Archive for month: February, 2024

By Marty Fleischman

No one really knows the origin of the Basque race.  The Basques have a unique blood type, not associated with any other in Spain or France.  Their language has no roots in the Romance languages of the area and sounds almost like Chinese.  They have such pride in their heritage that their drive for independence caused them to be an enemy of Spain’s dictator Francisco Franco, causing a ban in displaying their flag and a prohibition of speaking their language.

Yet, the pride and stubbornness of the Basque people has guaranteed their survival.  Franco is no longer around.  Spain now seems to embrace their culture, liberalizing their policies on this small region, roughly the size of Connecticut.

The sport of Jai-Alai began in this area of the world, first played against the church walls on fiesta days.  It is called “Pelota Vasca” (Basque ball) and Cesta Punta (point of the basket) in that area.  We adopted the name “Jai-Alai” in America, which means “Merry Festival” in Basque.

With La Palanca in our rear view mirror, Ernie Larsen, Tampa Jai-Alai’s general manager, my new boss, and I now headed for our destination, St. Jean de Luz, France.  This small resort city, located on the Bay of Biscay, is just across the border in the French part of the Basque country.  It would be the site of the 1971 World Amateur Jai-Alai Championship.

St. Jean de Luz was small and extremely picturesque.  Along the water were multi-colored sail boats moored in rows, a sandy beach, and a casino complex for tourists.  We were looking for Hotel Edouard  VII where the U.S. delegation was staying.  We found this boutique hotel located in a neighborhood of small French homes, about 4 blocks from the beach, casino, and Jai-Alai fronton.  We could actually walk to each, if we wanted.

After checking into our separate rooms (thank goodness), I was given this huge room key on a key chain that had a brass ball on it.  I couldn’t believe people lugged this thing around in their pocket while out of their room.  After two days of that, I found out you were supposed to give it to the front desk when departing and get it back upon arriving.  I can just hear the hotel personnel muttering under their breath, “Americains stupide.”

After checking in, we walked out the front door to a beautiful garden with tables and chairs, where some of our team were sipping French coffee and having a snack.  At one table sat our players that would represent the U.S. on the court.  Frontcourt amateur champion Kirby Prater sat with Katherine Harrington, who was PR Director for Dania Jai-Alai.  They were accompanied by Les and Marilyn Blumberg, huge Dania Jai-Alai fans and avid lovers of the sport.  They could be found at Dania almost every night.

At another table sat 15-year-old frontcourt amateur phenom Joey Cornblit.  I had actually played with Joey one night at the North Miami Amateur facility during my first year of playing.  Hearing guys moaning about the youngster (I think he was about 13 at the time) coming onto the court, I thought he was going to hold up the game with his poor play.  But, after about 15 minutes of him destroying all of us and not losing a point, I realized that this kid was something special… and I had a long, long way to go in my quest to be a good Jai-Alai player.

Joey was sitting with U.S. Amateur Jai-Alai Association President Bob Grossberg and VP Fred Pettit.  They organized and ran the amateur tournaments throughout Florida.  They would both become very dear friends even to this day.  They coordinated the U.S. participation in this world competition and were both good amateurs themselves.

Sitting at another table was one of our backcourt players, Charlie Hernandez.  His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Rudy Hernandez had traveled all the way from Miami just to support their son in the tournament.

At their table sat the team “Head Coach”, the very famous and venerable retired Jai-Alai great, Piston (pronounced “pis-toan”).  Piston will go down in history as the youngest player to turn professional.  In 1922, he made his debut in the large fronton in Madrid at the age of nine.  He went on to become one of the all-time greats in the sport.

He was now around 60 years old, a full head of black, neatly combed hair, and in shape to still go out on the court and play a few games.  Piston’s job was to choose which of our players would play together and against which country in this five-country competition.

Ernie and I grabbed some chairs and joined Bob Grossberg’s table, talking about our visit to the small Basque villages on the way. There was no mention of La Palanca as one of our visits.

Then, walking toward us with a grin came the fourth member of our player delegation, Daytona Beach backcourt player, Charles “Nick” Nickerson.  I mentioned Nick in one of my early articles, as one of the players that I faced the first time I walked on a full-sized Jai-Alai court in Daytona Beach.

Nick, with his deep tan, was wearing cut off shorts, a tank top, and beach sandals.  He was your prototypical surfer of the ’70s but had a killer forehand that dominated the amateur ranks in U.S. amateur Jai-Alai.

He quickly pulled up a chair, looked at our coffee with disdain, and ordered a beer.  This should have been a signal that there were storm clouds on the horizon, that the “proper” French culture was about to clash with the uncouth American.

Also, little did I know that we would come close to getting expelled from the tournament, and we would have such conflict within our ranks that one of the world’s greatest Jai-Alai players would nearly have a nervous breakdown in the middle of the tournament.

During the 1971-1972 Tampa Jai-Alai season, which ran from Dec. 27th, 1971, to June 2, 1972, the Pari-Mutuel handle was $19,071,050.  Pari-Mutuel handle is the actual money bet.  Almost 80% of that total is returned to the fans in the form of winning tickets.  Ralph Amadeo, fronton announcer, was a major contributor to the more than $19 million dollars wagered that year.  Unfortunately for Ralph, most of his money was distributed to the other winners in the fronton.  Ralphie Boy, the best announcer in the sport, was a big loser at the betting windows.

It did not take long for me to find out where Ralph went between every game.  That first weekend of training, I ventured out of the booth to check on the lobby brochure racks only to find Ralph standing at the betting window, program in hand.  He gave me a smile and a nod, dashing back up to booth just as the lights dimmed and the player’s march music began to play, signifying the start of the next game.

Watching and listening to Ralph in the booth was completely different from the more than 3,000 fans who experienced his orations below in the audience.  He was perched on his stool in the far corner of the booth, almost directly behind and above the court serving area.  In front of the announcer was a “Thomas Edison-type” contraption with multiple plunger-like buttons in vertical rows, the center being a rotating telephone dialer.  This was the invention of Willie Spiller, Miami Jai-Alai’s building superintendent.  It controlled the large scoreboard at the top of the side wall of the court.

Miami Jai-Alai purchased Tampa Jai-Alai in late 1969, and instituted the same score keeping apparatus as was in Miami.  In 1971, there were no computers.  This looked like Lt. Sulu’s control panel in the original Star Trek.

As each team of players came on to the court, Ralph would push the small, black switch on the microphone up to turn it on, announce the names, then slide it back down with his thumb to mute it.  During the play of the point, he would push the switch, and say, “Great save by Pablo,” and push it back down.  But, here was the amazing part.  Almost every point, when he gave his commentary, “Another great catch by Kepa,” he would push it to mute and shout, “Kepa, you SOB, DROP THE BALL!”  On with the mike, “Long carom by Kepa, SCORES! Point 2.” Off with the mike, and more expletives.

Ralph’s timing was impeccable.  It became obvious to me he had not bet on Kepa.  Yet, he had to make the call when there was a good play.  Believe me, most of the time, his players were not making winning plays for Ralph because there was more cursing and ranting than actual announcing.  I was absolutely amazed that not once did he ever have the microphone open when he was complaining and yelling at the players.  What an amazing feat of dexterity and coordination.  Sometimes he was loud enough where the backcourt players could hear him and give him a look as they walked off the court.  Thank goodness most spoke no English.

I couldn’t wait until I had learned the procedures, trained adequately on how to work the scoreboard, and grasped all the playoff situations.  By the second weekend, I felt I was ready to announce my first Jai-Alai game.  So, on a Saturday matinee, Ralph put me on his stool, handed me the microphone and said, “I’ll be right back, just start the game.”  He, again, dashed out of the booth, and I knew where he was going.

I did the post time warnings.  I said with authority, “Telewager Girls, please call in all your wagers,” as they looked up at me smiling, with their short skirts and headphone earpieces.  I was in control!  “Final call, you have less than a minute.  Make your selections, place your wagers!”  I was ready!  Until…. it was post time, and Ralph wasn’t back.

Now, there are pressure situations:  like having a 3-foot putt to win the U.S. Open, or kicking a 50 yard field goal to win a football game.  But, when you have thousands of bettors relying on your accuracy in keeping the scoreboard correct because their hard-earned money is riding on it, that is serious pressure.

If you made an error, boos would start cascading throughout the fronton.  The players would sometimes, but not always stop playing.  All eyes are on you to correct the score.  Sweat starts to pour down your forehead, your heart is pounding, your ears are on fire.  The boos keep getting louder as you try to figure out who actually got the point.  If you press the “delete” plunger, it takes all the points away from the team and you need to put back the correct number.  It is a nightmare and I didn’t want that to happen my first game.

I started the introductions, my voice probably higher than normal.  Where the heck was Ralph?  Thank goodness it was a quick game, without a playoff for Place or Show.  I dialed in the results, they became “official”, the winning payoffs posted, and my first game announcing was done.

Ralph, then, returns to the booth, throwing his losing tickets on the floor cursing.  I asked him why he left me alone for my initial game of announcing with a possible impending disaster.  He told me he was 30 feet away, just outside the booth watching from the standee area in case I got into trouble.  Ralph showed me he had a good heart and I quickly became part of the team along with Mike Menendez.  But, one thing I learned is not to lend him any money.

I felt awful that fateful Saturday night when I looked down from the booth, three minutes until post time, with almost 6,000 fans in the audience, and saw Ralph being led out of the main auditorium in a hammerlock by one of our Tampa Police Department officers working security.  Apparently, Ralph had borrowed some money and it was time to pay up.  I don’t think his “benefactor” liked Ralphie saying to him, “Jussssttttt a minute!”  A tussle ensued and the legend of Ralph Amadeo ended that night.  He never announced another game at Tampa Jai-Alai.

I returned to Gainesville.  The end of the season was near.  I had one more weekend to go.  Just before that final Friday, I received a phone call from my boss Ernie Larsen.  I was about to get a unique opportunity, where history was made, and would help launch my Jai-Alai career.