The Cedar Rapids Defender

Muscatine Boxing Club Wins Iowa Golden Gloves

The Defender April 23, 2016 Sports 0 Comments

For all its brutality, boxing is saving lives says Iowa Golden Gloves chairman Donald Avant. Youth from across the state come to Des Moines for the annual amateur boxing competition and have been doing so for 75 years. The Iowa Golden Gloves is designed to showcase sportsmanship and provide young athletes with a forum to display their talent in the boxing ring.

Old newspapers are filled with headlines relating to the Golden Gloves tournament in Iowa. Donald Avant remembers those days fondly. Front-page coverage may be gone, says Avant, but the tournament continues to be a success. Avant points to record participation and attendance as evidence that his beloved sports isn’t dying. He believes strongly in the message of commitment, pride and emotional development. It’s the company line that he repeats like a used car salesman, which just happens to be exactly what Avant does for a day job.

“The sport gives kids hope, structure, something to do other than run around causing trouble. A lot of the kids that train with our volunteer coaches don’t have fathers. If we can help fill just a small void then I consider my effort a success.”

Many of the boxers fighting in the 2013 Golden Gloves are short order cooks, construction workers and students. They convey a similar message. Without boxing, their life wouldn’t be the same.

17 year old Gregorio Aguilar is competing in the 123 pound weight category at the Iowa Golden Gloves. Aguilar has just returned from a national competition in Washington, where he lost in his first bout. It was his first experience at the national level.

“After the fight in Washington, we thought we may have lost, but as I was taking off his gear he looked right at me and said he would win in Des Moines. Almost brought a tear to my eye,” said Aguilar’s coach and mentor Lance Williams.

Aguilar is passionate for boxing and his determination is noticeable as he talks. He’s excited about the exposure he’ll earn over the weekend and reiterates that boxing helps him set goals.

Williams says he’s adopted Aguilar as a little brother and spends evenings with the teenager in the gym.

“I see a talented kid who can use this to build confidence. He can go on and do whatever he wants with life. This experience helps,” added Williams.
Long time coach and current referee Jim Barr insists that traditional American sports aren’t the only option for disjointed youth. He feels boxing gets a bad reputation as a recreational sport, pointing out that youth football causes significantly more injuries. Barr is deeply connected with the major boxing gyms of Iowa, saying he uses his vast network to point kids to the right mentor.

“I tell parents all the time, you want your kid coming home with broken bones and a concussion, sign them up for football. I’ll treat your kid like my own son if he wants to join this program.”

Amateur competition differs from professional boxing in that the idea isn’t to hurt your opponent, but to out-skill him. Officials are extremely cautious when dealing with a participant who may be injured, instantly halting the bout if someone is stunned. Amateurs also wear padded headgear and large pillow-like gloves, which lessen the impact of head blows. Violence is an unavoidable side effect of boxing, although each boxer wears their bloody nose like a badge of honor.

The boxing ring emanates with hissing sound, as the boxers sling leather through the air. Shouting instruction and encouragement is prohibited in the amateurs, so the bouts are conducted in relative quite. You clearly hear the footwork, as the boxers bounce and stomp on the sponge-like canvas. Each blow lands with a slap, spraying moisture through the air.

Greg Aguilar falls behind during his bout Friday night, yet courageously rallies back in the final two rounds to win. In the final, Aguilar captures the championship in his weight class, going home with a shiny new belt. He will represent Iowa in Salt Lake City at the National Tournament of Champions.

Not every participant has the stereotypical, “boxing saved me from the streets” tale, but the impact of the intense preparation required is easily seen.

“Before I started coming down (to the gym), I struggled to focus. I didn’t know what structure was. I couldn’t balance life, work and school,” said a participant who lost his bout.

Local boxer Tristan James trains at the Southeast Des Moines Boxing Club and is also a volunteer at the event. James, a veteran of this competition, does not box Friday night but is responsible to gloving each fighter before they enter the ring. Donald Avant calls James his greatest success story of recent years. In the finals, James wins the 201 pound championship representing his hometown gym.

Amateur boxing faces a financial struggle not dreamed of in the glory days, says Donald Avant. Speaking with him weeks before the tournament, Avant stops short of asking for a donation, but repeats that he finances the Iowa Golden Gloves strictly through charity.

Others don’t see it quite like this, advancing the point that there is no difference between amateur boxing and pro boxing.

“This event is great for young people. Gives kids something to dedicate themselves to, but don’t let them fool you. Somebody profits from this, just like they do in the pros,” said an anonymous trainer while pointing at the concession stand offering food and drink at a markup.

No question the participants and coaches view the tournament as overwhelmingly positive. Some 43 bouts are held over the two nights. The event appeared hastily arranged a few weeks ago, but comes off without delay. All Play in downtown Des Moines is packed Saturday night with fans paying between $15-20 at the door.

Donald Avant points to winners like Gregorio Aguilar and Tristan James as proof the Golden Gloves provide a fantastic outlet. It’s up to him, Avant says, to see that amateur boxing in Iowa continues to thrive.

The Dark Knight of Iowa City

The Defender April 9, 2016 Featured 0 Comments

Iowa City is a beautiful place in the summer time. The town that wraps itself around the Iowa River has a certain shine to it during the summer months. The students have mostly cleared out. Traffic is light. The downtown area is relatively peaceful. It’s usually too hot for the panhandlers to sit outside all day in the Pedmall and bother people. The nature trails are filled with residents enjoying the journey through the heart of this wonderful city.

Back in the summer of 2006 I was taking in one of these glorious summer days with a good friend of mine. In those days, I worked in the public service industry which meant most of my Saturday’s were spent on the grind. This particular weekend afternoon was unusual. I was not needed at work. The entire day was mine.

My friend and I decided to kill some time by cruising the beautiful city while enjoying some cold soda pops. Both single, enjoying each other’s company, chatting about times gone by and times to look forward to. Even though this day was just 4 short years ago, times were completely different.

We found ourselves on the far outskirts of west Iowa City. Right about where the edge of town gives way to cornfields and rural highways. It was stifling hot that day. The sun beamed in through the windshield. The windows were rolled up and the air conditioning was blasting. Montel Jordan’s “Something for the Hunnies” hummed on the car stereo. We came to a 4 way stop sign.

A puzzling figure grabbed our attention. To our immediate left, stopped at the stop sign, was a man riding a bike, who was wearing some type of skin tight black suit that covered his entire body. I’m talking head to toe. Not even his eyes were revealed. The sight was so startling that we both recoiled in our seats like he was lining up to shoot us or something. Yelling ensued and we sped away down a country road screaming at each other, “WHAT WAS THAT!?!?!”

The sight of this man was disturbing for a few key reasons. One, we were in the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t a car in sight. We didn’t see him coming at all. He just appeared out of nowhere at the stop sign like he was the Invisible Man from that bad movie in the 1930’s. Two, he was covered in that skin tight black suit. Picture spider man only without the blue and red spider pattern all over his suit. There were no holes in the suit to accommodate vision. How could he see and ride a bike with that costume on? Three, it was a brutally hot and humid summer day in the Midwest. If I were to choose the last thing on Earth I would possibly want to be doing on that day I would choose, “Putting on my skin tight black suit and riding a bike alone down country roads in Iowa.” It was so hot that day it probably was hazardous to his health to be dressed like that while working up a sweat.

I’ve concluded as the years have gone by that health was probably the motivation behind the outfit. The rider may have had some type of skin condition where he couldn’t expose any of his skin to intense sunlight. He had a passion that he was going to pursue regardless of his health. Good for him. It was either his health or some guy who just got a kick out of freaking out random motorists that encounter him and his black suit on the outskirts of Iowa City. What do you think?

Marion Casey’s: 40 Ounce Frieda

The Defender February 9, 2016 Crime 0 Comments

I’ve had a lot of odd jobs in my day. Bounced around from place to place wherever I saw opportunity. Took a side job here, a side job there. I once worked for Chezik Bell Honda in Iowa City and after a while discovered that my paychecks were bouncing! How big of a WTF is that? To this day I haven’t been paid for two months worth of slave labor I gave that place. Whatever. I will have my vengeance in this life or the next Chezik Bell.

I’ve held down the graveyard shift at a plastic bottle factory. I’ve had jobs placing bricks on a conveyor belt. I’ve voluntarily dressed up like a clown and cooked stir fry on a grill cranked up to 500 degrees. In public mind you. I’ve met and worked with multiple ex cons. Drug addicts? No problem. Sex offenders? I call them co workers. I’ve answered to a boss so bipolar the company kept someone on staff that made daily trips to refill his prescriptions. Pretty much have seen it all and done it all at the lower end of the US economy.

Of all the titles I’ve held the most unique by far was “Gas Station Clerk”. I was employed at a Handimart in Marion Iowa during my late teen years. What a gig that was! I was there all hours of the day and night. Mornings, afternoons, even the occasional graveyard shift. At this prestigious position you’re expected to stand behind a cash register and scan various items patrons wish to purchase. Not a lot of brain power went into the job. That’s probably why I liked it.

When you’re working a job in direct contact with the public you’re introduced to all types of crazy ass people. The normal people just get in and out and on with their business. The crazy people buy their intoxicant and chat you up. Get to know a crack head sometime. It’s an enriching experience. It was at this job that I was introduced to Frieda. We called her Forty Ounce Frieda.

Forty Ounce Frieda was a woman cast straight from a Too Short song. A nappy headed, strung out, 85lb black woman who used beer, crack and weed as fuel each day. I got to know her well as a customer at the Handimart in Marion around 2001-2002. A harmless lady who lived the life of someone on an episode of Intervention. During her six daily trips into my store I sold her one of three things each time.

1. A crack pipe
2. A blunt rap
3. A 40 ounce beer

The 40 ounce beer was the most common purchase hence the nickname, Forty Ounce Frieda (thought of that one all by myself).

Now you may say, “You can’t buy a crack pipe at a convenience store, come on!”

Wrong again bucko, you sure as hell can! There is this company that markets tiny fake flowers that are encased in a small glass tube. The company distributes these flower tubes and the gas station sells them under the guise of a decorative flower. I’ve never had much interest in crack myself, but from what I hear users of the drug are able to craft an effective pipe using the glass tube that comes with the flower.

This leads to the funny interaction where the crack user approaches the counter and asks you for a specific color of flower, as if it matters.

“Nah, I’ll take the purple one this time,” Frieda would say probably thinking I had no clue what she was buying the flower for. You got me Frieda! I always figured you were a horticulturist anyways!

Another humorous aspect of that job was how you were able to get a feel for the pulse of the illegal drug trade in the area. The weed slangers were easy to spot a mile away. Some came in so frequently I would pull the blunt package from behind the counter the second I saw them enter the store. I knew what they wanted. Surprisingly enough Frieda rolled with about 3 of the 4 kingpins in the area. She would enter the store some evenings reeking so strongly of marijuana I couldn’t contain my laughter as I sold her a Swisher.

Forty Ounce Frieda also struggled to understand that there are state laws in place that prevent businesses from selling alcohol at all hours of the day. This meant her 2:30 am forays into the beer cooler left her mightily disappointed. I’ll never forget the morning Forty Ounce Frieda stood outside at 5:45 am and poked her head inside the store every three minutes,

“Is it 6 yet? Can I buy my drank?”

Forty Ounce’s mood varied greatly depending on her level of intoxication. Some days she’d walk in high as a kite gleefully shrieking and carrying on about whatever was racing through her head. Other days she’d shuffle in with her hair completely blown out wearing the stained hospital robe she liked to rock on weekends. Those days she got testy. Completely forgetting the decent rapport she’d developed with our staff she’d lash out in a crack induced mania.

One summer day Frieda was in a particularly bad mood and came into the store cackling like a wild hyena.

“Y’all air pump stealin’ the air outta my tire!”

What an unusual complaint I thought. How was this possible? Being a helpful gas station clerk I walked outside with Forty Ounce herself to see what I could do about the problem. Carefully avoiding turning my back to her I approached the problematic bicycle tire. I’m no mechanic but filling up a tire is something I can handle. Bicycle or car I can do it.

Through her Old English haze Frieda saw the pump itself robbing her of air that rightfully belonged to the tire. Her problem, believe it or not, was simple. The tire was losing air each time Frieda attached the pump because she had failed to turn the compression machine ON. With the machine off, all Forty Ounce did each time she attached the nozzle was drain the tire of air.

“My tire flat and I can’t catch no bus!” Frieda screamed at me.

With a flip of the switch the machine came to life and Forty Ounce Frieda was able to cross one more problem off her list.

This was a women with many problems. People like Frieda attracted all types of good company in east Marion. The type of company that would leave you to die in a burning house. Don’t believe me? Listen to this.

Forty Ounce is having a wild time one night a decade ago. On this day she had made around a dozen trips into the local Handimart to refill her 40oz prescription and feed her rock cocaine habit. They must have been having a hog wild party over at Frieda’s crib this evening.

The legend goes like this. Forty Ounce Frieda is partying with three other low lifes at the Grandview apartment complex she called home. During the late stages of the party Frieda decides she’s going to fry up an old fashion country home style meal. She fires up the stove and gets cooking while her companions slip into drunken unconsciousness. At some point during the cook off Frieda must have passed out because when one of her friends woke up the apartment was engulfed in flames!

What happens next makes this a pantheon level tale. Rather than alert Forty Ounce Frieda, who was sleeping on the kitchen floor oblivious to the blaze, the three friends grabbed all the drugs and ran out of the apartment. Having been left for dead by her friends Frieda slept off her buzz while her apartment burned to the ground around her.

Luckily the ending to this story isn’t tragic. An observant neighbor noticed the fire and smoke coming from Frieda’s place and summoned the fine men of the Marion Fire Department. The firemen arrived just in time to whisk Frieda from the burning kitchen and prolong her burden on the welfare system.

As the firemen carry Forty Ounce Frieda away from the inferno she snaps to consciousness and decides she’s unhappy with her saviors. Rather than being thankful, Frieda starts fighting and kicking the firemen trying to get back to her vices. Efforts to explain the situation to Forty Ounce fell on crack clogged ears.

To me, the story about the fire sounded unbelievable because I heard it through a third party. Sure enough the CR Gazette covered it the next day making it authentic in my mind. Forty Ounce Frieda in all her glory being dragged out of her burning residence fighting tooth and nail the whole way. I can honestly say it was a pleasure calling her my customer.