. Not your hands. Not even your head— it’s your feet.”

Nonito Donaire Jr., a five-division champion, once explained to PhilBoxing.com, “Angles are everything. If you create angles through balance and shifty footwork, you make them work twice as hard just to find you.”

Hall of Fame trainer Freddie Roach once described Manny Pacquiao’s magnificent and deceiving footwork by saying, “When Pacquiao moves, he’s gone before you even realize where he was. That’s something you can’t teach— it’s embedded in his DNA.”

Master Danovis “Dee” Pooler summed it up nicely, “Boxing is a sport with the mindset that parallels self-defense. It is a martial art. The timing, rhythm, and craft rooted in the ancient Filipino Martial Arts is evident in the modern-day ring legends like Luisito Espinosa.”

Pacquiao himself attributes his legendary agility to discipline, emphasizing,  “Solid ang paniniwala ko sa conditioning— lalo na sa takbo— dahil ‘yan ang nagpapalakas ng footwork ko. Sa totoo lang, footwork ang naging puhunan ko kaya nakarating ako sa ganitong level sa boksing.”

For our English speaking friends, he stated, “I am a strong proponent of conditioning, particularly running, to enhance my footwork. Footwork has carried me far in boxing.” 

Mere mortals can only marvel in agreement, recognizing that base positioning is precisely what sets up the perfect punch or impenetrable defense— the ideal blend of timing, stability, and power flowing effortlessly from the ground up.

The Rhythm of Warriors

It’s not just a fight. Every pivot, sidestep, or feint carries more than just strategy. It’s memory unfolding through motion— the rhythm of those who came before. 

Warriors who moved to survive, to adapt, to rise. 

And each time a Filipino boxer steps through the ropes, that rhythm finds its way back. It lives in their feet, their stance, their quiet command of space. 

Each jab, bolo, or uppercut doesn’t just land— it carries a deeper meaning behind it. 

There’s more than fists flying. 

They’re guided by something passed through blood, breath, and time— like flowing water, like tempered steel.

Sources, credits and recommended readings:

• All references in this article is based on multiple personal interviews, first-hand accounts from fighters and relied on sources like The Ring, Cablenews-American, The Manila Bulletin Daily and others
• This article contains selected excerpts, quotations, images, and archival references used under the Fair Use provisions of Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act.
• These materials are presented for educational, scholarly, and cultural preservation purposes. Every effort has been made to properly attribute sources and limit use to what is necessary to honor the historical and cultural narrative.
• Pierce Egan’s Boxiana Volume II was published in 1824 by Sherwood, Jones & Company
• Churchill is in Error On Boxing in Manila: The Gloves of San Mateo. Negro Soldier Pioneer- By, Damon Runyon – (Copyright 1925– Now in the Public Domain) International Feature Syndicate, Inc., Washington Herald, page 19, October 10, 1925 (Saturday)
• Dan Inosanto: The Man, The Teacher, The Artist (Paladin Press, 2000)
• Fighting the Filipinos by Llew Edwards, Mail (Adelaide, SA: 1912 – 1954), Saturday,11 September 1937,  page 10 as told to J.M. Rohan
• Kid Dencio, Luisito Espinosa, Manny Pacquiao and Eustaquio Duarte Gallery: Paintings by Brian Bonbon (Philippine Boxing Historical Society and Hall of Fame)
• Gala of Champions, Philippine Boxing Historical Society and Hall of Fame (Souvenir Program, March 23, 2024)
• Photos and digital designs by ManoyTKO Digisigns

May 17, 2026

San Francisco, California 

On July 11, 2026, everything converges on San Francisco’s Civic Center Plaza — corporate money, digital turnstiles, the political backing of Mayor Daniel Lurie — all of it aimed at one particular number…One hundred thirty-five thousand, one hundred thirty-two. 

That’s the official live attendance record for a boxing event, Tony Zale and Billy Pryor, Milwaukee, 1941. 

The promotional outfit iV Boxing, led by promoter Mr. Ed Pereira, along with the city of San Francisco, wants the record eclipsed — and they will need 150,000 enthusiastic fight fans through the gates to make that happen.

The sports press will call it historic, unprecedented. 

The history books, particularly the Guinness Records,  will document the marvel of modern promotion. 

What records won’t mention is that boxing has already been there, done that — bigger crowds, rawer conditions, a great deal more at stake in a land far, far away.

Three decades before San Francisco started drawing blueprints for the July 11th big card, a featherweight from Tondo filled Luneta Park on the shores of Manila Bay and drew a massive crowd that made Milwaukee look like a another club show. 

His name was Luisito Espinosa— one of only 7 fighters since 1890 to wear the bantamweight and featherweight boxing world championship crowns.

Nobody handed him a world record plaque, back in 1997. 

Come to think of it, not many handed him much of anything of great significance afterwards — but we’ll get to that.

It happened on May 17, 1997 at the Luneta Grandstand, Rizal Park— open plaza, Manila Bay at its backdrop…tropical heat that never quits.

The organizers could have called it Thrilla in Manila 2, but the historic venue beckoned to have its name immortalized.

Thus, the fight was billed “Battle of Manila Bay 2” — a sequel to the moment when the Yankee flotilla, led by Commodore George Dewey, defeated the Spanish Armada in 1898…with Luisito Espinosa putting his WBC featherweight title on the line against Mexican technician Manuel “Mantecas” Medina.

On May 1, 1898, Commodore George Dewey moved the U.S. Asiatic Squadron into Manila Bay and went straight at the Spanish fleet. The Spanish never had a chance. Their major warships were sunk or wrecked before the day was out. Not one American sailor died in the fighting — a few men were hurt, but that was the extent of it. Over three centuries of Spanish dominion over the Philippine archipelago ended that morning. It was, by all accounts, a rout.

Then-President Fidel Ramos wanted it free to the public.

So it was.

WBC chief José Sulaimán flew in from Mexico City to take in the spectacle firsthand.

The Ring magazine sent its top writers.

The entire Philippine press corps, and all the president’s men, were on red alert.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Pundits even suggested— in jest—

100,000 of the attendees were security detail for the Prez. 

For one afternoon the historic Luneta Park on the shores of Manila Bay became the center of the boxing world — no VIP section, no premium seating, just people ten and twenty deep across the plaza, up in the trees, balanced on shoulders, spilling back into the surrounding streets because the park had long since run out of room.

There were 150,000 boxing fans at hand, by the conservative count. A good number of people ringside that day put the figure closer to 250,000.

Espinosa’s name will never be in the Guinness Book of World Records, for a multitude of excuses and reasons.

The promoters, politicians, security detail and organizers were buried in overwhelming logistics and political theater, and somewhere in all of that noise, a counting system never got set up. 

No one bothered to have people counters, headcount clickers, nothing a Guinness adjudicator could audit; not even a wide angle shot on film for later generations to dissect.

The whole event dissolved into the kind of story old-timers pass around like tall tales.

Nobody except one man

At ringside that afternoon was Hermenegildo “Hermie” Rivera — Espinosa’s first manager, a true boxing man who had been with Louie from the very start. 

Hermie read crowds the way he read everything in boxing — by feel and by instinct, and a lifetime of knowing what a big gate of epic proportions look like. 

By his own estimate, at least 140,000 to up to 200 thousand were there.

He knew what he was looking at and he knew the number was something the sport had never seen before. 

His son, one aspiring writer who loves to type, never doubted his accounts of The Battle of Manila Bay 2.

You see, when my father talked boxing, you listened and you believed. 

But his private tally on the sidelines of Luneta Park was never going to move a Guinness committee, and so the record got extinguished right there, uncertified.

October 17, 1989 — Loma Prieta. The SF-Oakland Bay Bridge cracked, the World Series stopped, and San Francisco Bay Area shook while the rest of the country watched the footage play on a loop. 

At the time, Espinosa was in Thailand, fighting at Rajadamnern Stadium in Bangkok, where he stopped Kaokor Galaxy for the WBA bantamweight title.

The aftershocks were felt (just figuratively) by theThai slugger, in the form of three left hooks by Espinosa. 

Lindol, the Filipinos dubbed him.

They call him “The Earthquake,” so wrote Al Corona and Jack Fiske afterwards.

It was a fitting moniker right from the very start.

Espinosa was not a brawler. He was rangy and composed, with power in both hands and a left hook that had a reliable way of settling arguments. 

By 1997 he had been to Bangkok and Tokyo both — Tokyo being where he lifted the WBC featherweight crown from Manuel “Mantecas” Medina the first time around. 

Espinosa was, and still is, a genuine two-division champion from an era when holding two world titles was still a rarity, and carried significance because of it.

The Manila rematch was a tough, tactical slugfest. Medina came with volume punching and kept attacking. 

Espinosa sniped and countered and matched him until the eighth, when heads crashed and a cut opened badly over Espinosa’s right eyelid.

The referee stopped it and the fight went to the cards. Technical decision — unanimous for Espinosa.

All 150,000 or 200,000 or even  250,000 in attendance — whatever the true number was — erupted, though no world record attendance was ever officially recorded.

The Irony and The Fallout

Seven months later, the fallout — and the tough luck — for Philippine boxing persisted.

December 6, 1997, Koronadal City. 

Espinosa against Carlos Rios of Argentina. The contract guaranteed $150,000 plus ten thousand in training expenses.

The night before the fight, Espinosa had collected only $29,000 — a small fraction of the purse. 

His manager Joe Koizumi — one of the most respected men in the fight game — slammed a chair into a restaurant floor and declared the fight was off.

To keep the promotion alive, Rodolfo “Rod” Nazario supposedly signed a personal guarantee, with Governor Hilario de Pedro as backer, for the remaining balance. 

A hundred thirty thousand, three hundred forty-nine American  dollars, pending…still.

Espinosa went through with the fight and stopped Rios in the sixth.

Nothing came of the haggling and finger-pointing in the ensuing years. Twenty-two years of litigation in the Philippine court system — longer than most boxing careers.

Nazario died in 2009 and left the debt to his descendants.

The Supreme Court of the Philippines finally ruled for Espinosa in November 2019– principal plus two decades of interest. There was moral victory, but no financial justice for the champion.

And still — to this date — no proper recompense for our dear champion.

San Francisco will definitely get its plaque for hosting the biggest boxing event since Milwaukee— that much we know. 

The City has everything Manila in 1997 did not — geo-fenced entry points, satellite imaging, bonded purses secured well before the opening bell. 

The technology makes that kind of failure in Manila and Koronadal essentially impossible now and everyone involved knows it.

Close to 400,000 Filipino Americans live in the Bay Area — Daly City, the North Bay, East Bay, the South Bay, spread across the whole region — one of the largest Filipino communities anywhere outside the Philippines. 

Civic Center Plaza is in their backyard

If the Filipino-Americans come out and support their Kababayan on July 11, the record does not merely get broken.

It gets reset, by the right people, in the right city, for reasons that go well beyond a Guinness plaque.

The fight is FREE for all in attendance …and also streams LIBRE on YouTube. 

A hundred four million Filipinos back home and 4 million more worldwide — children and grandchildren of the people who filled Luneta in 1997 — can watch from wherever they are through the magic of the internet. 

No ticket, no admission fees at the gate…massive screens for people to watch and the knowledge that a Filipino fighter is on that card in San Francisco, on the largest attendance stage the sport has ever put together.

Charley Suarez, an Filipino Army man, celebrated amateur, accomplished professional, and a man who by any honest accounting should already have a world title on his record. The decision that would have given him one went the other way. The people who were ringside knew what happened. The judges saw something else. 

His promoter, the highly respected Sampson Lewkowicz of Sampson Boxing, is one of the most respected personalities of the fight game, will see to it that Suarez gets a shot at the championship again.

So…here is the challenge: Let us Show up at the Civic Center in San Francisco on July 11, 2026, my Fellow Filipinos…

All of you, and all of us. 

Be counted! 

Be part of a world record attempt for the largest attendance for a boxing event, and it can be said that a Filipino boxer was a part of it.

FYI, Espinosa is still doing what champions do — still punching, still grinding, still passing the Manly Art to the next generation out of his own gym.

That is its own kind of world record.

When San Francisco hands over that Guinness plaque on July 11th, let the record show what Guinness never will.

Luisito Espinosa drew an uncountable sea of people to the shores of Manila Bay, fought his heart out for every one of them, absorbed everything the sport could throw at a man, and is still standing and keeps punchin’ for what’s rightfully his.

Some champions fade. 

Espinosa never got the memo.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The Arena That Endured War and Forged Generations of Filipino Greats

Filipinos simply call it the Rizal Memorial. The name alone still carries (heavy) weight. It was the arena that stood out, where fathers brought their sons, and where fond memories took root.

For every Filipino sports fan, photographs of the Coliseum —whether found in museum archives, tucked in yellowed scrapbooks, or hidden in the shoebox collections of those who once cheered inside its walls— still stir something profound.

I still carry a photo of this grand arena in my wallet as a keepsake from the days when my father would take me there to watch the best of the best.

It’s the last ancient arena on Philippine soil, and one that withstood the ravages of time and war. It could have been erased, paved over by progress. It still stands, thanks to nostalgia and the resolve of the Filipino people and a few committed leaders who chose memory over demolition.

Built With Purpose

The coliseum was named after Dr. José Rizal, one of our revered national heroes. Rizal stood for discipline, intellect, and sacrifice. The complex that bears his name came to symbolize those same values through sports and entertainment. The Rizal stands where the Manila Carnival once unfurled its banners — a place where brass bands, bright lights, and the hum of a city in celebration filled the air. The gaiety faded, but the ground never lost its sense of spectacle.

By 1927, the canvas tents and Ferris wheels gave way to something more enduring: a home for Filipino athletic pride.

When the Coliseum opened in 1934, just in time for the Far Eastern Championship Games, it was more than concrete and steel. It was a drumbeat in stone. Boxing, football, swimming, tennis, baseball; each sport claimed its moment beneath its Art Deco crown.

At its heart, the Coliseum roared — built for names that would last, for noise that would not be forgotten, for the telling of our national stories in sweat and triumph.

On December 23, 1939, Ceferino Garcia stopped Glen Lee in the 13th round before 40,000 fans at Rizal Memorial Stadium. Rain slicked the canvas as Lee rose groggily from two knockdowns, only for referee Jack Dempsey to wave it off.

It was their third meeting and Garcia’s finest…this was the second world title fight ever held in the Philippines. Garcia’s homecoming had the vibe of Pancho Villa vs. Clever Sencio world title fight in 1925 at Wallace Field Grounds.

In 1955, Gabriel “Flash” Elorde faced reigning featherweight king Sandy Saddler of America here. Saddler was taller, stronger, and favored to win, but Elorde was different. Round after round, he floated with southpaw grace and precision, refusing to bend. When the final bell rang, the judges gave him a unanimous decision. It wasn’t a title bout, but for Filipinos, it marked the dawn of boxing’s second golden age.

My father was not yet a reporter then…just a young fan in the bleachers…but he never forgot that night.

The Coliseum’s stage was never just for boxing. In 1934, baseball legends Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig played here.

In 1966, The Beatles drew over 50,000 fans, their music filling the same air that once carried the roar of prizefights.

The Night My Father’s Fighter Won

I remember sitting in the crowd with my mom the night my father’s fighter, Edgar “Socrates” Batoto, faced Japanese rising star Kenji Kato. In Round Four, Batoto landed a clean right hook to the stomach. Kato folded— gasping. One perfectly executed body punch. Batoto wasn’t a household name. But that night, under those concrete arches, he mattered. He would earn two rare world title shots later. 

My father— the late Hermie Rivera, reporter and lifelong supporter of Philippine sport— brought me here a few times. We watched Pony League baseball, Tour of Luzon bikathons, a marathon, and amateur tennis right on these same grounds. They weren’t always headline events. But they were ours. Rizal Memorial wasn’t just where champions were crowned. It was also where fathers passed something on. New stadiums may rise. New banners may be hung. But this was the foundation. And for many of us, it still is.

Architect Juan M. Arellano — who gave Manila its Post Office and Legislative Hall — designed the Coliseum solid, proud, enduring. His son Salvador — my father’s friend Dodong — later captured its soul on canvas.

If you pass through Manila, stop by. Stand on the steps. Look at the grandeur from the outside and the inside. You’ll feel what it meant— why it still matters. And if you can, bring someone younger, or older. Let them see it not just as a venue, but as a living chapter of who we are.

Sources, Acknowledgments, and Recommended Readings:     

• This article contains selected excerpts, quotations, images, and archival references used under the Fair Use provisions of Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act. These materials are presented for educational, scholarly, and cultural preservation purposes. Every effort has been made to properly attribute sources and limit use to what is necessary to honor the historical and cultural narrative.
• Attached photos are courtesy of the Philippine Boxing Historical Society, shared by Philboxing.com, http://m.philboxing.com/news/story-174938.html, and are re-reprinted for non-commercial use

Edgar ‘Socrates’ Batoto was a proud Waray, a fighter from Bato, Leyte—a land shaped by challenge, determination, and quiet strength.

Boxing can be both unforgiving and rewarding. Talent, skill, and grace can take a fighter far, but in the end, the sport favors those who can do one thing— finish the fight.

Batoto carried that warrior spirit into the ring, moving with the precision of a dancer and the sharpness of a blade. But for all his brilliance, he was missing one thing— the finishing touch that separates great fighters from champions.

He didn’t look like a brawler. Standing at 5’6”, the same height as Luisito Espinosa, Batoto had the sharp features and lean, wiry build of Bruce Lee. And like The Dragon, he relied on speed, precision, and technique over brute force. He wasn’t a slugger— he was a sniper, a fighter who picked his shots carefully and landed with accuracy.

Batoto was first managed by my father, Hermie Rivera, who saw something special in him—his footwork, his timing, his ability to box rather than brawl. My father once described two of his best fighters in a way that has always stayed with me:

“If Luisito Espinosa was Baryshnikov, then Batoto was Nureyev.”

Espinosa, a two-division world champion, was elegant— graceful and precise. Batoto, though? He was something else. His movements were raw, untamed— a perfect blend of instinct and artistry. Both had impeccable footwork.

But as beautiful as his style was, my father also knew what Batoto lacked…the ability to close the show.

For all his talent, for all the dazzling movement and picture-perfect punches, Batoto wasn’t a finisher. And in the unforgiving world of boxing, that would cost him.

Lessons from a Legend at Elorde’s Gym (Circa 1973-74)

I was just a boy, maybe seven or eight years old, when I first saw Batoto train at Elorde’s Gym in Sucat, Parañaque. Inside that legendary gym, the unmistakable presence of Flash Elorde loomed large. The retired world champion still carried himself like a man who could go twelve rounds if he had to.

From behind a swinging black heavy bag, Elorde’s sharp eyes locked onto a wiry Visayan fighter atop the ring— Socrates “Kid” Batoto. ‘The Kid’ was in his rhythm, unleashing a crisp left jab-right straight-left hook combo on the fly, his nimble footwork bringing to mind Muhammad Ali.

Down went Batoto’s sparring partner, and Elorde took notice.

“Ganyan, basta hindi bara-bara, Bai…pasok yan,” beamed the former world champion. (“Right on, stick with the plan, and you’re in.”)

Then Elorde did something unexpected.

“O, ako naman (My turn),” he said, slipping on a pair of shop-worn gloves.

Six or seven years into retirement, and still sharp as ever, Elorde stepped into the ring and went three full rounds with Batoto. He didn’t take it easy on him. He made him work, teaching him subtle slips, counterpunches, and noggin-shakin’ hooks.

When the sparring ended, Elorde turned to my father and said, “Hermie, konti pang hasa kay ‘Kid’ at pwede na sa kampeonato.”

(“A little more sharpening, and the Kid is ready for a championship.”)

That day, Batoto had earned the respect of one of the greatest Filipino boxers to ever live. But as great as he was, even Elorde couldn’t teach Batoto how to finish.

Finishing Kenji Kato (April 26, 1974)

I was still young, but I remember it well— the night Batoto fought Kenji Kato at the Rizal Memorial Coliseum.

It was the fourth round. A right hook to the breadbasket. Kato crumpled, gasping for air. It wasn’t a wild punch, not a desperate swing— it was clean, surgical, the kind of shot that breaks a man from the inside.

He had all the tools to be great. And he proved it when he got his shots at the world title.

So Close, Yet So Far (1974-1975)

The stories were my father’s, but iI vicariously lived through them. He told me about Mexico City, 1974— the night Batoto challenged Alfonso Zamora for the World Flyweight Championship. Against all odds, he knocked the fearsome puncher down. For a fleeting moment, it seemed like he had stunned not just Zamora, but the whole world.

Then there was Caracas, Venezuela, 1975— the night he fought for the World Bantamweight Championship against Betulio González. Batoto dropped him, too. But like in Mexico, it wasn’t enough.

Final Record & Retirement

After those world title fights, Batoto moved to bantamweight in 1975, but the speed that had once made him special had slowed. His footwork wasn’t as sharp, his stamina betrayed him, and soon, he walked away from the ring.

• Career Span: 1968 – 1978
• Total Fights: 35
• Wins: 20
• Losses: 14
• Draws: 1
• Knockouts: 8
• Rounds Fought: 249
• KO Rate: 40%

A Legacy Beyond Gold

He never held a world championship belt, but he had something else— a special place in our hearts.

When my dad was still around, we’d lose track of time in late-night conversations, replaying the fights, the close calls, the nights when the Kid stood one punch away from glory. Talk of grace and footwork— what made Filipino fighters great— always led us back to Socrates.

Tucked among my late dad’s mementos are photos of those days— reminders of a fighter we never forgot. I share them now, along with the memories I’ll carry always.

Back on March 29, 2016 at the 16th Elorde Awards Night thrown by the Flash’s family, Mr. and Mrs. Johnny and Liza Elorde, Batoto was honored for his achievements as Philippine and Orient Pacific Boxing Federation flyweight champion. 

Though time took us in different paths, it brings me peace knowing he lived a full life. The Kid, aka “Bat Socrates”, was surrounded by family and friends, not broken, not forgotten.

I never got the chance to say goodbye, and after all these years, I still wish I had. He wasn’t just a fighter I admired— he was family in his own way, the big brother I never had.

Note of Appreciation:

Salamat to the family of the great Flash Elorde for honoring Socrates Batoto. He is the champion directly below the likeness of The Flash in this photo (courtesy of Rappler, 2016). Image excerpted in compliance with the Fair Use Doctrine. 

Some men cover sports. 

Others give them meaning.

Manolo “Chino” Trinidad was the second kind.

He understood something many journalists forget over time — that sports were never just games to Filipinos. They were mirrors…sometimes escape…often a metaphor on life’s struggles.

Sports, particularly boxing, was the one stage where a small nation like the Philippines could stand beside the world’s best.

Chino understood that well.

He knew a good story the way an old trainer know a good fighter — almost immediately, before the headlines arrived, before history had time to settle. 

He had that rare mix of curiosity, warmth, instinct, and conviction that can’t be taught or polished in a television studio. It either lives inside a man or it doesn’t.

Spend even a few moments around him and you walked away feeling somehow more Filipino. His enthusiasm was real. His smile was never rehearsed. Even ordinary conversations took on energy in his presence because he approached people — and stories — with genuine fascination. 

Basketball, boxing, culture, literature, history — he moved through all of it with equal passion, because he understood they all pointed back to the same thing: identity.

That was his gift.

He made the ordinary matter.

And in doing so, he made us feel like we mattered too.

From his early days in Mandaluyong through his years at UP Diliman, Manolo Lacsamana Trinidad carried the same wide-eyed curiosity he inherited from his parents, Recah Trinidad and Fe Lacsamana. 

Decades in radio, television, and digital media never wore that wonder down. He still approached great athletes the way a young fan would — not hunting for scandal, but looking for the human story underneath— the sacrifice, struggle and what the achievement actually meant. 

He understood that Filipino champions were never just competitors. They became symbols for ordinary people who saw parts of their own lives reflected back in every fight.

Boxing spoke to him in a particular way.

Maybe because boxing strips everything else away — truth, endurance, courage, heart. 

And Chino loved truth.

Over the years he became closely associated with defining figures in Philippine boxing, Luisito Espinosa and Manny Pacquiao among them. 

But what struck me most was never just his access to champions. It was his reverence for those long removed from the bright lights. For those the world was beginning to forget.

Men like Francisco Guilledo — Pancho Villa — the first Filipino and the first Asian world boxing champion.

Plenty of people celebrate legends once history has safely claimed them. Chino did something harder. He remembered them while the forgetting was still happening.

Until the very end, he quietly worked alongside painter Rodolfo “Jun” Aquino and sculptor Frederic Caedo to restore Pancho Villa’s neglected grave. No cameras. No applause. No ratings.

Only respect and gratitude.

I think back often to November 2009, Los Angeles, during Manny Pacquiao’s preparations for Miguel Cotto. Chino invited me to an undisclosed studio where Manny was rehearsing music with Lito Camo and Madonna Decena. He told me to bring my family — my father Hermie Rivera, Mom Tina, my sister Christine.

That was Chino. 

But there was purpose underneath the warmth. He quietly wanted my father — one of Manny’s trusted advisers — to encourage Pacquiao to shorten rehearsal and rest before the biggest fight of his career. Even then, in a recording studio on a Tuesday night, he was looking after people, looking after the moment, and in his own quiet way, looking after the hopes of a nation.

Years later, at the Gala of Champions at the Manila Grand Opera Hotel near the old Olympic Stadium grounds in Santa Cruz, he encouraged my own modest efforts with the Philippine Boxing Historical Society. He saw immediately what I was trying to preserve — not just how Filipino fighters died, but how they lived, and what their lives meant to the dignity and spirit of our people.

Chino understood that memory matters.

He knew these men deserved to be remembered.

And he helped make sure they were.

My sister Charina put it simply after joining me on his live stream show Larong Pilipino at DZME:

“There are people that light up the room. He was one of them.”

That’s exactly right.

Some men leave accomplishments. Others leave warmth. Chino left both.

There will never be another Manolo “Chino” Trinidad. He belonged to that increasingly rare group of Filipinos who loved country without performing it, celebrated culture without arrogance, and pursued truth without losing kindness somewhere along the way.

I carry sadness knowing he is gone. But I carry greater gratitude that our paths crossed at all.

Gratitude that he encouraged this work of preserving Philippine boxing history.

Gratitude that I was able to tell him, while he was still here, what his friendship meant.

And gratitude that Philippine sports journalism once had a man like Chino Trinidad standing ringside — smiling that unmistakable smile, reminding us what storytelling could still be when guided by heart, honesty, and love of country.

Mabuhay, Manoy Chino!

Long after the final bell, your voice stays with us still.

Guro Dan Inosanto remains as sharp as the blades he’s mastered, and his presence still moves with the calm precision of someone who has studied rhythm all his life. At eighty-eight, he still moves with purpose— not just in body, but in spirit. His memory does more than recall— it carries the weight of generations.

My father once called him the Keeper of the Dancing Flame. 

I understand that now.

On a warm Saturday afternoon, June 21, 2025, my son Grant and I sat with Guro Dan at the Inosanto Academy of Martial Arts in Marina del Rey— a sanctuary for martial artists and disciples of self-defense. Wall-to-wall were vintage photographs, fight artifacts and quiet reverence. 

We arrived at his academy to speak about boxers. He welcomed us and graced us with much more. He spoke of rhythm and flow as it relates to martial arts, eastern and western boxing, and the art of self-preservation. We revisited teachings he’s shared before:

“We preserved our (Filipino) martial traditions by hiding them in plain sight— through dance, through ritual, through rhythm. When colonizers tried erasing our fighting systems, we disguised them in celebration. The footwork, the angles, the timing— it was all there. What looked like a performance was actually preparation. What looked like culture was survival.”

He fired a left jab and then stepped to the side. “Balance and footwork is key,” he said.

Guro Dan would know. He boxed during his time in the United States Army and later served as a martial arts instructor. To him, boxing and Filipino Martial Arts (Kali, Arnis, Eskrima) and bare-fisted disciplines like Panuntukan and/or Suntukan, were never separate— they were intertwined, bound by timing, movement, and memory.

At that moment, I understood— Filipino boxers weren’t shaped solely in gyms. They were raised in rhythm.

To me, what Guro Dan teaches goes beyond blades, fists and footwork. In his teachings, Filipino Martial Arts becomes a living map of survival passed down through generations.

He led us to a wall of tribute to Filipino boxers. On it were photos of Jimmy Florita, Speedy Dado, Pancho Villa, Rosalio “Sleepy” Caballero (a Stockton favorite who fought over 300-to-500 amateur and professional bouts), and Dencio Cabanela, Jr., and many others.

There was special reverence for the Docusen brothers: Maxie, the formidable Cajun Filipino pugilist who was avoided by many; Bernard, who faced the great Sugar Ray Robinson; and Regino, an accomplished fighter in his own right.

“Gene Tunney, the great heavyweight champion who beat Jack Dempsey,” he recalled, “was the one who encouraged the Docusens to go professional— despite all the racial and economic barriers at the time.”

He spoke of meeting former world champion and Filipino-American Salvador “Dado” Marino, who once taught at his high school in Hawaii. He remembered the story of former champion Willie Pastrano— Filipino and Italian— who only revealed his roots after winning the world title. Pastrano was the undisputed light-heavyweight king from 1963-65.

Guro Inosanto recalled growing up on the south side of Stockton, California, where even breaking curfew could land you in the back of a paddy wagon. He spoke of a fellow martial artist from Hawaii— Lucky Lucaylucay, an amateur boxing champion in both Kauai and Honolulu.

Lucky’s father, Buenaventura “Kid Bentura” Lucaylucay, was a Filipino immigrant and a professional boxing champion in his own right, holding titles across the islands. Kid Bentura once trained alongside Kid Moro— the same Kid Moro who famously gave Henry Armstrong all he could handle at a fight that resulted in a draw and a riot in Pismo beach, about 300 miles from Watsonville. Hammerin’ Hank was one of his favorite boxers, according to Guro Inosanto.

Among the framed memories was a personal photo with Tatay Ben Delgado, the trainer who once guided a young Manny Pacquiao.

We spoke reverently of Gaudencio Cabanela, Sr.— Kid Dencio— a fighter remembered for his courage, footwork, rhythm. Dencio, Sr. once outshone Llew Edwards at the Olympic Stadium in Santa Cruz, Manila, losing by 10-round decision but winning the crowd. A photo of his son, Dencio Cabanela, Jr., now hangs on Guro Dan’s wall.

Remembering Filipino Boxing Pioneers: The Thirty 

We also spent time looking through the photo gallery in this book— The Rise of Filipino Boxers in the Squared Circle— portraits and stories that my late father and his friend Jack Fiske have inspired. It paralleled Guro Inosanto’s deep admiration for the Greatest Boxers Made in the Philippines, and in that quiet moment, our shared respect for their legacy came into focus.

Guro Dan nodded. “I heard many stories about them when I was young,” he said. “My parents spoke Pancho Villa’s name with deep respect.”

That quiet confirmation told me everything. They weren’t just fighters. They too were dancers— moving to a rhythm only some could hear, but everyone could still envision. 

We spoke about the origins of the Filipino fighting arts…of Lapulapu, Magellan, of the Manila Men, the first Filipinos in America who created the first Filipino community in Saint Malo, Louisiana— the soldiers and sailors from the Manila Galleon era. It was his father, Guro Inosanto explained, who encouraged him to unify the terms Kali, Eskrima, and Arnis under the name Filipino Martial Arts— a phrase he discussed at the Smithsonian in 2010. The world listened.

Marina del Rey, California)

The Rhythm Remains

I asked about the connection between boxing and the blade, “Do the hands follow what the feet dictate?”

“The blade is an extension of the fist,” Guro Dan said. He nodded and broke it down— triangular steps, angled entries, subtle  misdirections. The very architecture of attack and deception in the ring, it became clear, didn’t come solely from Western fighting schools. Much of it was already encoded in the Filipino martial movement. And the concept of attack, retreat, offense and defense all start from the ground up. A solid base, i.e. balance and  footwork, is integral to any fighting system.

  The Keeper of the Dancing Flame           

It’s tempting to speak of legacy in the past tense.

But Guro Dan doesn’t just carry memory. He lives it. He was Bruce Lee’s friend, a fellow disciple and a trusted bridge between traditions. It was Guro Dan who introduced Bruce Lee to the single and double stick and helped refine the use of the nunchaku— techniques that later lit up the screen in Fist of Fury (1972), The Way of the Dragon (1972), Enter the Dragon (1973), Game of Death (1978).

What the world saw as cinematic action and spectacle was, in part, the quiet transmission of Filipino martial wisdom. And he passes our Filipino fighting arts forward— not just for posterity, but for those ready to carry the torch.

Guro Dan continues his life’s work  with the rhythm of Kid Dencio. He continues to walk the proverbial trail of Pancho Villa. He preserves the blade’s meaning— like Ceferino Garcia with the bolo punch.

Long live the Filipino boxers past and present…And may we all learn to walk the ring through their sacrifices— clear-eyed, grounded, and ready to answer the rhythm that still calls.

Long live the Keeper of the Dancing Flame…Mabuhay at Salamat, po, Guro Dan Inosanto.

Notes of Appreciation:

We’re grateful to Guro Paula Inosanto for welcoming our request and inquiry, and for accommodating us warmly. 

Thanks also to Guro John Maidment for offering a short but memorable lesson in Filipino Martial Arts. It was clear he’s spent a lifetime refining what he teaches. We were also joined by Guro Tsuyoshi Abe, Guro Joel Clark, and Guro Ricardo Crespo— instructors and longtime students at the Inosanto Academy. Their presence gave more weight to the visit. Guro Joel Clark has been part of the Academy for more than 30 years. Guro Abe and Guro Maidment have each trained and taught there for close to 40. Their commitment speaks for itself. We thank them all for sharing their time with us. It meant a great deal.

This tribute article has been previously published on PhilBoxing.com:

https://philboxing.com/news/story-174299.html

(Our eternal gratitude to our mentor Sir Dong Secuya)

All the photos from that day were taken by Grant Rivera, who captured the spirit of the day.

Two (or Three) Lefts Make a Right: Francisco Guilledo to Luisito Espinosa

The Filipino boxing aficionados of old called it Gancho al hígado, luego de izquierda a la cabeza— a hook to the liver, then a left to the head.

It was the favorite punch combination of Francisco Tingson Guilledo, the Filipino Pancho Villa, and one we still see in the squared circle today.

On October 18, 1989, at about the same instant the Great Loma Prieta Earthquake shook the San Francisco Bay Area, Luisito “Lindol” Espinosa toppled the mighty Khaokor Galaxy in his lair at Rajadamnern Stadium in Bangkok, Thailand…with the same punches spiced with a modern twist.

That moment, seared in memory and old newsprint, was retold on March 23, 2024, at the Gala of Champions in the Manila Grand Opera Hotel. Espinosa, reflective yet sharp, described exactly how the left series unfolded against Galaxy— a southpaw, flat-footed, a plodder, but powerful all the same.

“Nakita ko, bukas ‘yung tagiliran niya, at  yung mga kamay niya parang pumapaspas lang, tapos nakatayo lang siya nang tuwid. Kaya binato ko yung kaliwang jab…daplis lang pero tinaas pa lalo ‘yung kanan niya kaya pinakawalan ko agad sa atay, sinundan ko pa ng kaliwa ulit papunta sa kanan niyang kukote…

“Ang target ko talaga, panga. Narinig ko siyang umungol, pinaikot ko siya, tapos umabante siya, pilit akong itinutulak sa lubid. Pagpasok niya, nagbitaw ako ng parang kalahating uppercut sa baba niya pero sapul muna ‘yung kaniyang bituka — yun, sapul…boom! Ramdam kong gumuho baga niya, tapos bigla na lang pinunasan niya noo niya at tumirik ang mga mata niya. Doon ko naisip, ay, hindi na ‘to tatayo.”

(I saw his right flank wide open, both his hands pawing, upright, and almost like instinct I jabbed him with my left…it grazed him but his right hand went higher so I drove the left into the liver, then followed with the same hand toward his right temple. The target was his jaw. I heard him grunt, then I spun him. He pushed forward, trying to bully me onto the ropes. He advanced forward, so I tossed a half-uppercut for the chin, but his stomach caught it first— and boom. I felt his lungs deflate. Galaxy wiped his brow, then his eyes rolled back. Right there I knew he wasn’t getting up.)

Long before that spectacular win by Luisito, my father had asked a famed Mexican trainer to teach a then prospect Espinosa that series of punches at Señor Miguel Jara’s famed Star Boxing Gym in Alum Rock, San Jose, circa 1988. The results were fine, devastating. The aftershocks still linger. 

“The credit goes to Pancho Villa,” so said my father, Hermie Rivera, the late maker of champions.

Luisito Espinosa was a fellow disciple of that punch combo, carrying it into his own world championship nights. In Mexico, the same rhythm became a national signature. Julio César Chávez Sr. built his Hall of Fame career around the punishing body-to-head hook, Marco Antonio Barrera sharpened it into a surgeon’s tool, Juan Manuel Márquez timed it with counterpunching genius, Salvador Sánchez carried the same fluid motion in his short but brilliant career, and Erik “El Terrible” Morales unleashed it with the fearless aggression that once edged out Manny Pacquiao. They all shared the lineage of Villa’s double left, throwing it with pride, not knowing its roots traced back to a Filipino flyweight. The younger generation of fighters, particularly in Mexico, throw this combination often. They’ve made careers out of it, but many have no idea where it truly began.

The well of inspiration, in my mind’s eye, truly belongs to Pancho Villa, who once told The Brooklyn Citizen in 1925: “My best punch? They is two of them. First I hook to the body, and then with the same movement, I hook to the jaw.”

Born in the Visayas in 1901, Villa was documented as an Iloilo native, though most accounts now suggest he first saw light in La Carlota, Negros Occidental. His life was marked by hardship and hunger. By his teens he had run away from home, scraping meals and fighting to survive. Boxing gave him a way out. Small, wiry, and fast, he carried dynamite fists that became his passport.

The double left— liver first, jaw second— wasn’t just a trick of mechanics. It was born of necessity as well as preference. As Villa explained to The Brooklyn Citizen after upsetting Johnny Buff: “I no step back. I hook him to the chin. Then I know I have him whipped.”

Johnny Buff was the first to fall to it. Then came Jimmy Wilde, the legendary “Mighty Atom.” Villa said it was the body shot that beat him. “As soon as I hit him with the left, he clinched. I could feel his fingers pressing hard on my arm, as if he was afraid to let go.”

Villa’s hooks left marks even tougher fighters couldn’t forget. Canadian great Jimmy McLarnin, who later became a welterweight champion, remembered it with painful clarity. In words preserved by author Peter Heller, McLarnin admitted: “It was a tough fight. On the inside he kept hitting me on the ears. He was a great infighter. I wound up with two black ears. I heard of people winding up with black eyes, but I wound up with two black ears. He was a great little fighter.”

What made Pancho Villa beloved was not just his fighting style but the way he lived. Reporters portrayed him as a whirlwind. One cartoon showed him grinning wide, flanked on one side by sketches of his double left and on the other by his reckless spending. “A free and easy spender, likes to break $1,000 bills at parties,” the caption read.

In his twenties and suddenly wealthy, he blew through more than a quarter of a million dollars. “I live but the once,” he told The Brooklyn Citizen.

“I like not the money itself, I like what him buys.” But even with all the flash, he remained a gym rat, drilling that double left that carried him from La Carlota’s sugarcane shadows to Madison Square Garden and The Polo Grounds’ bright lights.

In Mexican gyms, still, the call is drilled the same way…body first, then head. In Filipino gyms, trainers say it in Tagalog or Visayan, but the message is the same.

…Una al hígado, luego arriba…One to the liver, then upstairs…

It is Villa’s ghost teaching through calloused mitts.

Pancho Villa did not live long enough to see his legacy fulfilled. In 1925, at just twenty-three, he died from complications of an infected tooth only ten days after his fight against Jimmy McLarnin on July 4th, 1925 at the Oaks Ball Park in Emeryville, California. But the imprint of his style— especially that double left— has never been forgotten.

When young Filipino, Mexican, American fighters, one and all, throw the left hook to the body and double it to the head, they are not just imitating a series of blows. They are calling back the ferocious Little Brown Doll from the Philippines who became the first Filipino and Asian world champion.

Villa’s double left was more than a punch. It was a philosophy…A strike to open the door, another to claim destiny.

Greatness often hides in the smallest things…a quick shift of the hips, a bend of the waist, a second punch when one would suffice, the courage not to step back when everyone expects you to retreat.

Sources, Credits and Recommended Readings:

• This article has been previously published on PhilBoxing.com
• Article Link: https://philboxing.com/news/story-174962.html
• This article contains selected excerpts, quotations, images, and archival references used under the Fair Use provisions of Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act. These materials are presented for educational, scholarly, and cultural preservation purposes. Every effort has been made to properly attribute sources and limit use to what is necessary to honor the historical and cultural narrative.

• The Brooklyn Citizen (Brooklyn, New York) • Sun, Feb 1, 1925 • Page 17
• The Bangkok Post, October 19, 1989
• Peter Heller’s In This Corner…! Forty-Two World Champions Tell Their Stories was first published in 1973. Book was reissued in paperback by Da Capo Press in 1994 (ISBN ‎9780306806032).

A Journey Through Keepsakes From Thrilla in Manila to The Fight of the Century

What’s the point of an autograph, really? On the surface it’s just ink—somebody’s name scrawled on a ticket, a program, maybe the back of a fight stub. But if you’ve ever stood in line, waiting, heart beating a little too fast as the pen slid across paper, you know it feels like more.

For that blink of a second, you’re close enough to brush against greatness.

I’ve got a few myself, signed by my favorite fighters. Each one carries its own story—at least to me. But over time I’ve come to see that autographs are only one piece of a larger puzzle.

The real story lives in boxing ephemera: programs, clippings, gloves, even a mouthguard. Odd little things that outlast the final bell and keep the memory breathing.

My father, Hermie Rivera, spent over fifty years as a journalist. Chasing autographs wasn’t his thing. He went to fights to write, to report, to be a witness. And often enough, his accounts themselves turned into keepsakes.

At the Thrilla in Manila in 1975, he served as emcee at one of the press conferences. The Greatest— Muhammad Ali— never one to let the spotlight wander, waved him aside with a grin:

“Hermie, you’re not as dumb as you look.” 

There were plenty of other keepsakes. Long before anybody said “selfie,” he had snapshots with Don King, with legendary ring broadcaster Don Dunphy.

He even introduced me to Joe Frazier at a training camp hotel. No photo of that—just my word.

The press corps broke into laughter. Writers and his friends like Recah Trinidad, Nick Joaquin, even Smokin’ Joe Cantada later slipped the moment into print and verse. 

To my father it was nothing more than another day on the job.

A few days after the fight—the most brutal and spectacular battle ever fought in the ring—he saw Ali again. A photographer handed him a picture: Ali holding a child, the crowd pressing close. And there in the front corner stood my father—the only one smiling. Ali signed it. That small act turned the photo into the crown jewel of our family’s collection.

He had stacks of photos through the years, but this one lasted because my late mother, Cristina Pasaoa Rivera, tucked it away safe.

Last year at the Gala of Champions, my sister, Charina Rivera, placed it in my hands. Finding it again—well, it felt like stumbling onto a hidden treasure. What could have been lost forever became a thread tying Ali’s inscription, my father’s grin, and my family’s care in keeping memory alive.

When it came to souvenirs, my father leaned toward the simple: press passes, fight programs, news clippings. To some they looked like clutter. To me they’re treasure chests. Every credential opens the door to a night when fists flew and history got written under bright lights.

That’s the magic of ephemera. It isn’t meant to sit in drawers forever. It’s meant to be pulled out, handled, remembered. Jim Croce said it best in his classic tune Photographs and Memories. A bent program, a faded clipping, a ticket stub with a smudge of ink—each one hums like a verse of a song.

And before glossy programs and autographs, there was Pierce Egan. I’m fortunate to hold three complete volume sets of his Boxiana in our collection, along with Life in London and Sporting Anecdotes.

They are the cornerstones of boxing literature.

Back in the 1800s, Egan gave bare-knuckle days their voice—slangy, lively, alive. Reading him now, you step into a world where fights were “mills” and crowds were “the fancy.” It would take a dozen lifetimes to read his books, but they will forever remind me—as once imprinted upon me by my father and his friend Jack Fiske—that sometimes the story itself (even the mere fact of having an artifact) is the keepsake.

Other treasures rest on my shelves: more than ten pairs of original Sol Levinson gloves, stitched in San Francisco nearly a century ago. They’re not polished. They’re worn, softened by sweat and resin. Not ornaments—evidence. Fighters almost never signed gloves; most thought it unlucky.

Only one pair in our collection carries a signed name: Benjamin Gan, better known as Small Montana, the second Filipino world champion. The rest stay blank, but alive with history.

And then there’s the piece I never saw coming. Dr. Ed dela Vega, Pacquiao’s dentist, friend to many (which is an understatement), and an unsung humanitarian placed in my hands something remarkable: the official backup mouthguard he made for Manny “PacMan” Pacquiao before the “Fight of the Century” with Floyd Mayweather Jr. in Las Vegas, May 2, 2015.

It’s striped in Pacquiao’s colors, shaped by his bite. It never touched the ring, but it waited in the corner that night, ready if needed.

It is his—saliva and all. 

Strange as it sounds, it feels more personal than any autograph.

Posters fade, ink smears, but a mouthguard belongs to no one but the fighter.

And here’s the part that hits home: my father was there too, covering that night as a reporter. Pacquiao and Mayweather in the ring, my father at ringside, Dr. Ed in the corner, and myself now the keeper of the mouthguard—it feels like all those threads tied themselves into one story.

Today, the language of keepsakes has shifted. My father’s generation leaned toward scrapbooks, clippings, magazines, with autographs sprinkled in from the 1950s through the nineties.

All of it became stories they told later on.

My fascination has leaned toward gloves, programs, books—and yes, even a mouthguard.

Fans today lift their phones, lean in, and snap a selfie. Faster, flashier, instantly shared. But the impulse hasn’t really changed. Whether ink on a program, sweat on a glove, blood on trunks, or pixels in the cloud—we’re all reaching for the same thing: proof that we stood near greatness, even if just for a moment.

Some people laugh at holding on to something like that. But that’s the paradox of collecting. The most meaningful pieces are usually the plain ones: a note folded in a drawer, a glove stiff with dried sweat, a mouthguard still marked by teeth. Each one holds memory. Or maybe it holds us.

In the end I hear my father’s words:

We are guardians and keepers of memories. Share it.

And that thought pulls everything together—Boxiana, Mr. Fiske’s archives, Ali’s photo, the Levinson gloves, Pacquiao’s mouthguard, even today’s selfies. None of it is truly ours. We keep these things for a while, then pass them on.

It was my father who introduced me to Dr. Ed dela Vega, whose hands crafted Pacquiao’s mouthguard. And it was my father who pointed me toward the best editor I could ask for—the man who brings these stories alive for readers around the world: Mr. Dong Secuya, founder of PhilBoxing.com. In his work, as in my father’s and Dr. Ed’s, the same truth shows itself: we are caretakers of memory, not owners, bound by the duty to share.

Maybe that’s our role.

To keep boxing’s song alive—verse by verse, artifact by artifact: autographs, gloves, books, and mouthguards, saliva and all.

Notes of Appreciation

This article has been previously published on PhilBoxing.com and can be found through this link https://philboxing.com/news/story-175138.html

With gratitude, we express our solemn promise to be stewards of some memorabilia shared by friends like the honorable Dr. Ed dela Vega, whose contributions to the history of Philippine Boxing History often goes unmentioned.

Mr. Manny Pacquiao’s mouthpiece, crafted and designed by Doc Ed will be featured in our upcoming exhibit in San Francisco this summer 2026.

Acknowledgements:

This article contains selected excerpts, quotations, images, and archival references used under the Fair Use provisions of Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act. These materials are presented for educational, scholarly, and cultural preservation purposes.
Every effort has been made to properly attribute sources and limit use to what is necessary to honor the historical and cultural narrative.

Pierce Egan — Mr. Boxiana who became ‘The Life of London’ 

Pierce Egan didn’t just belong to “The Fancy” — he defined it, embodying the culture and spirit of the prize ring:

“As many of our readers may not be flash to the above term, it perhaps becomes necessary to state, that it simply means, any person who is fond of a particular amusement, or closely attached to some subject: a lively instance fortunately presents itself in illustrating the phrase beyond all doubt— as the old woman observed, when she kissed her cat, that it was— ‘her fancy!’” — Boxiana, Vol. I (1812)

To revel in the simple pleasures of life, leisure, and sport is to stand in good company with Pierce Egan. 

No one captured the essence of English culture and the prize ring quite like Mr. Egan. 

Far more than a chronicler of the “Manly Art of Boxing,” he lived and breathed the English martial art, championing it as a science and promoting it as a path to exercise, self-defense, and mastery of one’s being.

In nineteenth-century sporting language, The Fancy referred to the entire brotherhood of the prize ring—fighters, patrons, gamblers, journalists, and the devoted followers of the Sweet Science. 

Through his celebrated Boxiana volumes, Egan became the chronicler and voice of that remarkable world.

In his 1845 bookend to Boxiana, ‘Every Gentleman’s Manual: A Lecture on the Art of Self-Defence’, Egan celebrated boxing as a worthwhile physical activity, an indispensable skill for self-preservation, and an essential tool for personal empowerment. 

To him, boxing represented universal values of respect, discipline, and relentless hard work — qualities that fortify individuals to embrace the triumphs of victory and endure the lessons of defeat.

Historical Contributions

During the early 19th century, Egan’s prolific writing brought England’s bare-knuckle champions to life, immortalizing legends like Tom Cribb, Bill Richmond, Tom Molineaux, John Broughton, Daniel Mendoza, and Jem Belcher. 

His vibrant, detailed prose transformed sports and investigative journalism.

Immortal Works

Egan’s legacy is enshrined in his magnum opus, the Boxiana series, and other notable works that vividly chronicled Regency culture:

• Boxiana (Vols. I–III, 1813–1821)
• Life in London (1821)
• Sporting Anecdotes (1821)
• The Life of an Actor (1825)
• New Series Boxiana (Vols. I–II, 1828–1829)
• Finish to the Adventures of Tom and Jerry (1828)
• Pierce Egan’s Life in London and Sporting Guide, a weekly sporting paper (1831)
• Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports and Mirror of Life: Embracing the Turf, the Chase, the Ring, and the Stage (1832)
• Every Gentleman’s Manual: A Lecture on the Art of Self Defence (1845)

The British Library (Tuesday, May 17, 2022)

Beyond the Prize Ring:  A Cultural Icon

Egan’s influence extended far beyond boxing, showcasing his multifaceted talent as a keen observer, pioneering compositor, meticulous editor, and superb printer — a rare fusion of literary prowess and storytelling mastery. His Life in London (1821), illustrated by George Cruikshank and dedicated to King George IV, became a cultural sensation. With its vivid portrayal of London’s nightlife, the book captivated readers across social classes, achieving extraordinary success with 65 editions published.

Pierce Egan transformed how sports were perceived and reported, emphasizing their cultural significance and societal impact. A tireless advocate for boxing, he championed it as a noble art capable of reducing societal violence—a view shared by contemporaries like Gentleman John Jackson, John Broughton, and Daniel Mendoza, who built amphitheaters dedicated to teaching the pugilistic arts and sciences.

An active and adventurous man, Egan traveled extensively across England to document the vibrant sporting culture of his time. His contributions extended well beyond boxing, encompassing racing, hunting, cricket, racquets, cockfighting, equestrian pursuits, and other popular activities. Much of his slang-filled poems and lively sporting songs gained popularity in his compendiums Sports Anecdotes (1820) and Book of Sports: Mirror of Life (1832).

Egan’s fame was not without controversy. 

Critics and Victorian-era moralists denounced his vivid depictions of slums and debauchery, with some even calling for government censorship. 

Through adversity, Egan thrived, popularizing the trend of “slumming,” which encouraged London’s elite to venture into the East End’s grittier locales. 

Plays inspired by his works dominated the stage, at times even surpassing Shakespearean productions in popularity.

It’s downright astonishing how much of Egan’s lively slang still punches above its weight today. His slang captured the lively spirit of Regency England and remains relevant today.

Sure, some of it has “kicked the bucket”, but dive back 200 years, and you’ll find Egan’s lot calling a pawnbroker “Uncle” and referring to money as “soft stuff.” They’d “drill” around town in “squads” and “bunches,” painting the town red. A “pull” meant sway with the police, just as it does now—proof that Egan’s knack for the spoken and written word was well ahead of its time. In those old days, they had “dead ones,” “nutty ones,” “daffy ones,” “old soaks,” “deadbeats,” and “good fellows” as we do now. “Coffin nails” then referred to spirituous liquors instead of cigarettes. The sports of 1820 “trotted too fast” and “went the pace,” as sports always will.

Egan’s slang for drink is particularly colorful— “blue ruin,” a “shove in the mouth,” “slushing his worries,” a “clap of thunder,” or a “piece of tripe,” while beer was a “heavy wet.” People with “loose screws”,  annoyed that generation as they do now.

• “Queer street” (state of confusion, senselessness or disorientation, often after a hard punch in boxing)
• “Tow street” (being in a difficult or precarious situation, especially in a fight. Today, we might say someone is “on the ropes” or “in a tight spot.”)
• “Take on cargoes” (to drink alcohol heavily—Modern equivalents include “getting loaded” or “getting hammered”
• “Three sheets to the wind” (completely intoxicated)
• “High flyers “ (successful, ambitious, or showy people)
• “Knowing ones” (savvy and knowledgeable people)
• “Wise guys,” (smart-alecks or people who think they know better than others)
• “Green ones.” (inexperienced or naive individuals)
• “Ripe ones” (People who are ready or mature)

A Lasting Legacy

Rare are firsthand accounts of the great Pierce Egan, whose life remains shrouded in mystery despite his immense contributions to literature and sport. 

Historians of both past and present continue to revere Mr. Egan, finally granting him the long-overdue recognition he deserves. 

While much is known about his prolific body of work, far less is recorded about the man himself, making it a privilege to reprint a rare firsthand reflection.

In his 1895 autobiography, George Augustus Sala, the esteemed British author and publisher, recalled meeting Pierce Egan in his later years: 

“Pierce Egan, as I remember him, had a rather quavering voice, and a shrinking, shuffling manner, as though the poor old gentleman had found the burden of his great life a misery to him, and was yearning to shake it off. I had drunk deep of his books from my earliest boyhood. I had copied, in pen-and-ink, scores of the etchings made by George and Robert Cruikshank for the illustration of “Life in London,” and I could not help asking myself, mentally, and with mournful dismay, whether this withered patriarch would be the renowned Pierce Egan, whose proficiency in slang had been praised in Blackwood’s Magazine, who had been the life and soul of several sporting “free-and-easies,” and a referee at a hundred prize fights.

Sala continued, “Still, you will remember that which Burton says of the occasional relaxation of Democritus:—” Howso-ever it was, there he lived at last in a garden in the suburbs, wholly betaking himself to his studies and a private life, saving that sometimes he would walk down to the haven, and laugh heartily at such variety of ridiculous objects which there he saw.

“So it was with Pierce Egan the Elder. I forget whether he smoked; but Holt and I soon managed to wreathe his old head with garlands of cerulean vapour, not from cigars, if you please, but from good honest “yards of clay,” of the Broseley pattern; and then, after a few glasses of rum punch, the cockles of Pierce’s heart were warmed; the old man became eloquent; he began to talk of Tom Spring and Tom Belcher, and Bob Gregson and other famous gladiators of the bygone; he told us of Jack Mitton and of Gully, the pugilist, who retired from the prize ring to become eventually a Member of Parliament. He descanted on the cock-fighting, the bull-baiting, the badger-drawing, the rat-ting, and the dog-and-duck fighting he had seen in the brave days of old; he had known 

“Shaw the Life-guardsman, he had played billiards with Jack Thurtell; he was the abstract and chronicle of the manners of an age which had vanished, and which, it is most devoutly to be hoped, will never repeat itself on this sublunary sphere again. It was not an intellectual evening, and from the point of view of the higher morality, not a very edifying one; still, altogether, the night was one of the most entertaining that I ever passed.”

Modern day writers, journalists and historians have not forgotten about Mr. Egan. In The Sweet Science (1956), A.J. Liebling offered high praise, referring to Egan as ‘the Froissart of the London prize-ring’, ‘the Sire de Joinville of the London prize-ring’,  and ‘the Edward Gibbon and Sir Thomas Malory of the old prize-ring.’ Liebling further noted: “Egan’s round-by-round stories, with ringside highlights and betting fluctuations, are masterpieces of technical reportage, but he also saw the ring as a juicy hunk of English life, in no way separable from the rest.”

Collage: ‘Prizefighter: The Life of Jem Belcher’. Written and directed by Matt Hookings

Boxiana and Life in London and Sporting Guide served as the inspiration for a recent Hollywood movie, in 2022– ‘Prizefighter: The Life of Jem Belcher’. Written and directed by Matt Hookings, who also starred as Jem Belcher, the film serves as a throwback to Regency England. With Russell Crowe in the role of Jack Slack, Prizefighter offers a rich glimpse into a time when boxing dominated the scene, immersing viewers in the grit and glory of the fight game’s early days. Glenn Cox delivered a compelling portrayal of Egan, capturing his mannerisms and the distinctive and engaging speech that brought the boxing historian to life. 

As the late Professor John Cowie Reid reverently wrote in his knockout of a book ‘Bucks and Bruisers: Pierce Egan and Regency England (1971)’: 

“In a sense, every modern sports writer, gifted with the ability to report an event accurately, to capture the feel and colour of the occasion, to transmit something of its excitement and the reactions of the spectators, is Pierce Egan’s heir. He took sports reporting away from the stuffy, stilted, impersonal style which had been the norm and made it personal, picturesque, detailed, racy, and fun to read; he also saw sport as a social phenomenon of no mean importance and related it to the life of his times. 

“For these achievements, as much as for his value as a literary innovator, a forerunner of greater writers, a well of social history, and for his independent, ebullient, resilient and likeable personality, he deserves a good deal more than the occasional patronizing glancing reference or grudging and usually inaccurate footnote which he is accorded in whichever literary histories happen to notice him.”

In Memoriam 

“We owe a debt of gratitude to Pierce Egan. His descriptions of a well-placed blow—its intent, impact, and aftermath—still excite. You will find the heart of London in his works—Boxiana and Life in London. Boxing has become a metaphor for someone like me. And for that, I have to thank Mr. Egan,” My late father, Hermie Rivera, often reflected on Egan’s impact.

Pierce Egan passed away on August 3, 1849 in his home in the Islington area of London. 

His spirit and life’s work endures in the vernacular of the streets, the higher and lower strata of society, the artistry and science of the boxing ring, and in the hearts and minds of those who know a good story when they see one. 

Sources, References, Acknowledgements and Recommended Readings

• All references in this article are based on multiple sources like Boxiana, Life in London, PhilBoxing.com, The Ring, and others
• The Monumental Inscriptions of Middlesex Vol 2. J Russell Smith. p. 37. (Cansick, Frederick Teague (1872)
• ‘Bucks and Bruisers: Pierce Egan and Regency England (1971). J.C. Reid (John Cowie Reid), published by Routledge & Kegan Paul, London, 1971.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​
• ‘Prizefighter: The Life of Jem Belcher’. Written and directed by Matt Hooking (2022)
• The Life and Adventures of George Augustus Sala, Written by Himself (1894/1895), printed by Cassell and Company, Limited, London. 
• The Sweet Science by Abbott Joseph Liebling (The Viking Press, New York, 1956 with the texts first appearing in The New Yorker)
• This article contains selected excerpts, quotations, images, and archival references used under the Fair Use provisions of Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act.
• These materials are presented for educational, scholarly, and cultural preservation purposes. 
• Every effort has been made to properly attribute sources and limit use to what is necessary to honor the historical and cultural narrative.