Brandelli's Brig

Babe Brandelli's Brig sat on the corner of Palms and Abbot Kinney Blvds in Venice, California, serving the locals for 50 years until it changed owners in 1997.  The place today has little in common with the original décor or clientele.  The new owner kept Babe's picture on the sign in front and the large mural visible from the street featuring Babe and his Wife Betty.

Five blocks west of Brandelli's Brig is the Venice Post Office where I worked the graveyard shift in 1971.  I worked alone in the basement of the building tossing parcel post packages into gurneys.  When I would start work at midnight, there would be a huge pile of parcels in the middle of the basement floor.  Surrounding the pile, were 54 gurneys (one for each carrier route) that filled the entire remaining space.  The gurneys were big enough to hold a small Fiat and each had a sign attached with the route number.  I would pick out a package from the pile, read the address, and having memorized the routes, turn and throw the package into the appropriate gurney.  The distance ranged from 5 to 30 feet.  It was useful to bank the packages off the walls to reach certain gurneys depending on their location.

I found that the some of the packages held real treasures.  The city of Venice and its canals had been the brain child of Abbot Kinney, and was developed as a beach resort in 1905.  There is a terrific mural in the lobby of the Venice Post Office showing Mr. Kinney and the resort in it's hey day.  

Unfortunately, things had fallen into disrepair over the years.  Rents were cheap and given the proximity to the ocean, by the time the 1960s arrived, the town had an abundance of artists, beach bums, hippies and addicts.  In some of the parcels I would detect portfolios being returned by galleries to local artists and I set them aside.  During my breaks and lunch, I would open the packages containing the artists' work, appreciate them as only a former art major could, carefully place the package and work into a sturdy canvass bag, and attach a tag that read "Received in damaged condition".  The artists' work received the greatest possible attention.  The canvass bags went into a designated area where they were handled with the best of care and delivered by a specially assigned driver instead of a letter carrier.    

South of Venice was the more recently developed Marina Del Rey with high rise condos, boat slips, trendy restaurants, night spots and shops.  One night I found a partially damaged package in the pile that was addressed to one of the fancy shops in the marina.  Inside was a dozen pair of size 11 ½  Topsider deck shoes.  They certainly were stylish and my size as well.  My shoes were worn through, and being my only pair at the time, I took this as a sign from above.  I put on the Topsiders, placed my old pair in the package, and sent it on its way.

As you might expect, the Venice postal employees at the time were unique.  The graveyard shift was headed up by shift Supervisor Rulon Cole from Montana, who would blast country radio at us from midnight until 9:30 in the morning when we got off.  There was Wanda, sixtyish and kept to herself; John, a full-blooded Cherokee; Gracie, a transvestite; Hal, a former boxer turned alcoholic; and myself. 

Hal grew up in Minnesota where at nineteen he joined a carnival and toured the Midwest as a shill.  The carnival featured a boxing event where anyone that could last three rounds with the carnival's pro would win $500, but you had to put up $50 to take your shot.  Hal's job was to come out of the crowd wearing bib overalls, a John Deere cap, and a handful of bills.  He would make it through the three rounds, even making the pro look vulnerable at times, and provide encouragement for others to try their luck.

My favorite Hal yarn told of the time when he double dated with his brother one Minnesota winter.  They and their dates got so plastered drinking 190 proof Everclear, the four of them took a toboggan off a ski jump.  Hal and his brother woke up in a tree, and then spent a half hour looking for their dates before throwing in the towel and going home.

Hal and I became buddies and I would often accompany him up to Brandelli's Brig, where patrons were throwing down shots of Wild Turkey at ten in the morning.  Phil "Babe" Brandelli had fought as a featherweight losing half of his 50 bouts and it showed.  Once described as "grizzled" in a New York Times article, he lived above the bar with his wife Betty who is captured in the mural along with Babe.  She sported a long bleached blonde pony tail and was at least was five inches taller than Babe.  They were not a couple you would soon forget.  The Brig's interior was classical Bukowski.  Basically a dark, dreary dive, offering an impressive collection of boxing photos, and frequented by the same people everyday, intent on killing themselves.

Between Babe and Hal the conversation never strayed far from boxing.  One morning I happened to mention Carey, a friend of mine, who had boxed in the army while stationed in Germany.   Babe knew a fight manager who was looking for a new prospect to take under his wing.  After I talked about Carey fighting his way through Eagle Rock elementary, junior and senior high schools, and winning all seven of his fights in Germany, Babe tells me to talk to Carey.  If Carey bites, Babe will set it up.  When I call Carey, he says he's got nothing going for himself at the moment and figures, "Why not?"

1936 Sharkey vs Brubaker Fenway Park 

Before you know it, Carey and I are driving to meet and have dinner with Phil "The Fighting Parson" Brubaker, at his home in Playa Del Rey.  Phil Brubaker grew up in Dinuba, California.  He abandoned his seminary studies and began a boxing career in 1933.  He was a contender, and in 1937 fought the ex-heavyweight champion Jack Sharkey at Fenway Park in Boston. 

Sharkey lost his crown three years earlier to the reportedly mob-controlled Primo Carnera.  Carnera was know as the "Ambling Alp", an awkward six-foot-six and 275 pound giant from Northern Italy.  Carnera won 89 fights, knocking out 72 opponents including Ernie Schaaf who died four days after the fight.  Carnera was backed by the mob when he came to New York in 1928 and stomped the first 17 palookas that were lined up.  One of which reported that his corner man told him that if he didn't throw the fight he would be killed.  When Sharkey lost his title to Carnera, he was also suspected of taking a dive, as ringsiders swore the punch that ended the fight had never connected.

We arrived to meet Brubaker, his wife and Maury, who trains Brubaker's stable of fighters.  They are all as nice as can be.  Brubaker's wife is from the Midwest and serves up monumental dishes including one I've never seen before or since – large oysters swimming in creamed corn.  Brubaker is noticeably pumped as he continues to look Carey up and down.  Soon we are all on the grass in the back yard with Maury putting gloves on Brubaker and Carey.

Brubaker says, "This is just to see if you can move."

They circle around slowly, Brubaker probing with light jabs in front of Carey's face but not making contact.  After a half dozen of the jabs, Cary slaps one aside and throws a combination, pulling his punches an inch short of their target.  Brubaker jumps two feet in the air and he and Maury go bananas, the great white hope had arrived. 

Before we left that night a six month training schedule had been roughed out.  Brubaker would cover Carey's rent and expenses, and Maury would oversee the day-to-day at a boxing gym on Broadway in South Central Los Angeles.  I am not at all surprised.  Carey is no slouch.  We've known each other since kindergarten.  Throughout our school years he showed an appetite for getting into scrapes, seemingly at the drop of a hat.  He was all-league in football, and as a high school senior, he placed in two different events at the California State track and field championships.  A few weeks later, he won the high jump at the U.S. high school national championships.

The weeks go by and Hal shares updates with me at work since he's in touch with Babe, and Babe's in touch with Brubaker.  They're all worked up about Carey's progress.  It's just training and Carey has a lot to learn but he is picking things up quickly.  He has a short sparring session with Jerry Quarry, who fought Muhammad Ali, and Carey holds his own.

Another week goes by and I up and quit the post office, get married, and my wife and I take on a six month house sitting gig in El Monte.  One day I phone Carey, I haven't spoken to him in more than a month.

I ask, "How's the training going?"

Carey said, "That's over."

I ask. "It's over?  What happened?"

Carey said, "I found out it's not for me.  I moved out of Brubaker's apartment and got a new place in Torrance.  I'm back working at the Gardena club."

I am still curious for details and ask, "Not for you, in what way?"

Carey said, "Things were going good but then one day they had me spar with a guy, and that did it for me."

I asked, "Who was this guy, is he ranked?"

Carey said, "I don't know his name, he's nobody.  He's just some old guy that hangs around the gym and spars to pick up a few dollars."

I said, "Well I can't say I'm disappointed.  I was kind of worried that I got you into this, and we both might end up regretting it."

Carey said, "There's no chance of that now.  Having Brubaker carry me for a few months was a big help and I'm glad I got to give it a try, because now I know."

I asked, "Now you know what?".

Carey said, "That guy I sparred with never hit me in the head, he wasn't supposed to.  He did manage to hit every other part of my body with his head, his elbows, his hips, his knees, his shoulders, his chin – he hurt me everywhere you can be hurt, without throwing more than a handful of punches.  He was a beast and I had no way to deal with him."

I said, "This wasn't just one of those days?"

Carey said, "No.  He's not like me or you, and he's not alone.  It's a different breed, and there's nothing they're better at than hurting other people.  They're not gonna get another shot at me."