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     Six years expired and several important events occurred in my dad’s development as a man. 

     First of all he located his father, my Granddad Roy, who was rough-necking in the oilfield at Signal Hill, which was to become one of the most productive oilfields in the world, smack in the middle of Long Beach, California.  This solitary hill rose 365 feet above sea level and was totally forested by wooden oil derricks at this period – earning the nickname “Porcupine Hill.”

     Because of my pop’s size, my grandfather lied about his age and got him a job as an oil well floor man, or “roughneck.”  Of course the Great Depression was still in full swing, making their jobs piecemeal and largely hand-to-mouth.

     It was during this occasion my dad began hanging out at the gym and learned to box.  Again, due to his size, coupled with the fact he moved a lot of heavy iron rough-necking, Pop physically developed as a powerful fighter...a heavyweight.

      At seventeen he went pro and commenced boxing at illegal fight clubs, or “Smokers,” for extra money.  These weren’t regulated by the state boxing commission, and were extremely dangerous for a fighter.  But my father’s luck held and, over an 18-month stretch, he had 21 fights: 16 of which were knockouts, and another four TKOs in his favor.  Even so, despite this impressive beginning, during his 21^st fight my dad was knocked out in the fifth round by a young, tough as nails, Hispanic longshoreman.

     Pop had recently turned nineteen and, for one so young, he made perhaps the smartest decision of his life.  He came to the realization that a boxer was like an old-time frontier gunfighter: There was always someone younger, tougher and faster waiting in the wings to take you out. 

     Additionally, by this time, he had seen enough older fighters loitering in the gym looking for a sparing job - with damaged gray matter from too many blows to the head - living on a one-way, dead end street.  If he was ever going to make something of himself, my father determined it was imperative he keep the organ between his ears intact.

     Wisely, after the knockout, he hung up his gloves.

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     Christmas was approaching in 1935, when Dad, his buddies, and my Granddad Roy all sprung for new suits;

since it had been a financially good year for everybody.

     Believe me, dear reader, this was a truly rare occurrence.  With the advent of the Great Depression, no one had been able to afford a new suit in years. “Hard times.”

     So here’s the setting: It’s Christmas Eve, Pop, his pals, their dates and Granddad Roy are exiting a cracking restaurant, Lee’s Barbecue, in their fabulous new suits, on The Pike at Long Beach, California. 

     The Long Beach “Pike.”

     For all you East Coast trash, this was our version of Coney Island – an “amusement zone” also on the beach, stretched for over a mile, with all the rides, sideshows, carny con games, freak shows, etc.  Additionally famous for the “Cyclone Racer,” one of the world’s largest, wooden, dual-tracked roller coasters built on pilings over the water.  It was where we West Coast trash generally hung out.

  The “Cyclone Racer” on The Pike, with Signal Hill in the background.

     The economy was finally clawing its way out of the Great Depression, most people had money in their pockets, and Prohibition (the “Volstead Act”) had at last been repealed a couple of years before, which meant anyone of age might now legally buy a drink.  For the first time the future began to appear bright and rosy – thanks to the booze everyone was having a ball - what could possibly go wrong on such a perfect Christmas Eve? 

     Stick around, dear reader.

     This was the era of the big bands, and one was playing at the “Majestic,” an immense dance hall just down The Pike’s promenade.  Pop’s “gang” voted to check out the scene and, if the band was any good, they’d “cut-a-rug.”

     The only sour note was my Granddad Roy, who was an alcoholic.  He’d been drinking all day and was pretty well blitzed.  But because he was a mellow drunk, and seldom caused any real trouble, the group let him tag along behind in his usual pink cloud condition.

     Dad and his group paid their admission fees at the door, sauntered upstairs and entered the huge ballroom. 

     The joint was really jumping; the big band sound inspiring a couple hundred people to boogey-up a storm: “Skin me, Daddy...eight to the bar!”

     As Pop, his pals and their dates scoped the place out; Granddad Roy made a beeline for a gigantic punch bowel at one of the many refreshment tables. 

     Subsequently my father noticed that his dad was missing.  As he scanned the dance hall for him, Pop spotted a large Marine taking a swing at Granddad Roy - connecting on his jaw - knocking him out and sliding him under the refreshment table.

     Instantly my dad charged the Marine and knocked him down.  Then two of the Marine’s buddies attacked Pop, prompting my father’s roughneck pals to jump on the Marines, which somehow got embroiled with a group of sailors...and then more civilians.  The brawl was on!

     To this very day, dear reader, I can’t begin to give you an adequate explanation as to why this particular brawl escalated into a near-riot.  Perhaps, since Prohibition had recently been repealed, there simply happened to be a lot of celebrating drunks on the prowl that specific Christmas Eve of 1935.  All I know for certain, is this brawl made the fight scene in a John Wayne movie seem like a tea dance.

     In due course, the fighting spilled out of the dance hall onto The Pike’s promenade, and actually continued to propagate!  The Long Beach Police Department couldn’t handle it, so they called out the Navy’s Shore Patrol and the Marine’s Military Police!  Combatants were eventually being arrested and hauled off in military “deuce and a half” trucks, filling up the Long Beach jail, the Navy’s and Marine’s brigs, and ultimately U.S. Naval warehouses along the docks!

     Honestly, friends and neighbors, it was the biggest brawl in the history of the Long Beach Pike: my family’s only claim to fame.

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