Sometimes I have the hubris to think I can write and on certain topics I sometimes seem do a reasonably fair job, that is, unless my friends and readers are patronizing me. But when it comes to my life's true love, boxing, I seem to have all kinds of problems expressing myself. I hope that's not the case here, for this essay is just too special and too spiritual for that to happen. It's about Bobby Chacon and if anyone deserves special treatment, it's Bobby.

Bobby "Schoolboy" Chacon was inducted into the Boxing Hall of Fame last year and that made me extremely happy. You see, Bobby was my favorite fighter, and since I have watched literally thousands of fights during my 68 years of life and consider myself something of an aficionado, I hope that accolade carries at least a modicum of weight. Hell, I have seen them all; the "bums of a month," the excitement that was Bob Satterfield, the fights between Charles, Louis and Walcott. LaMotta-Robinson, Ward-Gatti, Ward-Green, Ward-Augustus, Zale-Graziano, Correlas-Castillo, Ali-Frazier, Patterson-Johansson, Barrera-Morales. I saw Sugar Ray send Dave Boy Green into dreamland with the perfect left hook......and witnessed the illogic of Hearns putting Duran away with a lethal straight right, and then Duran brutalize Barkley and then Barkley knock out Hearns. I watched Leotis Martin starch Sonny Liston. Bruce Curry and Monroe Brooks go to the precipice, and Kid Paret, Laverne Roach, Duk Koo Kim, Johnny Owens and Leavander Johnson leave everything in the ring. I witnessed the mind numbing suddenness of the Mesa-Garza fight and the shoot outs between Moorer-Cooper and Lyle-Foreman. The slow slide of Jerry Quarry and too many others. I can sense the early signs......the slurring......the nasal monotone. I saw the epiphany of Foreman. The disappointment that was Tyson. I have been dazzled by the magic, heard the music and seen the dance. I pray for Michael Watson, Gerald McClellan and Greg Page and remember the courage of Robert Wangila, Pedro Alcazar, and Beethoven Scottland. I have seen very good things, some not so good, and some downright ugly, but nothing comes close to what I saw and felt during a period between 1978 and 1982 involving three warriors by the names of Chacon, Limon and Boza-Edwards.

Bobby Chacon was born on November 28, 1951 in Sylmar, CA. He was a tough kid of Mexican-American descent and soon found himself in the gym. He became an amateur Diamond belt champion and fought in National Golden Glove Tournaments in both 1971 and 1972. He turned pro in Los Angeles in 1972 while attending California State University at Northridge thereby acquiring the nickname "Schoolboy."

With a fearless, savage and widely exciting style, he became an immediate fan favorite. While the word "brawler" might best describe him, he was also a crafty slugger who could slip punches off the ropes. Though short, he had a deceptively long reach advantage. He was often willing to absorb heavy punishment in order to mete it out and this likely contributed to his later difficulties. He knocked out 23 of his first 25 opponents, including a TKO over Chucho Castillo and an electrifying, career enhancing 9th round TKO victory over future Hall of Famer Danny "Little Red" Lopez. His only loss at that point was a 9th round stoppage to the very tough Ruben Olivares in 1973. The next year, he stopped Alfredo Marcano in 9 rounds to capture the WBC featherweight crown. He defended successfully against Jesus Estrada but lost the title to rival Olivares in 1975 (whom he finally beat by decision in their third match in 1977).

But the genesis for this story started in 1975 when he took on Rafael