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Who will replace these “Lions of Winter?” These are the “old-timers.” They have stories to tell, some back through the 1930s forward, these Lions. Who will replace these “Lions of Winter?” Nobody.

Nicaraguan Carlos “Kid Varelita” Varela Sr. is seventy years old. He is one of two. One of two of the original trainers of “The Explosive Thin Man,” Alexis Arguello. Today he is most certainly known in Canada, where he has resided for some time, as one of the best trainers and cutmen around.

“Kid Varelita” had ninety-two pro fights. As is the case for many Latin American fighters the only way to document these battles is via newspaper clippings and old fight posters. Thankfully there are those who have done that. He was at one time the Central American Flyweight Champion. I recall the first time we met. If you could turn the scene to black and white, film noir as it were, it could have been a scene from any number of movies such as “Champion” with Kirk Douglas, “Body and Soul” with John Garfield, “The Harder They Fall” with Humphrey Bogart, or perhaps “Requiem for A Heavyweight” with Anthony Quinn. He was sitting at the end of a long bench. You know the kind. It seems every old time boxing gym has one and certainly this gym, Cabbagetown, the historical and visual Canadian version of Stillman’s or Gleason’s, is the location. Pro’s are sparring and every once in a while the cornerman trainer will look over at Mr. Varela Sr. There is a subtle nod of a yes, a no, and sometimes a slight smirk of dissatisfaction. It is all he needs to do as the respect level commands those subtle responses as more than enough. He calls a pro over. “You have to show me your balls.” It is one of his favorite expressions. Try and be tough is not tough enough. Try and be tougher. No. You must be the toughest.

Flash back to Nicaragua last year. We are at a boxing dinner function. It is a few days that many of us will remember as special. There are many in the boxing community who come over to say hello to the old legend, Varela. It has been sometime since he has been back to his home country. No need to get into politics here, suffice to say they played a role in Mr. Varela’s life and best to leave it at that. Duran comes over to the table to pat Mr. Varela on the shoulder. “El Finito” Lopes comes over to say hello. There are quiet nods of respect from many. Hector Criollo, another legendary Latin small man who fought Mr. Varela many a time ago sits at our table. He now trains fighters in Louisville, Kentucky. The two have not seen each other in a long time. They are both emotional. As is the case in many fighters years later, they have tears in their eyes, slightly, of a young man’s memories and days of glory and of mutual respect. They lived it at the time! Young great fighter Roman ” El Chocolatito” Gonzales who will be headlining at the MGM in Vegas shortly comes directly over. Spanish is spoken and I ask my traveling companion, Mr. Varela, what he said to the young man. ” Listen keeed, doun geet soft keed. Nobody that special. You got to work hard. Show them your balls,” Varela states. Gonzales smiles and says hello to me but I can tell he is trying to extract a measure of respect from the Old Lion. The old trainer has given it, but not too much so as to spoil the message for the young man’s later reference. Such is the old trainer’s ways.   

We have traveled outside of Managua to the gorgeous Spanish Colonial city of Masaya. I am looking out at a lake waiting for our fresh caught fish to be cooked and served. I am partly thinking of the young couple, in tears, that I just met that have been the unlucky recipients of an armed robbery. The other part of me is sitting in a rocking chair amused that one of my companions has one hell of a nice switchblade. I suspect our young people have decided that the robber would take one look at our group and decide there are easier pickings on the food chain. “Listen Michael Schmeeet,” exclaims Varela. “My son says that keed you have has a real pro right hand, a real pro right hand. He has to have balls though. He must.” They understand this in Latin America. At some point all that training, all that skill set will come down to what kind of iron in your heart you have. Your balls! Ask Zab Judah.                       

We are back at the hotel hours later. We speak of another Latin legend back in the day, Raton Mojica, who happened to have his first fight with Mr. Varela, a fight that happened to be one of Mr. Varela’s last. He is explaining to me how one of my fighters is not moving the same as before. “Get in your stance Michael Schmeeet. Ha, good, a puncher stance, set a little wide.” He gives me a slight nudge to see if I will hold my balance.“Good, good. Now here. This is what the fighter we have does not do,” he says as three quick punches come so close to my shirt they are as subtle as a breeze. They are quick, hard and fast. This from a seventy-year-old man. Left, straight right, and a quick pivot and a short left hook to the side. “This pivot is no longer,” he exclaims further.

Flash back once again to yesteryear. Mr. Varela as a younger man. He has received a call from another legend of Latin America, Miguel Angel Rivas, the original “Kid Pambele,” so good that Cervantes’ father would name his son the same years later. Mr. Varela is requested to go see that day a young fourteen-year-old skinny boxer. He has been trained to that point by yet another legend, the aforementioned Raton Mojica. They are looking to move the young man ahead towards the pro game and are calling on Varela to come in. What they witness that day is a young fourteen-year-old knock cold two much bigger sparring partners. Featherweights, Lightweights, knocked cold by the skinny young man with the big sparring gloves! They know at that point, right then and there, they have something special to work with. Indeed Varela would carry on as the co-trainer right up through to the Marcel fight where the dejected Arguello, having lost and frustrated at letting down his trainers, broke down in tears at the airport. He is consoled by Varela. “You fought with pride and honor against a man much bigger and more experienced,” Trainer Varela advised Arguello. Pride and honor are words often used by Mr. Varela. As for the Marcel fight there is much to be told and that will be told by others, soon.

As I sit here thinking of Varela stories I could, as always, go on and on. As for Arguello, his story will be told next year in detail by a gent I would call a friend, “Hands of Stone” author Christian Giudice, who has spent the last number of weeks traveling about Nicaragua. I have cautioned him to be careful in asking of Arguello’s demise as it is not a comfortable subject for many in Nicaragua. In regards to the early years of the explosive thin man, he has obtained a great deal of information from Mr. Varela and his son Carlos Jr. I mention this because it goes to the root of what kind of men the Varelas are. Need a cutman, a chief second, an interpreter, they are ready and willing without question. Pride and honor indeed. Carlos Varela Jr. accompanied me recently to Panama. He was all of the cutman, confidante, and interpreter as well. I recall asking him to tell me one of his best stories he had been told, in turn, by others. “Well Michael Schmeeet. There was this time, as often, that my father had no money. Fighters, they truly fought for money back then. He hitchhiked from Nicaragua and caught a ride on a truck loaded with bananas in the back. He had not eaten for a few days so he stuffed himself with bananas. He ended up in El Salvador where he was to fight. Back then they would, a few days before the fight, ‘test’ you by having you spar with bigger local tough guys to see if you should be part of the show. My dad, he needed to eat, and to eat he must fight. So he hurt this big guy and they let him fight the El Salvadorian champion who is one of the first Latin American guys to win a Pan-Am Games gold medal. I can’t remember his name but they all know him down there. My dad won the fight and the fans are so happy they throw money in the ring. That is how you got paid. If they like you they throw money in the ring. The people, they say he show great craftsmanship and they put him up on their shoulders to celebrate. While this is going on, the guy that my dad got as a cornerman, he picks up all the money and takes it!” Carlos Jr.‘s words do not go unnoticed to me.

“Craftsmanship.” These are the words of legends of yesteryear and what they aspired to. Yes it was for money but skill and the attainment of something special, of the “Sweet Science,” was of importance. I think today’s Floyd Mayweather Jr., like him or not, aspires to this “Craftsmanship.” Carlos Varela goes on to tell me that the fight was so much appreciated that is was shown on the “reels” in movie theatres in El Salvador. Wonderful, wonderful stories and in this case Mr. Varela’s legacy will continue on with Carlos Jr. who has carved out his own legacy as one of Canada’s top trainers and cutmen. They both continue to ply their trade. I ask Jr. one more question. “I recall talking to an old man down in Brantford, Ontario, Canada, that told me that Arguello, as a teen, picked tobacco plants up here on a farm one summer. “Any truth to that Carlos?” I asked. Michael Schmeeet you are full of surprises, that is good. I don’t know if that is true but yes he lived up here for a bit as a teenager. His uncle lived, and still does, in Toronto, and he came up and learned his English.”

Either Carlos Sr. or Carlos Jr. will accompany me out East in September to corner one of “my guys” in a Canadian Middle title fight. The “keed” with the pro right hand. I go back in memory to a casino last year. We share a dressing room. He getting his Champion ready, me watching my Champion, an hour away to be, warming up. “What do you have there, Senor?” I ask, looking at a silver cosmetic-like cup that opens in the middle and has a separate top to it. It is explained to me that you can only get these in Mexico. The bottom contains your “grease” and the top is used to mix the “grease” with adrenaline the night before, where the whole thing is placed in a fridge. The adrenaline, warmer, will melt/mix into the “grease” to leave a nice thick paste of “grease” and adrenaline. Old-timers. He smiles at me. Boxing has been his life. “Show me your balls.” Yes indeed he has done a lifetime of that. For that, and the honor, pride and craftsmanship he has shown, you do come up to his dinner table in respect.