At the Ambassador Boxing Club, Cecil Lalas, an ordained minister, provides a structured environment for those with troubled pasts.
By FRANK PASTOR, Times Staff Writer
Published July 17, 2005
HUDSON - Like a cheetah stalking its prey, Joe Distefano IV shadows coach Cecil Lalas around the 18-square-foot ring.
Lalas, punch mitts held even with his cleanly shaved head, calls out instructions in rapid-fire bursts.
"Three lefts."
"Uppercut."
"Right jab."
With ferocity and precision, Distefano hits the targets one by one.
With 30 seconds showing on a nearby clock, Lalas pulls the mitts in tight. Sweat pouring from his forehead in the 90-degree gym, Distefano unleashes a flurry of left-right combinations, his exhalations piercing the air with each thrust.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
With each punch, the 17-year-old from Weeki Wachee moves a step closer to exorcising the demons that have followed him since childhood. His parents' divorce. Bullies at school. Clashes with teachers.
"Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!" Lalas and his son, Tony, encourage.
Distefano doesn't stop until a buzzer sounds, signaling the end of a two-minute sparring session.
Nearby, 23-year-old Micah Drake of Hudson, dehydrated and suffering from a lack of sleep, exits a restroom, having exorcised demons of his own.
"I came in thinking I was this and I was that, and I showed up here and realized how much work I needed to do," Drake said. "I've got a long way to go."
* * *
The Ambassador Boxing Club is a USA Boxing-certified club that trains amateurs and pros. Some join for fitness, others to compete.
The nonprofit club, which Cecil Lalas heads, is a Christian organization run by volunteers that prohibits foul language, encourages safety and, above all else, demands discipline from its members.
Lalas, an ordained minister, works as a produce manager at a supermarket during the day. The rest of his time is devoted to the club.
When boxers enter the garage door to the warehouse that houses the club, Lalas wants them to find a structured, wholesome environment conducive to growing in character and achievements in and out of the ring.
"Character would be, to me, the top priority," Lalas said. "There are a lot of kids that come here with the wrong motives; that want to learn how to fight to beat people up, to be a bully. But we spot them. They usually don't last very long."
Often, Lalas' work extends from the ring to his office or the parking lot, where he stays late into the night to counsel boxers for problems at home or school.
Lalas has worked with Jose Alonzo, who had eight pro fights, and Antwan Echols, who once fought Roy Jones. But most of Lalas' students are amateurs. Of the 40-50 who currently train at the club, only a handful fight. Of those, Distefano and Giovanni Galloza are most active. Distefano recently won the 141-pound championship at the Police Athletic League state tournament in Fort Pierce. Galloza placed second at 114.
Most come from at-risk backgrounds and seek nothing more than a fight. But they leave with much more.
"We're trying to get kids directed in the right path," said Lalas' son, Tony, a certified fitness trainer and massage therapist who works days at the YMCA. "Too many kids are left unsupervised and without direction, and nobody's taught them how to set goals. So we're just trying to make an impact."
* * *
Cecil Lalas, 49, of Spring Hill resisted boxing as long as he could.
His father, Mitchell, held the featherweight championship for three years while stationed in Panama and trained boxers while serving as an MP in the Army.
Lalas had no interest in the sport until age 12 or 13, when bullies began to trouble him at school.
"I had that chip on my shoulder where I felt like I had to prove myself all the time until after I started boxing," Lalas said. "I know it built my confidence up. Knowing that you know how to defend yourself if necessary is huge as a kid."
When Lalas' older brother, Victor, who once held the welterweight title in Fort Hood, Texas, returned from Vietnam in 1972, he asked Lalas to enter Golden Gloves with him. Lalas, who idolized his brother, jumped at the chance.
Victor knocked out nine straight opponents before falling short of the championship. Lalas was devastated by his brother's loss but used the experience to motivate himself to a title.
Lalas entered the service a few years later. While stationed in Munich, Germany, a battery commander who had watched him train offered to sponsor him for the Olympic Trials. Lalas trained before a knee injury ended his chances.
"But after I got out of the service, I wanted to do what my dad did, and that was teach," Lalas said. "I get a lot of satisfaction out of it."
* * *
Lalas' spiritual calling came later, after his mother-in-law's death in 1984. It was the first time death touched anyone close to him, and he slipped into depression.
"The first thing I thought about in the morning was when I was going to die, and the last thing on my mind at night was when I was going to die," Lalas said. "And I would think thoughts like, "Let's see: school, education, work, vocation, die, get thrown in a hole. What's the point?"' Lalas overcame his depression by reading Pat Boone's book, Power for Living, which told how high-profile sports figures and successful business people who felt purposeless despite having money and education found peace in Jesus Christ.
"Once I read the book, I felt an overwhelming Godly sorrow that filled my heart, but it was liberating," Lalas said. "I basically in my bedroom by myself fell on the floor and started bawling like a baby and asked the Lord into my heart." Lalas dusted off the Bible his mother bought him 25 years earlier and read it voraciously. He got involved in a nondenominational church, went to a school of ministry and became ordained. "That's really where my heart is," Lalas said. "Boxing, to me, just happens to be a tool to be able to use to speak to the lives of kids and young people."
It took him a while to see it that way.
At first, Lalas backed away from boxing because he didn't believe it was compatible with his newfound faith. But the further he explored his beliefs, he began to see parallels between the two.
Lalas opened a boxing club out of his two-car garage in 1993 and had a regulation ring constructed under a 40-square-foot circus tent in the back yard.
He closed the club two years later after a pastor convinced him he needed to focus on more mainstream ministry but reconsidered five years later after hearing a more persuasive argument.
Joseph Jennings, a former gang leader and drug addict who became a motivational speaker, had dinner with Lalas and his wife. At one point, the conversation turned to the club. "Young man, let me tell you something," Jennings said. "That is mainstream ministry."
Lalas reopened the club after moving from Pasco to a more residential neighborhood in Hernando, where he again operated out of his garage. When neighbors complained about the numerous cars parked on the street, Lalas moved the club to County Line Industrial Park.
The club closed for three months after losing its roof to Hurricane Jeanne. But members kept in touch and returned when the club reopened in a larger space across the street.
* * *
Lalas didn't push boxing on his son, Tony. He waited for Tony to come to him.
"I was getting picked on (in high school) and needed something to boost my self-esteem," Tony said. "I had taken karate, and it wasn't something I felt comfortable with defending myself."
Tony worked with his father and began lifting weights. Over time, his body changed. By the time he started boxing competitively, the bullies backed off.
"I remember seeing guys from school came in. They'd see me doing that, and all of a sudden, they had a little bit different respect for me," Tony said.
He competed in sanctioned events across the state, traveling to Jacksonville for the Golden Gloves in 1995. But nothing matched his bout against Victor Flores later that year in Spring Hill.
Having recently recovered from bronchitis, Tony battled through chest pain and breathing difficulties to win a decision in front of more than 100 classmates, who chanted his name.
"I pushed myself to fight," Tony said. "I would never have fought feeling in that condition unless I would have had as many people there as I had come to see me and just making it through the fight and the pain I was in."
Tony stopped competing after breaking his left arm playing flag football, but his passion for boxing remained strong.
After his father closed the club, Tony and his brother, Adam, were among the loudest voices pushing for its reopening.
"It was something we missed, and we had that reputation," Tony said. "People hear about it, and they see you in the paper so many times and said, "What's up with that? Will you train me?"'
* * *
The gym almost came too late for Micah Drake. Diagnosed with an aggression problem at age 9, Drake once was asked by a psychiatrist to draw a picture of something that made him angry. The psychiatrist led Drake into a room, handed him a Wiffle bat and told him to swing away.
"I was up there for an hour hitting this picture," Drake said. "I broke three Wiffle bats." As he got older, Drake's anger spilled into other areas of his life. Until he got a heavy bag, he punched solid objects, often breaking bones in his hand. Mostly, he bottled up his frustration until it exploded.
He hung out with the wrong crowd. He got into fights. Eventually, he went to jail.
Back then, he had nothing to lose. But now he is married and owns a painting business, house and car.
"It's not like in the old days when you can slug it out and whatever," Drake said. "Today, you get sued."
What started as a way for Drake to take out his aggression without getting into trouble or anyone getting hurt has developed into much more.
In three months, he has dropped from 245 pounds to 194. He hopes to get down to 178 and fight as a light heavyweight. More important, he has found the confidence to help control his temper.
"People like him that have come from some pretty dark backgrounds, I really consider it an honor to be able to work with him and encourage him," Cecil Lalas said. "He's a big, strong guy, but there's a lot of baggage, issues that need to be talked out. And the Lord's the answer. That's where he's going to find real answers, not just temporary fixes."
* * *
Joe Distefano had baggage of his own. His parents divorced when he was young. He was picked on at school. And he had trouble controling his anger.
That led him to Lalas. Distefano does odd jobs around the gym to fulfill a community service requirement after a high school teacher said he threatened him.
"He was rather clumsy and uncommitted, wasn't very accountable, and that has really changed," Cecil Lalas said. "Sometimes planting seeds, sometimes coming down hard, other times kind of coaxing, sometimes just spending time with him watching some of the fights on TV.
"I think Joe has got a lot to offer in the sense of what he's been through in just the (past) three years. He can keep a lot of kids who want to go down the same stupid path he was on off that stupid path."
Distefano had wanted to box since he was little. His father was a Golden Gloves champion in New York, and both of his grandfathers used to box. He tried karate but quickly discovered he was better at punching than kicking.
"I just think it's in my blood," Distefano said.
It's in his head, too. Rare is the moment he doesn't wonder, "If someone throws a punch, should I block with my shoulder or my hand? Should I slip it to the side?"
Distefano is driven by a fear of losing, which has happened only once in five amateur fights. He erased the memory by winning the 141-pound championship at the Police Athletic League state tournament. He now hopes to claim a bigger championship, perhaps in Golden Gloves. But Distefano doesn't want to box professionally. He plans to become a mechanic and coach boxing, much like Lalas.
"I want to do what he does," Distefano said. "He used to talk to me in that office for hours and hours just about life stuff, being a man and stuff like that."
* * *
It is 8:20 p.m., and Distefano and Galloza are facedown on the gym floor, struggling to complete pushups in which their hands must leave the floor.
During the past 90 minutes, they have done regular pushups, lunging pushups and pushups with one hand on a medicine ball. They did crunches and curls. Leg lifts and knee lifts while suspended in the air.
Drake, feeling nauseous, has retired to Lalas' office, where the two speak. Meanwhile, Tony Lalas asks for more pushups.
"This is killing me," Distefano groans.
"A couple more," Lalas urges.
The boxers press on, pushing off the floor with their hands and landing on their chests with a thud.
After a few more, Lalas relents.
"You're done," he says.
Some demons are more difficult to exorcise than others.
