FAITH, FRIENDSHIP HELP LIFT FORMER BOXER OUT OF SKID ROW.

Byline: Michael Rosenthal

Ray Ramirez was a cocky, young amateur fighter when he summoned the nerve to step into the ring with his idol, Bobby Chacon, for a sparring session in a Montebello gym. The result was predictable: The two-time world champ from Pacoima beat him so badly that Ramirez remembers, ``I couldn't wait for it to be over.''

Afterward, Ramirez was angry: His pride had been wounded. However, his admiration for Chacon never wavered - not then, not in the quarter-century since that meeting.

Chacon, the most beloved, most exciting fighter ever from the San Fernando Valley, had captivated Ramirez with his fearlessness in a string of legendary fights and would always be his hero - even years after Ramirez became a Baptist preacher.

That's why Ramirez cringed every time he heard of Chacon's troubles over the years: the suicide of his wife, the murder of his son, battles with drugs and alcohol and the dementia born of countless punches to the head.

Finally, when Ramirez learned Chacon was living in a vermin-infested welfare hotel near Los Angeles' Skid Row and was unable to care adequately for himself, he decided to act.

Ramirez and his wife, Lisa, tracked Chacon down at the hotel eight months ago, collected his few belongings and gave him a new home and a new life with members of Hillside Bible Baptist Church in Los Angeles.

They also gave him something missing from his life for years: His dignity.

``Now he's my hero,'' said Chacon, his words slurred but understandable. ``Yes, now he's my hero.''

Back in the ring

Chacon once again is in the boxing business, this time on a partially enclosed patio on church grounds. He works with a diligent - and brave - group of young boys whose families belong to the 1,000-member church.

They listen intently as Chacon speaks, somehow absorbing the lessons even when his speech becomes unintelligible. Ray Ramirez has explained that this is no ordinary man, this is Bobby Chacon, the great featherweight and junior lightweight from the 1970s and '80s. They've had ``fight nights'' at the church, when they've shown videos of Chacon's greatest fights, and it proves that what Ramirez says is true.

The boys are impressed.

Ramirez organizes and oversees the training but Chacon is its life blood. The children seem to feed off his energy.

``Jab, jab, jab,'' he yelled at one boy, stopping the action for a moment. ``Like this,'' he said, repeatedly pumping his arm forward. ``Like this. ... OK, fight!''

Ramirez must watch Chacon carefully.

As a result of his dementia, which limits his short-term memory, an organized activity such as this could unravel into chaotic playtime without strict supervision. Chacon provides the boxing expertise, Ramirez keeps the session flowing. And the preacher, as he's called by those around him, loves every minute of it.

Several times, he gazes at Chacon and smiles. At times, the preacher reverts to the adolescent who was so mesmerized when his dad first took him to see Chacon fight.

``I still feel a little sense of awe when I see him,'' Ramirez said. ``I'm amazed that we're this close to each other. I look at him and see a little shadow of the Bobby I saw fight before, the Bobby I saw on videos. He's not just somebody, he's still great to me.

``I thank God for the privilege of watching over him.''

And Chacon, it seems, couldn't be happier. Just like old times.

'A charmer'

In the 1970s and into the '80s, Chacon was the fighter people loved to love.

In the ring, the two-time world champion was captivating. He was a thinking boxer but one known more for his willingness to trade punches with some of the hardest-hitting fighters of the day. That's what endeared him to his many fans.

His epic brawls with Bazooka Limon and Cornelius Boza-Edwards in 1982 and 1983 were named Fight of the Year, respectively, in an era marked by such names as Sugar Ray Leonard, Marvin Hagler, Thomas Hearns and Roberto Duran.

Outside the ring, Chacon was different. He was engaging and bright, down to earth and kind. Men, women, children - they all clamored after Bobby Chacon.

``He was a charmer, all right,'' said longtime friend Marshall Wright. ``He had that cute little smile. He was a very lovable guy.''

That's what Ramirez remembers from their first meeting, although he had to take quite a few punches to find out.

Ramirez was a good amateur boxer in 1975. He relished the chance to meet his idol but also was determined to show that he could hold his own.

He didn't.

``He was real fast, real hard to hit and he hit real hard,'' Ramirez said. ``... I remember telling my manager, 'Even his punches to my shoulders hurt.' It made me a little mad inside because I thought I was a lot better.''

Afterward, Chacon helped ease the pain. The champ put his arm around Ramirez and told him to stick with it, he'd be a good fighter one day. No boasting. No disrespect. Only kindness.

Ramirez never forgot.

Descent into tragedy

Chacon, a millionaire at one time, had it all in 1982. He and his wife, Valorie, and their three children had moved from the chaos of Los Angeles to an 20-acre horse ranch in Oroville, about 50 miles north of Sacramento.

And he still had boxing. He would outpoint Limon that year to win his second world championship - a remarkable eight years after the first. He was never a bigger star.

Then tragedy struck.

Valorie had begged her husband to stop fighting. He wouldn't - or couldn't - and she apparently slipped deep into depression. She shot and killed herself with a .22-caliber rifle March 15 while her husband was preparing for a fight the following night in Sacramento.

``I look at pictures of her,'' he said in a television interview shortly after her death, his eyes clear and his speech fluid. ``I see her smile. I see her buying a horse. I see her with the kids. I see her hugging and holding me.'' He paused and his eyes filled with tears.

``I could cry right now,'' he said. ``That's how much I miss her.''

Chacon would never be the same. He went through three more wives and was left with virtually nothing when the last was gone. He and the family, back in Los Angeles, bounced from one apartment to the next - including that of his parents in Pacoima on several occasions - and never had a place that felt like home.

His son, Bobby Jr., the oldest of two sons, was killed in a gang-related shooting in 1991.

He has had his problems with drugs and alcohol, which led to problems with the law. He spent a short time in jail in 1987 for violation of probation on a domestic violence conviction and underwent court-ordered rehabilitation after pleading no contest to a narcotics charge.

And there is the dementia.

Lovable, but lost

Chacon, 49, is as lovable as ever. He's warm and playful and that smile will still knock you out. Female or male, he loves to give kisses on the cheek. And if he senses awkwardness, he does it again - his way of reversing his initial indiscretion.

Somehow, he manages to make even casual acquaintances feel as if they're special. Again, you gotta love Bobby.

That's what makes his condition all the more tragic.

He understands his brain is damaged. ``Too many punches,'' he said, raising his eyebrows and opening his palms to the sky. ``... I don't notice any difference, though. I feel the same as I always did. I even sound the same to me.''

He's not the same. Most noticeably, he slurs his words. That's not his biggest problem, though: His limited short-term memory is crippling.

He can recall in detail fights that occurred 30 years ago. However, he doesn't know he's eaten 15 minutes after a meal or where he was an hour earlier. The condition makes it difficult, if not impossible to function in society. Thus, he must be looked after, much like a little boy. And it appears he will become increasingly dependent on others.

``Unless God intervenes in his life, it's going to get a lot worse very quickly,'' said Matthew Ward, a member of the church who shares a two-bedroom apartment with Chacon and two other men. ``That's what I believe, from everything I've read.

``They say folks with pugilistic dementia, their minds deteriorate 10 times faster than Alzheimer's. It makes me sad, it really does.''

Wanting to help

Wright, his old friend, wanted to help Chacon a few years ago.

Chacon's parents still live in Pacoima but apparently they can't handle him, according to several sources. His daughter, Johna, couldn't do much either because she's had her own personal problems. And his surviving son, Jamie, lives in Hawaii and is estranged.

Chacon lived alone in a small apartment in Hollywood, supporting himself on a $1,200-per-month disability pension and relying heavily on friends. Still, he was finding it increasingly difficult to cope. For example, he wandered off regularly and sometimes couldn't find his way back home. Somehow, he'd reach Wright or another friend and return by taxi. One cab ride home, Wright said, cost $18.

``That means he was far from home,'' Wright said. ``The next stop for Bobby was an institution. There was no way around it. He couldn't care for himself.''

So Wright, along with another of Chacon's friends, former fighter Berlin Roberts, moved him into the 200-room Huntington Hotel on the edge of Skid Row. The plan was to resurrect the famous, but defunct Main Street gym in a downstairs room and have Chacon serve as ``head trainer.''

The hotel, in which nonprofit organizations place homeless people, is a frightening place - where small children share hallways with drug addicts and prostitutes and share rooms with rats and cockroaches.

A man, who referred to himself only as ``Big Man,'' sat outside the building he called home one cool morning, wiping sweat from his forehead and rocking back and forth.

He pointed to the entry way of the hotel and said it had been shot up more than once. He pointed to a building across the street, from which a man recently jumped to his death. And then, after looking up and down the street, he pointed back at the hotel.

``No, this isn't where you want to live, man. You don't want to live here,'' he said.

It was the best Wright and the others could do, though. They arranged through the hotel manager to give Chacon a room free of charge if he would work with children in the gym. Free room. A job in boxing. And, with Wright and Roberts living on the premises, he'd be looked after.

Not a bad deal, as his friends saw it.

``He has to be in the gym,'' Wright said. ``That was the important thing. He lives for boxing. He'd die without it.''

Deserved better

The Ramirezes didn't know what condition they would find him in or what - if anything - they could do for him that day at the hotel.

They found him in the little gym, cleaning up at the end of the day, and didn't like what they saw: Chacon was unkempt, his clothes worn and mismatched and personal hygiene was obviously lacking. That disturbed the Ramirezes but was particularly painful to Johna, who has become closer with her father since he met the couple.

``I was there when he was on top,'' she said, her voice rising. ``... To see him like that was disgusting ... not disgusting, disappointing. It was hard to see him like that.''

The Ramirezes also were appalled at the hotel, where they decided no one should have to live. Chacon's room was filthy. His belongings were strewn everywhere, including aging memorabilia he had somehow managed to transport from one home to another that was mixed in with other papers. Among the mess was one of his two championship belts - he'd lost the other one somewhere along the way - and a few faded clippings chronicling his glory days.

The Ramirezes came to the same conclusion: Chacon deserves better than this.

``This poor guy, my husband's hero, went from the top of the world to down here,'' Lisa Ramirez said. ``Now, he doesn't have anything, nobody cares about him. My husband wanted him to be in a spiritual atmosphere, wanted him to be saved, which means born again. And he wanted him to get away from here.''

Respect and affection

Chacon didn't remember Ray Ramirez, one of hundreds of sparring partners during his career. However, he liked the couple and those he'd meet at the church immediately; they treated him with respect and affection.

And they felt the same way about Chacon. Soon, the Ramirezes decided they wanted to play a larger role in his life. They asked him whether he wanted a new home, a nice home, and he accepted. He would live with Ward and his roommates in Huntington Park, not far from the church, free of charge and the three of them - as well as others at the church - would look after him.

In the few months since he left the Huntington Hotel, he has become an endearing combination of a close friend and the son the younger Ramirezes never had.

The apartment in which Chacon lives is small and austere but clean and cozy, including his tidy room, which is decorated with framed magazine covers, photos and other reminders of his boxing career. And it's in a secure building, a precious perk after his experience at the hotel and at other residences.

Lisa Ramirez comes every morning to be certain he's dressed and groomed properly and to take him to church, where she teaches and serves as an administrator. She arrived one morning to find him wearing clean jeans and a sharp, gray polo shirt.

Each visit, she shaves his face and combs his neatly cropped hair before they take a few minutes to read the Scriptures together.

``She's nice, isn't she?'' he said through a broad smile after they finished.

The Ramirezes and others from the church take him on regular outings, whether it's something as simple as bagels and coffee every Sunday morning with Lisa or more elaborate trips with large groups.

The key is he's never alone - by design. The last thing they want is for him to get lost or find a way to quench his lingering thirst for alcohol.

And, of course, there's the modest boxing program at the church.

What more could he ask for? A nice home, doting friends and an opportunity to dabble in his life's passion.

``Why do we do it?'' asked Ray Ramirez. ``Honestly, because I love him. It began with compassion. I wanted to reach out and help him. But that relationship has evolved into a stronger bond. I don't do it anymore because it's a chore. I do it because I want to do it.''

A lucky man

Johna had reservations about the Ramirezes in the beginning and she told them so. She'd seen too many people who claimed to care about her dad come and go, leaving him with nothing. And then evidence convinced her they were genuine: She hadn't seen him in such good spirits since she was a child.

``I'm so grateful to them,'' she said. ``It's so nice to see him this way.''

Chacon still has his dark moments, though.

Lisa Ramirez said something will remind him of Valorie and he'll cry. ``I killed her, you know,'' he'll say. And recently, as he sat in a small office the Ramirezes set up for him at the church, he blurted out as he stared blankly at the floor: ``You know, I think about killing myself. What do I have to live for? I don't have anything anymore,'' an apparent reference to Valorie, money and boxing.

Days later, he's reminded of his comments. He seems to be a bit embarrassed. And, indeed, his perpetual smile, his jovial demeanor, an aura of peace about him lead an observer to one conclusion: Chacon is a lucky man.

``I have a lot to live for,'' he said. ``... I have Johna, my granddaughter. And I have Ray and Lisa. These people have been good to me. I don't know what I'd do without them.''

CAPTION(S):

12 photos

Photo:

(1 -- color) no caption (Bobby Chacon)

(2 -- color) Former boxing champion Bobby Chacon hold his title belt while taking a moment in his room to reflect on life.

(3) Chacon, left, poses with erstwhile sparring partner Ray Ramirez in this 1975 photo. Ramirez, now a Baptist minister, never lost his affection for his boxing idol and helped him get out of Skid Row.

(4 -- color) Bobby Chacon and Lisa Ramirez pray together at Chacon's apartment, where they meet every morning to prepare for the ocming day.

(5 -- color) Former boxing champ Chacon, left, gives the Rev. Ray Ramirez a big hug at Hillside Bible Baptist Church in Los Angeles.

(6 -- color) Chacon demonstrates his boxing skills for children and the Rev. Ray Ramirez at Hillside Bible Baptist Church.

(7) In happy times, Chacon gets some loving attention from his wife, Valorie, whose suicide set Chacon on a path of deep despair.

(8 -- color) An up-and-coming youngster works the heavy bag under the guidance of Bobby Chacon, a former champ who now helps youths through the church that helped transform his life.

(9 -- color) A bible sits on Chacon's dresser next to his championship belt.

(10 -- color) Incapacitated by his injuries in the ring and his battles with drugs and alcohol, Chacon gets his morning shave from his friend Lisa Ramirez. Ramirez and her husband helped the former champ rise up from the slide of Skid Row.

(11 -- color) Accustomed to conditioning exercises from his boxing career, Chacon hits the streets for his early-morning walk to a nearby doughnut shop.

(12 -- color) North Hollywood-born former champion Chacon prays with youngsters before training them in the art of boxing at the Hillside Bible Baptist Church.

Hans Gutknecht/Staff Photographer