The Philadelphia Inquirer from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania • Page 92

12-F Sunday, June 25, 1978 Philadelphia Inquirer Bowling Shooting turkeys not easv WW Larry wants to be people 's champ Associated Press For 14 rounds, Holmes (right) and Norton waged a searing, ounes "I w-as," says Larry Holmes, "wise and cocky." At home, Flossie Holmes cared lovingly for her children, and each day she would cook dinner from scratch and then serve up large portions of collard greens and black-eyed peas and pork and homemade bread. She would not eat until she was certain each of them had enough and, she says now with a laugh, "I think those meals are where Larry got his strength." Her son did indeed grow into an impressive physical figure and he soon showed promise in all of those traditional schoolboy sports; he played basketball and football, he wrestled, and he would later win trophies drag racing. 'Even before he left junior high, he was a fine athlete," says Charles Spaziani. "If he'd had a chance to go on with school, he'd have been a good college athlete." There would never be that chance, however, and at the age of 13 Holmes dropped out of school, lied about his age, secured working papers and took a job at the Jet "Car Wash, where he earned $1 an hour. "It was something I could do," he now recalls.

"It was something 1 did not so much for the money, but because I could do it." Still, the money was important, for during this time Flossie Holmes would often find herself short and in need of something extra to care for her family. "1 have a couple dollars," young Larry would exclaim when he noticed his mother's plight. "No you don't," she would say. "You spent it all." "But he hadn't," the mother now recalls. "He'd walk right over here and her hand reached out and lifted a flower pot that rested on a kitchen window sill "and he'd have money hidden.

He'd get it and give it to me." Before his ascendancy in boxing, Larry would also drive a dump truck in the gravel pits, work in a quarry, pour steel, be a sandblast er and make shells for Vietnam, and he would survive the streets. One of his former friends is now a victim of an argument over drugs, and another is in prison, charged with murder, and many are merely drifting, living the lives of eternal dreamers. Larry Holmes knew these people, he lived in their world, but he was concurrently apart from them and from it, and his image to those who watched him then is as singular as that image earlier viewed by Father Barbato. "He was a street-wine kid," says Dan Radegna. "The people he used to hang around with were all street people.

Fighting, he was fighting all the time. But he always seemed to be a little above it all. He was able to and signed it: "Larry Holmes Next Champ." He had traveled to Gleason's Gym in New York and work with the wizened veterans who trained there, and when he returned to Easton he would sit and talk to Cliff Ransom, a childhood friend. "They gave me a workout, but I could get them," he'd tell Ransom, and then he'd recount the lessons he'd learned from former light-heavyweight champion Bob Foster. He had gone to Deer Lake to serve as a sparring partner for Muhammad Ali and, says his brother John, "After that experience he figured he could beat anyone." He would also work with Joe Frazier in Philadelphia before Frazier's final meeting with Ali in Manila and, says Flossie Holmes, "He beat Frazier up.

Joe Frazier fired him for making him look bad." Sparred with champs "I worked with Ali, Joe Frazier, (Earnie) Shavers, Jimmy Young," says Holmes. "I was young, I didn't know much, but I could hold my own. I thought, "These guys are champs. If I can hold my own now, what "He'd say," says Flossie Holmes, 'When I'm older I'm going to have plenty of money of my own. I'll be the champ one That was his whole dream after he started boxing." For a long interim, however, that dream was no more than an endless nightmare, for some feared Larry Holmes' skills, and others doubted his abilities and together with the fates, they kept him from the challenges he had earned.

In April of 1976 he fought Tiger Williams and won a Ifl-round decision, but three days Inter he was forced to have a broken thumb repaired bv surgery at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital. He was inactive for nine months, returned successfully, but then his semifinal bout in Don King's U.S. Boxing Championships was cancelled when that tournament became surrounded by a malodorous smell of scandal. A proposed match with Larrv Middleton collapsed when Middleton was found to have cataracts. And then months of negotiations for a bout with Ron Lyle were negated when Lyle was charged with murder in Denver.

bloody, gut-wrenching war Holmes doesn't fight anybody. All that stuff." His chance for recognition did not come until March this year when he faced Earnie Shavers over 12 rounds in Las Vegas. This would be his first test against a heavyweight of renown and he relished the opportunity, though some- surrounding him were still filled with doubt; Don King, who was promoting the fight, had already given Shavers $25,000 front money to sign for his next bout, and one of Holmes' uncles had bet $1,000 against his nephew. In the end, however, Larry Holmes earned an easy victory, lashing Shavers into submission, leaving him empty, and winning every round on the scoreboards of two judges. The win pushed his record to 27-0 and, ultimately, into his climactic confrontation with Ken Norton.

"They're afraid of me," Larry Holmes would often say to friends during his days of waiting. "They won't give me a break. I'll never get to the top if they don't give me a break. But they can't hold out that long. They got to give me a break.

When they do, it'll be all over." When the fight ended both Larry Holmes and Ken Norton staggered back to their corners, and soon the ring as crowded with a clawing and clamoring mob. "You won, you won," reporters were yelling at Holmes. "I heard that, I felt good," he recalls. "He won, he won," various people were yelling in Flossie Holmes' living room. "Wait, wait," she said over the din.

"They haven't made a decision yet." Finally the announcer collected the judges' cards and leaned into his microphone and revealed that it was a split decision. "I started worrying a little bit," Larry Holmes remembers. "Lord, let him have his wish," Flossie Holmes thought. That wish was fulfilled, by a single point. Flossie Holmes was on her feet celebrating when suddenly her tiny house was filled with crazed and cheering people.

Firecrackers exploded on her street. Champagne was opened, and Cliff Ransom, the childhood friend, began throwing left jabs at hanging plants. "Cliff, Cliff, don't box my plants," Flossie Holmes screamed. Then the phone, which had been off the hook during the fight, started ringing, and she put the receiver to her ear, listened hopefully, then shouted into the mouthpiece: "I can't hear you. Call back." Throughout the night only a few callers would get heard, and one of them was the son himself.

"Mom, I'm all right," he said initially, then he closed by noting, "Mom, you gotta call me champ now." Delayed reaction "When they said I won, I tried to feel extra good," Larry now recalls. "I thought I'd achieved something, but only so much came out. I didn't have the same feeling as when I walked off the plane (on his return to Easton) or yesterday when I went to church (where he was honored). That's what I thought the feeling would be when the announcement was made. "I can't explain the feeling.

It was something. When you work hard for something and have uncles saying 'Norton will kill you' and you prove them wrong; when you have Howard Cosscll saying 'Holmes doesn't have it' and you prove him wrong; when you have all these people saying 'Holmes will never make it' and you prove them wrong; when that happens, you say, "You say it not because you hate those people, but because you proved them wrong. You say it to let them know who's the champion of the world." (Tomorrow: The new champion.) Bv Alex Rosen Special to The Inquirer At a gun club, a turkey shoot is usually referred to as a target test. In bowling, a turkey shoot is an event in which the pin topplers strive for three strikes in a row or more. In lane language, three strikes in a row is called a turkey.

In either case, whether at the gun club or at the lanes, expert manship is a prime requisite for turning in a winning score. In this respect, Jay Speelhoffer, 21, of Norristown, could well be called a sharpshooter. He earned this acco--lade by his ability to shoot for strikes in a series of turkey shoots. He hit strikes at a rapid pace, post-, ing games of 279, 279, 232 for a 790, one of the highest scores rolled in the area this season. But there will be no reward from the American Bowling' Conference since the shoot was not a sanctioned event.

"There was a slight cash award," said Speelhoffer, a lefty, who works in the personnel department of a medical firm. "But there is something just as important, the fun you get out of doing something you like in the summer months. "I like a turkey shoot because of the quicker pace. It's like one-on-one, such' as the pro format. You keep, warmed up, unlike a five-man team game, when you have to wait your turn.

So there is the possibility of good scores and the maintenance an average you want." And speaking of averages, Speelhoffer holds a 228 so far in the Triple A Majors at the Facenda Whitaker Lanes in Norristown. And higher scores in three turkey shoots he won with scores of 741, 790 and 699. In his 790 series, Speelhoffer had a streak of 17 straight strikes from the first to second games. He ended his first game with 8 straight strikes and got nine in a row in this second game. That helped him win about $50.

In a turkey shoot, you get two $2 for a turkey (three strikes in a row) and more as you continue to make strikes. Speelhoffer has had two sanctioned 300 games. Schaefer500 may not be held in 79 Rjwrirtl to Th? hioinrrr LONG POND. Pa. The ninth annual Schaefer 500, scheduled for the last Sundav in June 1979.

mav not take place. Today's race will go on as scheduled. Dick King, president and competition director of the sanctioning T'nifed States Auto O'th, said that Pico no Intprnat'inal Rarpwaw will have to replace the tunnels anrt paving in the second turn before the In-riiananolis cars will run on the facility nrr-uri. "The surface of the second turn has never been correct despite the efforts of rnnnane mpnf to correct it," King said. "This has been the case everv year that we've been corning here." The problem is that the twin tunnels under the second turn were constructed with corrugated steel tuhes over which earth was piled and the sneedwav rnadwav was paved.

In the bitter winter months the heaving that takes place from freezing to thawing causes bumps to develop in the track. King said that the onlv wav it can be corrected is to redo the entire tunnel and track base in concrete. He estimated that the iob could be done in three to four weeks. It is estimated that it would cost about Dr. Joseph Mattioli, the Philadelphia dentist who is chairman of the board and chief operating officer, of Pocono Raceway, had no comment on the development.

He said he would have none until he is informed by US AC that such repairs are required. Mario Andretti said tne Dump on the second turn is costing him m.p.h. this year and that the spot is worse than it was last year. Bill Simmons happening around him, figures there are three stars on the horizon. "I'd say that Danny Ongais is far superior to the rest of them," Foyt said.

"He's been racing pretty hard for a long time. He's really working hard at it practices three days a week. He understands the equipment, he knows engines. Foyt, like the Unser brothers and the now-retired Jones, drove any-' thing and everything in his scramble to the top of the mountain. He's maintained his precarious position all this time.

Even at the crossroads, he is still a sure thing to make the right move. HOLMES, From 1-F family lived there, Flossie Holmes and her husband John would work in the fields, picking cotton or corn or peanuts. When Larry was five the father traveled north, to join a brother who lived in Easton, and he soon sent his brother south to bring the family to Pennsylvania. John Holmes, however, would never live with it once the trip was completed. He left for Connecticut, where he worked as a handyman and a gardener until he died in 1970.

Flossie Holmes was left alone then, to raise 11 children (a 12th died in 1967) on welfare. Larry was the fourth eldest of the brood, the fourth son, and like most young boys he was quickly drawn to games and to competition. He began appearing regularly at St. Anthony's Youth Center, where he would concern himself primarily with wrestling, and soon he was noticed by Fr. Francis Barbafo, the man who founded the center 25 years ago.

The Italian priest from near Naples was impressed by this black child from near Plains and he befriended him, often feeding him with the leftovers from the school's lunch program and occasionally inviting him in for dinner at the rectory. "I wouldn't be hungry, but the housekeeper would get mad if didn't eat," the priest recalls. "So I brought Larry in and told him to eat it for me. Willing to work "Oh, he was here (at the center) all the time. Everyday after school he'd come.

I can remember his sitting on that stoop outside and waiting for the center to open. He never gave trouble to anyone. He showed a willingness to work to be somebody. It was clear lhat he wanted to learn. You could see he wanted to do something with his life." "If he saw that," saye Holmes now "then he saw something in me that I didn't see myself." Tony Noble, then the director of the center, also saw those characteristics viewed by Fr.

Barbato, and by the time Holmes reached his teens, he was entrusted with responsibilities; each night, he was in charge of turning out the lights and locking up the center. This wasn't alwavs an easy task for there were often some reluctant to leave. One evening the circumstances led to a test of the young boy's mettle. "He couldn't have been more than 14, he was thin and not really tall then," recalls Dan Radngna, a friend of Holmes and a teacher of exceptional students in the Easton area. "He went upstairs to turn out the lights in the gym, but there were a bunch of guys plaung basketball, b'g guys football players, seniors in high school.

Took a healing "When he told them it was time to leave, one of them hit him and knocked him to the floor. They went back to their game, but Larry got up and turnpd nut the lights again and the guy came back and beat hell out of him. It went on and one like that. Larry turning off the lights and the other guy beating on him. He took a hell of a beating.

I just couldn't believe he'd keep taking that kind of abuse. But he did the job. He didn't give up. He got the lights turned off." "He was mean," says Flossie Holmes, recalling her son when he was young. "He called himself a street fighter.

He was something. He didn't take nothing from nobody. He didn't let anyone push him around. He'd never pick anything himself. He's never start anything.

But if errnrrf F'fVf n-ni-ft into a fight with him. He was a good boy, but he never would take stuff from anybody. He was stubborn. He didn't let anyone push him around." A. Foyt: FOYT, From 1-F with nothing less than victory.

His best finish in seven races to date was a second in last April's Gabriel 200 at Trenton and even that was slightly tainted by a scoring error that left Ongais fourth w'ien he probably should have won. At Indianapolis, where he was confidently aiming for a fifth victory, he got caught in a qualifying blunder, wound up starting in 20th place and never was a factor as he drove to a seventh-place finish, nine laps behind winner AI Unser. "I haven's real'v dne much with pull himself out of it. Maybe he had goals where other people in the streets didn't He's gone way beyond what anyone could have ever hoped for." "He was typical," says John DiVie-tro, who still owns the Jet Car Wash. "Very insubordinate.

He used foul language. Always with a chip on his shoulder. To sum up, he had the animosity that grows out of his environmental background. There's a kid out there now" and his hand points out of his office, toward the car wash area "he'll bust your tail as well as look at you, but I work here from eight in the morning 'til midnight and that kid's with me. Larry had that same thing in him.

"Believe me, physically he had to be put in place. He was a wise guy. Guys like that are looking for discipline and when you give it to them, they do one of two things. They go out to the streets for good or they come back. He came back, always, then you knew there was a sliver of light, lie was never one to go on welfare.

He'd work. Always work." "I know how it feels to drink and get drunk," says Larry Holmes. "I know how it feels to smoke reefer and get high. I know how it feels to have' something after you come from nothing. I've done it all.

You can't tell me about it. I think that's why I can relate to people, to the kids when I'm talking to them. I can tell them from experience how it feete to get drunk, to smoke reefer, to go to jail." "Why did you make it out when so many others don't?" someone asks. "I worked for a living," he says quickly. "I worked from the time I was a little boy.

A lot didn't want to do that. They wanted to hustle and pimp, they figured they'd get it that way. I've always felt you have to work for what you get. I'm not ashamed to work and I've expressed that to my lawyer, to Don King. I can go back to work now, which I'll do if I'm misused.

I want to be treated with respect. If not, bye-bye boxing." Larry Holmes did not start concentrating on boxing until he was 19 and over the next four years he compiled an impressive (19-3) amateur record, ending that stage of his career with a loss to Duane Bobick in the Olympic Trials of 1972. He appeared for the first time as a professional the following March, and soon both his record and his confidence grew impressively; he won seven straight in 1973, three straight in 1974, nine straight in 1975, and by then he knew he was ready to contend with the best his division had to offer. Indeed, he had already given John DiVietro a picture it's where the weight is up high. That's upsetting the balance." Foyt isn't sure he wants to go through the drawn-out development program that is necessary to be competitive in this cut-throat, high-speed game.

It isn't something that can be accomplished in even a year and, at age 43, he has other interests. Among them are a string of thoroughbred horses, several of which hold great promise. Then there's his ranch and his oil wells and his large Chevrolet dealership in Houston. "I'm just about out of pieces for this engine," he said, referring to the former Ford V8 that he bousht lock stock and barrel when America's 7: a v-v 1 elaneholy clays Though his confidence never wavered, Holmes would prow melancholv during these stretches, and days would pass when he would bemoan both his luck and the public's 'iercep-tion of him. He would then stop at the Jet Car Wash, and he and DiVie-trn would sit in DiVietro's small office and discuss the circumstances that were frustrating Holmes and how thev could be rectified.

"We never had negative talks here." recalls DiVietro. "I wouldn't let it. I'd Wek his tail. We were never negative." "Everytime a fight came up and was cancelled, it was tough for him," savs'Dan Radogna. "But it didn't take him long to get over it.

A week at the most is the longest I've seen him in a bad frame of mind about his career." "He would've been champion a long time ago but he never got the breaks," says his brother John. "People didn't have faith in him, but he never gave up. I think if I'd been him, I would've quit. I know I would've quit." "But he kept training," said his mother. "And a lot of people kept praying for him.

True people, not phonies. My pastor, my deacon. My pastor, when he came to know Larry, said that he would be the heavyweight champion." "1 always telt I never got the publicity I deserved and that when I got publicity, it was negative," sajs Holmes. "Holmes has no heart. Holmes has no knockout punch.

to keep up number two automaker decided to get out of racing. Being the independent person he is and the type who takes great pride in his accomplishments, be they on the race track or in the research and development section of his shop, Foyt doesn't particularly want what everybody else has the Cosworth. But the four-cylinder Offenhauser is a dead issue as far as Foyt is concerned and the new Drake V8 is, at best, an unproven entity. "I think the Drake will be a very good engine, but it's at least two years away and I don't like the idea of waiting that long," he said Associarea Press Holmes fought, his mother, Flossie, prayed, both celebrated A racing legend trying with the times "Maybe I'll buy one of each and see what happens." As far as the new car is concerned, Foyt figures he'll have to move the radiators from the nose to side like virtually ever other car in the field. The aerodynamics that worked for him at 180 m.p.h.

don't work as well at 200. But there won't be any quick decisions. "I'll be all right to finish out the year and then we'll build something new," he said. Meanwhile, there is something else that the advance of time always brings into the picture new young talented drivers. Foyt, always an astute observer of everything that's these cars since 19,3," Fwt said.

"I've just kinda been waiting. I knew I was going to have to make a change, but I didn't want to make a drastic change without getting some idea of the way I wanted to go." He is facing, he says, a complete remodeling job. He not only must build new, sleeker cars, but he must find a different engine than the turbo-charged Foyt V8 he has been using since the early 1970s. "The engine is about 250 pounds heavier (than the VS Cosworths that most other top teams are using) and that makes a big difference," he said. "And it just isn't the we'g'it,.