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.
L. Stanley “Buddy” Berenson was the President of Miami Jai-Alai and, also, Tampa Jai-Alai since purchasing the Tampa facility in 1969. He was not only an astute businessman, but Buddy was a promotional and marketing genius. (Much more about the Berenson’s coming in later stories)
Having successfully completed my four weekends of training at Tampa Jai-Alai, I was now back in Gainesville finishing my final courses. My first duty as the future public relations director was to sell the program ads starting in September.
“You won’t start on payroll until mid-December,” Ernie Larsen had told me. “But you get 20% commission for each ad you sell… payable after the season starts.” So, I was going to have quite a few months after school ended with no job and no money. Yet, I was very excited about the future.
One evening, our phone rang in our apartment, and I instantly recognized Ernie’s voice. “The Jai-Alai Olympics (basically the world championship for amateurs) is going to be played in late June in St. Jean-de-Luz, France this year,” Larsen told me. “I’m going over for the company to scout some players… Buddy thinks it might be a good idea to take you along, too.”
He went on to tell me that Buddy (I refer to him as that instead of Mr. Berenson not out of any disrespect, but only because everyone seemed to call him Buddy) thought it might give me something to talk about with the media since I was just starting as PR Director.
Not only was that a terrific PR idea, but here was the real genius behind Berenson’s thinking. My father, Salty Sol, who had a nightly sports show on WTVT Channel 13 might want to have some exclusive coverage of this world tournament, provided by his youngest son, the new public relations director for Tampa Jai-Alai. This, of course, would generate thousands of dollars of free publicity for Tampa Jai-Alai.
I mentioned this to my dad, and he thought it was such a great idea, he asked if I would take one of Channel 13s Bell and Howell 16 mm cameras with me to shoot some footage of the matches. When I returned, he would have me on his show 2 consecutive nights talking about the tournament, narrating the video. Buddy was absolutely right! Genius!
There were only two problems. First, I had no money. Second, I had to spend more than a week traveling with Ernie Larsen. Tattoo arm, martini drinking, hippie-hating Ernie Larsen.
With some arm twisting, it was agreed that all my expenses would be paid by the company for the trip. Now, I just had to figure out how to survive with Ernie. I had never been out of the country. This was my chance to see the birthplace of Jai-Alai, to learn about the culture of the Basques, even if it meant tolerating Ernie’s excessive drinking and irrational rants.
So, Ernie and I flew to Bilbao, the 4th largest city in Spain, in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains, in the summer of ’71. I didn’t know Ernie was thinking of the movie “The Summer of ’42”
After checking in at the hotel Torontegui in downtown Bilbao, Ernie told me to meet at the bar for a martini. He said he had “big” plans for us later. I figured we were meeting with some local Jai-Alai people, maybe some ex-players. Was I wrong!
Ernie hailed a cab and told the driver, “La Palanca, por favor.” Apparently, he knew a few words in Spanish since his wife was from the Philippines. I figured, La Palanca was a famous Spanish restaurant. He nodded at me and winked.
As the driver passed many restaurants and bars, we started getting into a very seedy area of Bilbao. When the cab stopped, we got out and Ernie led me to this run-down hotel with flashing neon lights, “La Palanca.” He said to the clerk “cuanto?”
I knew I was in trouble. We were in the bowels of Bilbao, the shadiest of red-light districts, didn’t speak the language, Americanos with money. I was sure my dream of a career in Jai-Alai was ending this night.
Ernie agreed to a price and quickly disappeared up a flight of stairs. I sat in a chair in front of this desk, telling this woman over and over, “no, gracias… no gracias.” Thankfully, Ernie didn’t take very long and reappeared with a grin on his face. Somehow, we found a cab and made it back to the hotel. I survived my first day!
The next day, we rented a car. Before we headed to St. Jean de Luz, located just across the border in the French Basque Country, we were going to tour many of the Basque villages in the mountains. Loving to drive, I took the wheel and Ernie had the map.
He wanted to go to Ondarroa, a small fishing village, home of our Tampa player Lecue. He told me Lecue’s family owned a small restaurant there and wanted to see it. So, we headed off, through all the famous Basque towns…Markina, Guernica, Durango, Lekeitio, Elorrio, Eibar, Bolivar, Berastegui, San Sebastian, and finally Ondarroa (many of our players played under the names of their towns).
Lecue welcomed us with open arms and some of the best seafood tapas I ever ate. We mostly communicated with gestures since he spoke almost no English. But, I was getting an education of a lifetime, sitting on a stool in a small Basque bar, drinking Spanish wine, eating freshly caught fish, in the cradle of Jai-Alai civilization. I already had one amazing story to tell, but I could not tell it on Channel 13. Tomorrow, we would meet the Jai-Alai delegation representing the United States, in St. Jean-de-Luz, France, where I would witness history being made and major controversy in a huge U.S. coaching decision.
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.
Ralph Amadeo was “The Voice of Tampa Jai-Alai.” He was mid 30s, dark, slick back hair, and a slight Chicago accent.
Mike Menendez, a schoolteacher by day, statistician and backup Jai-Alai announcer at night, (later became the stadium announcer at the Bucs games) was the second man in the announcer’s booth. This was Mission Control. The fronton announcers introduced the players, posted the scores on the scoreboard, alerted the fans of a good shot or outstanding catch, handled playoffs and communicated any other important message to the audience, like, “there’s a blue Chevy in the parking lot, your motor’s still running.” It was their job to train this young, starry-eyed neophyte.
I had just arrived at the fronton for my first of four April weekends as the apprentice public relations director of Tampa Jai-Alai. I would return to Gainesville each Sunday to finish getting my degree. But my focus now was to learn as much as I could and prepare for the start of the 1971/72 Tampa season, which would start December 27th.
Ernie Larsen, fronton general manager, was standing at full attention at the north entrance keeping a vigilant watch as employees entered the building. It almost appeared as if a salute was in order to the ex-Naval commander (not sure if he actually commanded anything, other than a fishing boat). He waved me into his office.
Ernie explained some of my duties: spend most of your time in the announcer’s booth learning the procedures, teletype the entries and results of the games to the newspapers, fill the brochure racks, field calls from the media concerning player statistics, and listen to him rail against Johnny Barker leaving the job in the middle of the season, which he would tell me each weekend, as if he had never mentioned it before. He even pulled out his 2-page letter of resignation and went through many of the paragraphs of complaints.
“I was reduced to merely a teletype operator and could not do my job as PR Director,” read Larsen from Barker’s letter. “You went back on most of your promises of entertaining the media and maintaining free passes to our VIPs,” he quoted another paragraph.
“That no-good SOB!” said Larsen about the newly departed Barker. I would nod my head in agreement with Ernie, still so thankful that Barker decided to leave, opening up my dream job. I paid no real attention to his complaints knowing full well this was not going to happen to me, Or, would it?
The announcer’s booth at Tampa Jai-Alai was perched high atop the back wall of the court. It was over 40 feet above the wooden floor which was the out-of bounds area. The booth was the perfect spot to watch play, because you could actually see the pelota (ball) curve as the players threw it at speeds over 150 mph. Watching from the rear of the court was far different from the side-view where the fans sat. There was no depth perception from those seats. Catches looked easy and fans booed frequently thinking players missed an easy catch or dropped it on purpose.
The booth was enclosed in fencing to protect us, with the far side open to the audience below. This allowed me, when not announcing or teletyping, to survey the cocktail waitresses, Tele wager Girls, or the many Jai-Alai player “groupies” that sat in the Loge section directly below us.
Ernie gave me a key to enter the players quarters, which was the only way to access the announcer’s booth. It was at the top of an internal stairway, the third level, just above a viewing level for the players that were not playing the current game. There was no other there!
The player’s quarters was the inner sanctum of a Jai-Alai Fronton. The door was always locked. Florida statutes prohibited anyone that was not authorized by the State of Florida to enter or exit one hour before the first game until one hour after it was over. Jai-Alai was the only sport in the U.S. where you actually could legally place a wager on a human being. Therefore, to protect the betting public and any perceptions of impropriety, the player’s quarters was totally isolated during the performances.
Yet, I had “The Golden Key.” I had to go in and out many times during a performance. I felt special, privileged, as all eyes would be on me as I exited or entered. I was on the “inside” and this was cool! Also, as almost everyone knows, Jai-Alai is “fixed.” Or is it? Undoubtedly, I would soon find out.
That first Friday night, with over 3,000 men and women in the audience, a full house, I watched as Ralph brought them to the pinnacle of excitement. “Great save by Almorza (he pronounced it Almortha in the proper Castilian Spanish), long carom shot SCORES! POINT AND GAME POST 1, ALMORZA,” he nearly shouted into the foamed mesh covered microphone as the crowd jumped to their feet in a standing ovation. Ralph had them in the palm of his hand, even those that lost bets would be applauding. Ralph was my idol. I had to learn to do this, he had such power.
Immediately after the game was over and he read the results and payoffs, announced the pari-mutuel windows were open for the next game, post time being in 8 minutes, Ralph dashed out of the booth. I wrote down the payoffs and went back in this small room at the top of the stairway and sat at an old teletype machine, which you would see in a very old black and white movie. I would type the results into that machine which would simultaneously transmit to other teletype machines at all the newspapers in the Tampa Bay area, including Sarasota, Clearwater, and Lakeland. They would run our entries and results daily in their respective newspapers.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. It was a player wearing a brown jersey, Post 7, with 47 on his front. I quickly glanced at a program and realized it was the young rookie sensation Bolivar. “Boli” was 18 years old and was beginning to dominate the competition at Tampa Jai-Alai. He would go on to be one of the top players in the world.
But, that night, he was mesmerized by me typing in the results into the teletype machine. He spoke no English. I spoke no Spanish or Basque. He would just sit there with a grin on his face. Little did I know, I had captivated the young Mickey Mantle or Ted Williams of Jai-Alai with my typing. He would come up and visit me often. This was his way of relaxing before going out on the court to face that 150 mph, deadly pelota.
I found that other players would come up to visit us in the booth, like Torriente, Salazar or Chapman. I thought they came up to meet me and chat. Then, I found they used our booth as a great vantage point for scouting the talent below, the talent that wasn’t on the court.
Now, it’s one minute before the start of the next game. Mike Menendez, grumbling under his breath each time he had to get up from his chair to announce the minutes left for betting, was now looking out the side of the booth for Ralph. Like clockwork, Ralph would bound back into the booth, get to his stool, and announce, “Ladies and Gentlemen, you have but one minute left to place your bets, jusssssttttttttttt a minute!” This was Ralph Amadeo’s trademark line. He would draw out the “just” so long that the crowd was almost begging him to finish the sentence. But it was like magic. People swarmed to the betting windows, he would dim the lights, start the march out music, and announce the first two teams on the court. I knew right then that this is what I wanted to do the rest of my life, be exactly like Ralph Amadeo!
So, where did Ralph go immediately after every game? And how would this cost the best announcer in the sport to lose his job. I would soon find out.
left to right: Marty Fleischman, first court presentation, Leicester Hemingway (Ernest’s brother), Jasa (one of the top French players), Ernie Larsen, fronton GM
Most spend their final two years of college pursuing their degree, preparing to start their career. I spent my last two years pursuing the pelota (ball). Nearly every weekend, I would convince my roommates, Mike Singer, Eddie Goldstein, or Herb Gould to make the trek to Daytona. Here was our perfect weekend: leave Gainesville at 6:30 am, play Jai-Alai for the allotted two hours, check in at the Indian Palms Motel on U.S. 1 which charged $10 per night (we split it 4 ways), drive over to the boardwalk on the beach to play our favorite pin ball machine Slick Chick, have a footlong hot dog and milk shake prepared by a toothless carni at the stand, put a dime in to watch the Dancing Chicken, go on the beach and body surf for hours, shower at our luxurious motel, and get to the fronton with fake IDs to watch the pros. The perfect day! That is, until one Saturday night Eddie, who was a year younger than us, got stopped and questioned at the north entrance. The rest of us had gone in the other entrance trying not to draw attention to him. Standing in the main lobby, we see Eddie being interrogated by the Chief of Security. Poor Eddie, he folded like a cheap suit. Couldn’t remember the name on his ID, nor the color of his eyes. Next thing we see, he is being escorted by the police into the back security office. Fortunately, I remember that one of our fraternity brothers who had graduated was the announcer there. I quickly had someone call him in the booth, told him what happened, and asked if he could influence his security personnel to free Eddie. He got Eddie sprung with the promise he would not come back with any more fake IDs. Realizing it was still early and only the first game had played, Eddie had to sit in the car for hours waiting for us. We told him that was the price he had to pay for confessing. I still feel bad to this day that we made him sit in the car. But, Jai-Alai does strange things to you. One of my frat brothers, Mark Einhorn told me he had a younger brother, Neil, who was coming up as a freshman and was an avid amateur Jai-Alai player. Neil had actually attended the North Miami Amateur School of Jai-Alai, which was taught by renowned instructor Epifanio, the same man who taught Joey Cornblit, the greatest American to ever play. Neil and I got permission from Tampa’s GM, Ernie Larsen, to practice at Tampa Jai-Alai on Sundays. The catch was, no a/c, no lights, just use of the court. The caretaker for the fronton would open the gates for us and let us in. It was heaven for Neil and me. We played countless hours of singles, just the two of us. We played until we dropped. Neil beat me 9 out of 10 games, but we could not have been happier. I now was convinced, I wanted to make Jai-Alai my career.
Sitting in Landmark Apartments, mid November, my senior year, I bought a Tampa Tribune to see read Tom McEwen’s column on the Gators. On page one, half way down the page, a headline hit me like a lightning bolt: “Johnny Barker Named PR Director of Tampa Jai-Alai.” In shock, I read on that Johnny Barker was leaving the University of Tampa as Sports Information Director to take the job at Tampa Jai-Alai. I knew that if someone was just beginning a new position, leaving a high profile job at UT, he was likely to be the there for many years to come. But, that was my job. That was going to be my career. Ernie was saving it for me, but he wasn’t. And, obviously he didn’t. I was lost. My dreams were shattered. There were truly no other executive positions available for a young college graduate at Tampa Jai-Alai. This job was it. And, it was just given to Johnny Barker, a man I had never met, a man at that moment I despised. I spent the last few months completely depressed. I couldn’t even bring myself to go to Daytona or Tampa to practice. Even though I was going to get my degree in Advertising, I didn’t want to write it, produce it, or sell it. And then it happened. It was the end of April, 1971. I had about 6 weeks left until graduation. The phone rang. Stopping our non-stop bridge game, I answered it only to hear the distinct voice of General Manager Ernie Larsen: “Marty, I have a job for you!” I asked him what he meant, still astounded he even got my phone number. He told me using some expletives that Johnny Barker had quit, with over a month left in the Jai-Alai season. “You can have the PR job, but I need you right now!” Larsen said as if he was still commanding a Navy frigate. What? My dream job is back? My life, my dreams..all right at my grasp But, I have almost a month to go until graduation, my parents invested in me to get a college degree, and I’m dropping out now? I explained this to Larsen. He insisted that if I wanted the job, he needed me now! This was the dilemma of a lifetime. How do I explain to my parents that this is what I want, the career that I want to pursue. It was there for my taking, but I had to take it NOW! I got The Offer! So, I promised Ernie I would call him right back, I needed to talk to my family. I called home, got Mom, Dad, and my older brother Sol on the phone. I told them about the conversation and they predictably said, “You cannot drop out of school!” Then, my brother came up with an idea, “Ask him if you can work the final 4 weekends of the season, commute from Gainesville. Those are the busy nights, he should be able to get by those few week nights. Tell him after this season, you will be there full time.” What an idea. Would he go for it.
I called Ernie back and explained that I was just too close to graduation, my family insisted that I get my degree. I, then, proposed the compromise idea. Ernie said he would get back to me. An hour later he called back and agreed, the idea would work. “Marty Fleischman, 21 year-old son of local Channel 13 sports personality Salty Sol, was named Public Relations Director of Tampa Jai-Alai.” This was now the small headline in the Tampa Tribune. It, also, said that I had replaced Johnny Barker, who held the position for less than 4 months. I now loved Johnny Barker. Why did Barker resign in 3 months? Much to my dismay, I would soon find out.
Part 2 A strange feeling was coming over me, my stomach began churning, anxiety and excitement flooded through my body. We were approaching Daytona Beach, having driven through Florida’s heartland… Palatka, Hastings, then Daytona. Those that have had the unique experience of ever playing the sport of Jai-Alai definitely remember the first time walking on the actual “cancha” or court. It was 8 am, the mysterious rear door of the player’s entrance slowly opened. An elderly Basque gentleman, with a look that resembled someone that had not moved his bowels in a month, impatiently waved us in. Luis was Daytona’s ball maker. He would allow the amateurs to play various mornings and give them practice pelotas. He never smiled. He never talked, but to utter some Basque expletive at the “pakete” amateurs. Heaven help the poor guy who had to go to Luis for another ball when the cover tore. I walked through the player’s quarters, my precious “Ernie Larsen” cesta in hand, and approached the entrance to the court. The local amateurs that were in line in front of me rushed out to practice first. Only 4 were allowed on the court at one time. There was no a/c, no lights. The court was illuminated by the rising sunlight through some side windows. Finally, it was my turn! I still remember that feeling, in awe of this enormous, 176 foot long, 50 foot high behemoth of a court. The granite front wall, this huge side wall, the ball sounding like a rifle shot each time it hit. I realized that the wall was almost 60 yards away, more than half the length of a football field. Looking to my right was the wire screen, separating the empty arena of about 3,000 seats. I imagined a full house watching me make by debut, but the only ones in the auditorium now were the janitors picking up all the losing tickets off the floor. Now, remember, I had only played on a court less than half this size… and with a rubber ball. So, this was it, the real thing… I was ready, or so I thought. Hesitatingly, I walked onto the court, stopping in the rear area. This was the “backcourt” position. I didn’t choose this, my cesta did. Larsen had given me a backcourt cesta, which is larger and heavier than the frontcourt baskets. Backcourters are usually the physically larger and stronger athletes because they have to hurl the pelota a longer distance. But, I should definitely have been in the frontcourt, since I tipped the scales at about 140 lbs. With no warm up or practice, I awaited the serve. “Nick” Nickerson, the top amateur and hardest throwing amateur at Daytona Beach served the ball. My frontcourt partner let it come to me. Thinking it would bounce like the rubber ball at Miami Amateur, I started running toward the ball to make my first catch and return.
Suddenly, within a split second, it was coming directly at my head. I hit the deck and the ball flew past untouched. I quickly found out the goat-skinned covered pelota not only bounced but skidded at an enormous speed (pelotas have been clocked at over 170 mph). This was nothing like rubber ball. The other amateurs grumbled knowing this was going to be a long morning. Later I made my first catch and throw. I think there might have even been a volley or two where I caught 2 consecutive balls. There was no feeling like it, not from any sport I had ever played. The few hours passed like seconds. The feeling of accomplishment, when making a catch and hitting the front wall on a throw, increased geometrically. But, it was time to return to Gainesville. College no longer seemed important. Food, sleep, or girls were no longer important. The most important thing in my life now was to get back on a Jai-Alai court and play again. Maybe I had, indeed, found my new career. But, how could I have known that a University of Tampa Sports Information Director, someone I had never met, would first crush my dreams and then make them a reality?
The diploma on the wall reads, “University of Florida has conferred on Martin Paul Fleischman the degree Bachelor of Science in Advertising.” It really should say, Bachelor of Science in Jai-Alai!
When I returned to Gainesville after that fateful South Florida Christmas break at Ronnie Aranow’s house, all I could think about was that crazy, wonderful, intriguing sport I attempted to play, Jai-Alai.
Of course, I was now in my prime college years, sophomore year, living in the TEP House, fraternity parties, girls, drinking (or other things). Oh, I forgot to mention studying. I was pursuing an engineering degree, but it was not pursuing me. I already had interned
at Tampa Electric Company two summers. I wore my white shirt, a Ready Kilowatt pin on my shirt, and a pocket protector. I was truly corporate America. Is this what I really wanted? Third quarter calculus and physics made that decision easy for me. After a dismal calc exam, I walked directly to Tigert Hall and transferred into the Advertising School.
Meanwhile, my father, being a local TV personality, the Sports Director on Channel 13 in Tampa, set up a meeting with me and the general manager of Tampa Jai-Alai. I had asked my Dad, (he was known as Salty Sol), if he knew anyone at Jai-Alai, because I needed my own cesta (the wicker basket). I knew he covered the pari-mutuels in the area and was hopeful he could set me up.
So, one weekend, I drove down to Tampa and met Ernie Larsen, the recently appointed GM of Tampa Jai-Alai. Now, this was Lt. Commander Ernest Larsen, Jr, retired Navy, sporting a tattoo of an anchor on his arm, clean shaven, and walked like he was inspecting the troops.
Meet Marty Fleischman. I was wearing bell-bottom jeans, a Nik-Nik polyester shirt open almost to my waist, and hair down to my shoulders. But, Ernie could not have been nicer. He gave me a tour of the fronton and took me back into his office. He said he heard I needed a basket. He then proceeded to this closet door, opened it…. THE MOTHER LODE. The closet was filled with cestas, 30, 40, maybe 50.
Now, realize, you can’t buy these baskets. They are hand-made in Spain or Mexico, perfectly woven to specifications for each player.
I later found out that most players give the general manager one of their cestas before returning to Spain each year. It was sort of a goodwill gesture, with the hopes that they will get another contract to play. He told me to pick one out, it was his gift to me.
As I was leaving, he asked me what I was studying in college. I told him advertising, but I had a few years to go. Ernie asked me if I had ever considered a job at Tampa Jai-Alai, like publicity director. He said, “Who knows, it could lead to you being general manager here some day.”
I left there with stars in my eyes, pelotas in my brain, and a cesta under my arm. Little did I know, that in the near future, I would pick up a Gainesville newspaper, read a headline that would break my heart and end my Jai-Alai career before it even started.
A look of shock was clearly displayed on the face of Richard Donovan, President and CEO of World Jai-Alai. Paul Rico stopped shuffling the cards. I looked at Donovan and said, “What?”
Rico, Chief of Operations for World Jai-Alai, a highly decorated retired FBI agent, and I had been summoned for our near-daily, after hours gin rummy game in the president’s office. But, today, this call would change our lives.
Roger Wheeler, an Oklahoma oil magnate and owner of World Jai-Alai, had been gunned down in the parking lot of the Southern Hills Country Club in Tulsa. It was May 27th, 1981.
Another call, more than 10 years earlier, in December of 1968, would, also, change my life.
The phone rang at 9 a.m. at Ronnie Aranow’s house in Hollywood, Florida. I was a sophomore at UF. Ronnie was my roommate in the fraternity house and invited me to spend Christmas vacation at his house.
I awakened to Ronnie’s voice talking to another fraternity brother of ours, Bill Hoffman. “Wild Bill” asked if we would like to meet him at Miami Amateur Jai-Alai that morning and play some Jai-Alai. When Ronnie asked me, I said, “Sure, I’ve seen it before, looks easy, would love to try it.”
Yes, I had done what most of us did in the 60s, gotten a fake ID that said I was 21, and used it to sneak into Tampa Jai-Alai. I was a senior at Plant High in Tampa when my close buddy Bob Cohn talked me into it. He said it is really a lot of fun.
With heart pounding, and trying to look older than I was, the Chief of Security (which I later found out was Sheriff Deputy Olin Harrell, later working closely with him in Tampa and Ocala) scrutinized my ID. He scanned me suspiciously and said, “you’re not 21, get the hell out of here.” And, with visions of being taken to jail, I fled as fast as I could.
But, there were two gates of entry to Tampa Jai-Alai. The next week I tried the South Gate, manned by an elderly gentleman whose eyesight was suspect. I GOT IN!
I will never forget my first experience in the fronton… the sights, smells, and the sound of the crack of the ball against the wall. I had never heard or seen anything like it.
Then, we bet a quiniela after Bob explained to me what one was. We lost, but the excitement of the game was incredible. Later, we hit a quiniela. We won $42.00 for a $6 box, that was a lot of money in those days. But, that was the end for me, had to go up to Gainesville, begin college and a possible engineering degree.
Now, I’m getting the opportunity to actually play that intriguing sport that I had seen in Tampa. The pros at Tampa Jai-Alai make it look easy. I was good at tennis, raquetball, and even handball, how hard could this possibly be?
So, we entered Miami Amateur, rented a cesta for $.50, and walked outside to this small court, where about 10 guys were hurling this rubber ball at a fairly large, concrete front wall. Ron and I got in line, waiting for our turn to go onto the court, with no warmup, no practice.
When it was my turn, I was allowed a couple of practice throws. I did what I would soon find out everyone does, throw the ball straight down, to the left, and almost hit the guy behind me. What? How did that happen?
It probably was almost 2 hours before I finally hit the front wall with a catch and throw. It was the most challenging, exciting experience of my life, even though I was a total failure.
I woke up the next morning, with soreness in muscles I didn’t even know I had, barely able to get out of bed, and asked Ronnie sheepishly, “Can we go back and play some more today?”
I was hooked, but completely unaware that I was about to embark on a path, a journey that included working 41 years in a sport I love with all my heart.
The phone call in 1981 would begin my involvement with the longest unsolved murder in American history. But, the phone call in 1968…. it gave me the most amazing life I ever could have imagined. And, I will try to share some of those incredible experiences with you in the coming articles.
Dania Jai-Alai’s Marty Fleischman Calls it Quits After 4 Decades
Each morning, when I sit down at my computer in my house, I glance up at the framed newspaper clipping on the wall directly above me. Nick Sortal, writer, and editor for the South Florida Sun Sentinel, (currently Mayor of Plantation, Florida) honored me with this article on the morning of January 5th, 2013, my first day of retirement from the sport I so loved.
After my wife Sue secured a teaching job in Tampa months earlier, I had to fulfill my part of the bargain. It was time to give Dave Winslow, the Chief of Operations at Dania Jai-Alai, my notice. I had to give him an actual date.
Sue and I had decided that we probably could not sell our Dania house and make the complete move together before the school year started in Tampa. So, she and my wonderful dog Cody, would move into our new Tampa house while I remained in Dania putting our house on the market. I was hopeful all could get done by the end of 2012.
I decided I needed to tell Winslow the plan so we could train a replacement. Knowing that Winslow’s operating strategy was to cut costs and operate with the fewest employees possible, I could see only one person that could absorb many of my duties, player manager Benny Bueno. But this would require a tremendous amount of help and guidance from my very experienced administrative assistant, Doanie Wright. Also, CFO Clint Morris would be essential in keeping all aspects of the operation running smoothly.
I knew Dave really liked Benny. He was already spending a great deal of time with Benny, getting his suggestions on things even outside the player’s area. He would view this as a great opportunity to have “his man” basically as his assistant, handling the marketing and player manager duties.
Sitting across the desk from Winslow, I said, “Dave, it’s finally time to call it a career. I’m very close to a final date.” I could see him disguising his excitement that I was finally leaving. Yet, he was cordial and very understanding. I explained that I needed to sell the house, Sue was moving first, and I hoped everything would be settled by the end of the year. “Whatever date you decide is okay with me,” he told me. “Who do you suggest take over marketing?” he asked. “I think Benny could handle the job,” I said.
This was mid-summer and I told him I could start training Benny immediately. There was still plenty of time to slowly familiarize Benny with the marketing situation.
Sue moved to Tampa with Cody. I packed up a rental truck with half our furniture, leaving only the rest for staging. The house sold fairly quickly, so I was able to finalize a retirement date, Friday, January 4, 2013. Dave quickly agreed, knowing I could help get them through the “busier” end of year holiday schedule.
The closing on the house took place in early November. I had no place to go for the last two months. Clint Morris came through for me. I will never forget his generosity when he offered one of his rental properties located a block from the fronton. He charged me nothing… except an occasional beer and cigar when he stopped by after work. I still have fond memories of sitting outside reminiscing with Clint as he puffed on a stogie. We felt like it had been light years since the day’s owner Steve Snyder, GM John Knox, Clint and myself would do our daily lunches together. Now, it was only Clint and I, soon to be Clint alone.
As my retirement date approached, Dave Winslow arranged a “farewell” dinner for me at a local Dania Beach restaurant. The department heads that were still left attended along with Dave and Clint. Chris Gibase, Executive VP from Boyd Gaming, flew in from Las Vegas to attend. I greatly appreciated that.
After dinner, they dropped me back at the fronton. As I was walking to my car, my cell phone rang. “Marty, this is Bill Boyd,” said the voice on the line. “I heard you’re retiring and just wanted to wish you the best.” Mr. Boyd was son of the founder and Chairman of the Board of Boyd Gaming. I had met him the day Boyd Gaming purchased the fronton. Now, he was making a personal call to me knowing I was leaving the company. This was probably one of his duties, yet I still am appreciative of the call.
One request I made to Dave before I left was to allow me to address the Jai-Alai players. He agreed. The final weekend I was there, Benny called all the players together before the 7th game. I spoke to them in what I’m sure was terrible Spanish. I wanted to show them the respect I had for them by speaking their language. I didn’t know enough Basque, so I stuck to Spanish.
I thanked them for their support and friendship over the years. “To me,” I said, “you are the greatest athletes in the world!” Then, I ended with the only two Basque words I knew, “Eskerikasko (thank you) and agur (goodbye).” They gave me an ovation as I tearfully left the player’s quarters for the last time.
As I pulled away from Clint’s apartment on Saturday morning, car packed with boxes from my office and two spare cestas (knowing I would probably never play again, but for my wall at home), I did a final drive-by of the Dania Jai-Alai Fronton. The “Flaming Pelota” sign on the front of the building, which Steve Snyder asked me to design at the beginning of my tenure there, brought to mind many great memories of my nearly 15 years at Dania.
I, then, realized I was just blocks away from where it really all began, at my college roommate’s house in Hollywood, almost 45 years ago. Had Ronnie Aranow not answered the phone that Saturday morning when our frat brother “Wild Bill” Hoffman asked us if we wanted to try playing Jai-Alai, I don’t know what my path would have been. A chill came over me.
As I headed toward Alligator Alley, the memories swept over me: the excitement of the first time I stepped on the massive Jai-Alai court in Daytona Beach while slipping out of Gainesville with roommate Herb Gould, ducking as the speeding pelota came at my head; the love and addiction of playing this incredible sport; the day I opened the Tampa Tribune feeling the heartbreak of seeing someone else named as PR Director at Tampa Jai-Alai; the night Ernie Larsen, Tampa GM, called me in Gainesville, said it didn’t work out, and offered me the job.
I was now approaching the turn at Naples, heading north toward Tampa. I felt a tear roll down my cheek as my nostalgic ride continued. Nothing was more exciting than Saturday night at Tampa Jai-Alai. I could see the overflowing crowds in the smoke-filled fronton as I announced a game, drawing “oohs” and “ahs” from the excited fans. I could hear myself say, “Another great save by Bolivar, long carom by Almorza… SCORES!” and the crowd would jump to their feet with a standing ovation. Another tear rolled down my cheek. How did it all go by so fast?
I remembered the call from H. Paul Rico, World Jai-Alai’s Vice President, asking me to come down to Miami. When I asked for how long, he replied, “Pack a trunk, the Corporate PR Director has resigned.”
My life took a major change that night. I had to tell my prospective bride, Sue, that after our upcoming wedding at Busch Gardens in March, we would be moving to Miami. That was never part of the plan. Now, I was on my way to her, back in Tampa, after a 32-year detour. Yet, she never complained once. Tears began flowing down my face. I could hardly see the exit signs on I-75.
Our years in Miami were better than I ever expected. Our two wonderful children, Shawna and Jason, were both born and raised there. I was part of the World Jai-Alai corporate executive team and helped shape some of the policies within our company. I got to work with some fantastic people in our industry, Dan Licciardi (Miami), John Knox (Dania), Steve Snyder (Dania), Hort Soper (Orlando) and so many more. I met so many people in the media, guys like Chuck Dowdle at Miami’s channel 10 and Nick Sortal, who wrote that final piece about me in the Ft. Lauderdale paper.
I was able to meet Richie and Buddy Berenson for lunch every week, who I will always owe a great debt by giving me my first job in Jai-Alai. Later, weekly lunches with Pedro Mir, the legendary player manager in the sport. I thought about CEO Dick Donovan and Paul Rico, who supported me those many years at World Jai-Alai.
The tears continued to flow down my cheeks as I remembered getting the call from Steve Snyder, owner of Dania Jai-Alai. Had he not asked, just as I was about to hang up the phone, “So, how’s it going?”, my Jai-Alai career would have ended much earlier. His question brought me 14 more years in this glorious sport. I exited I-75 and was now 15 minutes from my new home, my new life.
The 4-hour trip back to Tampa seemed to go so fast. My 41- year career in Jai-Alai now seemed even quicker. I knew my life without Jai-Alai would be different. But though the years have flown by, my passion for the sport has never waned. I will always cherish the memories, memories of a lifetime.
When I wrote the script in 1988 for Rick McEwen’s production of, “Jai-Alai, There’s Nothing Like it!”, I ended it with these profound words: “Those who play it, live it; those who watch it, love it.” That best describes my life in the sport of Jai-Alai. I lived it and I loved it!
Epilogue:
When Jeff “Laca” Conway, creator of the website pelotapress.com and major Jai-Alai enthusiast, approached me about doing this series on my career in the sport, I told him I really didn’t think anyone would be interested. Jeff convinced me to give it a try. So, I did. And he was right. I heard from more readers than I could have imagined. I want to thank you, my loyal followers, for giving up your valuable time to read these articles. Your comments and e-mails kept me going… for three years! Also, I have to thank my wife, Sue, for proofreading each piece, finding my typos and sharing my thoughts. Jeff, thank you for your encouragement and support. I hope I was able to give some insight and enjoyment to your readers on this unique and wonderful sport.
Pelota Press Note
Marty is sorry for the long delay in closing out the series, but he had to put a lot of time into this last story before posting it, while coming off a long vacation team trip to Spain and the Basque region.
As we mentioned before, the Pelota Press will rerun the entire series again, from the first “episode” that ran nearly 3 ½ years ago as the website “Pelota Press” was initiated. The same story will appear on the new Facebook page “Pelota Press Tampa Bay” for any feedback our readers would like to give.
Also, a color booklet will be made, likely in two parts. It will be comprised of all the stories and photographs that accompanied the story, plus dozens more. Copies will be available at a modest cost to anyone interested at a date to be announced (hopefully by Christmas time). We will announce the details when it is available.
I’d also like to thank Marty for participating in this adventure. I had to push hard for him to agree and was so glad he said “yes” in a timely matter. He tripled the viewership in no time at all to over 800 readers worldwide. I know he spent hundreds and hundreds of hours on this project. None of us were paid a dime for doing it, but now we have a place to go see and remind us of the good times (and bad) that jai-alai gave us.
Note to Readers: It was suggested by our Pelota Press host, Jeff “Laca” Conway, that I should write about my recent trip back to the Basque Country prior to finishing the last chapter of my career memoirs. It had been more than 50 years since my first visit in 1971. I decided to put a link to my earlier published stories that relate to my recent visits for those readers that might have missed them. I hope you enjoy it.
Top left: Jai-Alai players from the 70’s; Solaun (Tampa) our guide on this trip, frontcourter Urizar (Tampa), frontcourter Juan (Miami).
Bottom left: Miami and Tampa’s star backcourter Javier.
Right: Young amateurs about to compete in Durango.
Top left: Arrieta, past Dania star and father of current Dania player, Arrieta.
Bottom left: Garita, Dania star when I was Asst. GM there.
Middle: Jose Arregui, past Player Manager of Dania and wife Grace.
Top right: Chino Bengoa, legendary frontcourter.
Bottom right: Lecue, backcourter at Tampa Jai-Alai.
“I would love to visit the Basque Country,” my wife Sue told me while we were planning our special “Retirement Vacation.” “This was such a major part of your life, I would like to see the birthplace of Jai-Alai and share that experience with you.” My heart swelled.
I’m sure the Basque Country, the small villages in the Pyrenees Mountains in Northern Spain, are not on many “must-see” travel lists. Yet, my wife wanted to visit Durango, Markina, Gernika, Bolivar, Elorrio… the birthplaces of 90% of the professional Jai-Alai players in the world.
So, I began planning the trip. Ricky Solaun, my Basque brother for over 50 years and retired Tampa star, (see “They Win with a Smile and Lose with a Snarl Marty Fleischman Blogs – Page 8 – Pelota Press) was spending 6 months in Tampa and 6 months in his home town of Durango, Spain. I thought… why not expand the trip and drive all over Spain and Portugal. I will ask Ricky to be our guide and end our journey in Durango. Then, with Ricky’s help, we could visit all the small Basque towns, the ones I remember from the early 1970s. Sue agreed and so did Ricky. Little did Sue realize that her kindergarten skills would be needed dealing with us.
After making an itinerary and obtaining our plane tickets, an unexpected event occurred, Covid 19. Spain was one of the hardest hit countries in Europe. We put our plans on hold… for 3 years! It finally became a reality last month.
I won’t bore you with the early part of our trip prior to arriving in the Basque Country. But, it certainly didn’t start out well. Please read Jeff’s posting below this article. I mean, who gets in a train wreck? I was texting Jeff, telling him how relaxing it was on the train to Miami, when, “BAM,” we hit a semi trying to sneak across the tracks. Not a good start. Luckily, we were going down a day early to stay with our son, Jason, and we made the flight on time. When we arrived in Madrid, Ricky was waiting for us, and our trek began.
After two weeks of seeing so many beautiful places in Spain and Portugal, we arrived in Durango, about 35 miles southeast of Bilbao, the largest city in the Basque Country. Ricky’s sister, Mari Nieves, has an apartment in the center of Durango and was an amazing host. She welcomed Sue and I as part of the family. The only problem, Mari Nieves speaks no English. My Spanish has suffered greatly since leaving Miami. Sue took French in high school. Needless to say, there were some interesting conversations.
The last time I was in Durango was in the early 1970’s, traveling back to Spain with the players, staying at Ricky’s “casaria” or farmhouse. But, I had few memories of Durango, except there were many bars, nothing to do there but drink, and I was constantly cold. Ricky’s casaria had no heat except a cast iron stove in the kitchen. I hardly left that stove, except to go to the bars. In those days, I really didn’t drink. So, it was not the most exciting post-season vacation for me, except I got to live for a while in Durango.
Now, it’s September, more than 50 years later, the weather is perfect, and we have our own bedroom in Mari Nieves’s apartment. I must say, Ricky’s other sister Maricarmen, who lives in Valencia, took great care of us a few weeks earlier. Ricky’s sisters and daughter Maite (who lent us her car the whole trip) are the absolute best. They definitely erased the memory of me just freezing in Durango 50 years earlier.
The first day, we walked out of the apartment and down the street to the plaza with Durango Jai-Alai on one side and a park for kids on the other. This is where many of our Tampa players, including Solaun, Durango (Juan Luis Aguirrizabel) and Gorrono played as youngsters. Unfortunately, the doors were locked, it was closed that day. We would be back.
in my blogs in these links and always wanted to come back here with Sue. And, here we are, parking near the casino, walking along the beautiful beach, eating at one of the cafes in this charming town. I even tried to find the old Edouard VII hotel, located blocks from the casino, our home during the World Tournament in 1971. Trying to retrace my steps from 50 years ago, we found a few new hotels in this area. But I could only speculate which might have been where Joey, Piston, Larsen, and all the others sipped coffee in the mornings before the tournament.
I had great memories of San Sebastian, Spain, too, and wanted Sue to see this picturesque Basque city on the Bay of Biscay. Also, our good friends Jose Arregui (past Tampa player and Dania Player Manager) and wife Grace spend their summers there. We always talked of meeting them there and were determined to make it happen. After making contact with them, Ricky drove us along the beautiful coast through Lekeitio and ending up in San Sebastian. The views were amazing, the “pintxos” or tapas even better. Then, we had a fantastic lunch with Jose and Grace before departing back to Durango. San Sebastian is now our favorite city in Spain.
Another day, Ricky took us to one of the most famous spots in the Basque Country, known for generating some of the best talent in the sport, the tiny village of Markina. My good friend Salazar hails from Markina as did many of the superstars throughout the decades. As we entered the “prado” in the center of town, with the streets deserted at 10 am, we noticed one lone elderly man slowly walking toward us. Ricky said, “Mira, that’s Chino Bengoa.” For us Americanos, that’s like someone telling you, “Hey, that’s Joe DiMaggio.”
Chino Bengoa was a legend in the sport. A few days earlier, while talking to Ricky about his younger years learning Jai-Alai, he had told me that he modeled his game after one player: Chino Bengoa.
Bengoa had been one of the best players in Miami and Spain during the 1960’s and 70’s. He later retired and became Player Manager at Daytona Beach Jai-Alai, where I got to know him from our intercity tournaments.
I yelled, “Chino,” and we quickly pulled the car over and jumped out. Ricky walked up to him and Bengoa greeted him warmly. Ricky introduced Sue and I, and he quickly said, “Martyfleischman (they like to say my name as if it’s one word), I heard you were in Spain. How are you?” Chino Bengoa remembered me! We spoke about the old days and old acquaintances. He could not have been nicer. The Joe DiMaggio of Jai Alai, WOW!
I had to ask him one question. Why were so many great players from this tiny village of Markina. He smiled and said, “When you’re a boy growing up here, it was either that factory over there or play Jai-Alai. Most of us chose Jai-Alai.”
After we said “adios” to Bengoa, we walked over to the venerable Markina Fronton. The doors were locked. No one was there that early in the morning. But Sue and I peered through the windows and saw the court and the seating area. Seeing Bengoa, though, was a true highlight of the trip.
Our next stop was one of the most famous towns in the Basque Country, known for two things: being a test bombing target for Hitler’s air force which destroyed the town, and the nexus for the sport of Jai-Alai. The town is Gernika.
Gernika has probably the nicest Jai-Alai facility in the area. The town has been rebuilt since World War II and still possesses great charm. My friend Neil Einhorn and I visited Gernika on our back packing journey in 1972, where we found American superstar Joey living at the Hotel Arrien. He was practicing for his debut at Miami Jai-Alai (Marty Fleischman Blogs – Page 8 – Pelota Press See European Vacation Part 1 and 2)
After parking in the city center of Gernika, we found the fronton, which was closed. I just couldn’t grasp that Spaniards were busy sipping their café con leches in the morning and really not thinking about work. Again, we could not get in to even look at it.
So, we walked about a block away, to one of the main squares where I noticed a hotel with the sign, Hotel Arrien. To my shock, this was the same place Joey stayed in 1972. I just stood and stared. I couldn’t leave. We sat at a café and had a beer, me staring at the sign, reminiscing in my mind when Joey came out of that hotel and gave big hugs to Neil and me… over 50 years ago. I must admit, I felt a tear flow down my cheek.
We spent 10 days in Durango. Ricky learned that there were no professional matches being played during our time there. However, the coming Sunday, there would be some amateur matches featuring some of the best local talent from the various Basque villages. We were excited to go, figuring we would, perhaps, see some future stars in the making. But we got an even better surprise.
As we walked into Durango Jai-Alai, the first person I saw was an old Miami star, Juan. He played many of the years I was in Miami. Juan was a very good player, who had the misfortune of getting hit by a direct shot to the head. His helmet saved his life. But the 150-mph pelota still knocked him unconscious. Our trainer, Mike Dolan, tended to him on the court and possibly saved his life.
Months later, Juan returned to continue his illustrious career at Miami Jai-Alai. What an example of guts and courage. Juan gave me a warm greeting as I introduced Sue. She remembered him and I could see she was thrilled that I was able to find at least one old Jai-Alai friend over here.
But there was more to come. Then, Ricky pointed out a past Dania star, a name I was quite familiar with, Arrieta. He was the father of a young Dania player, who became one of my favorites after joining the management team at Dania. He used his father’s playing name, Arrieta, and still plays at Dania today. The older Arrieta gave me a warm greeting and I raved about his son. We talked about the younger Arrieta’s love for fishing. The father even remembered that I had sold my son’s car to his daughter as her first car while living in South Florida. What a treat, meeting the elder Arrieta.
Another player approached us as I was finishing my conversation with Arrieta, the Tampa frontcourter Urizar. Urizar (nicknamed Capela) was a youngster on the Tampa roster when I was PR Director there in the 1970’s. Urizar is a good friend of Ricky’s and was anxiously anticipating the arrival of Martyfleischman.
I quickly noticed another star from Miami who later came to Tampa, Javier. Javier was known for his classic style and beautiful form. He told us his nephew, Argoitia (Javier’s last name) was playing in one of the amateur matches that day. He was 16 years old and had just signed up to play a few months in Dania. Now, we really had something to cheer for.
Another past player walked past us, and Ricky said, “That’s Garita.” Garita was a star backcourter at Dania Jai-Alai when I was Assistant GM during my days with Steve Snyder, Dania’s owner and John Knox, the GM. Garita came over and said, “Martyfleischman, Martyfleischman.”
Finally, looking down the row, I noticed a very familiar face in the Durango fronton audience. It was past Tampa Jai-Alai backcourter, a player that was there in my beginning years, a frequent partner of Solaun, named Lecue. I walked over to him and he gave me a big smile and a hug. He said he remembered Ernie Larsen and I visiting him in 1971, in his hometown of Ondarroa, at his father’s bar, Bar Lecue. No, the bar is now gone, he told me. But, I still remember that bar had a delicious tuna Pintxo. I could still remember the taste 52 years later.
Seeing all these great players, these old friends, introducing Sue to each of them, seeing the smile on her face… now I knew why she wanted to come to the Basque Country. It was for me, not her. She knew the joy it would bring me, and she was so right. Thank you, my love. It was a trip I will never forget.