GOODBYE TO A HARD BASTARD

Let me tell you about the hard bastard who saved my life. His name was Jesse Wayne Reid Jr. Jesse was a fighter, a professional boxer who retired with 11 wins, no losses and one draw. Later, he became a trainer and worked with his “pops”, legendary hall of fame coach Jesse Reid Sr.

In 2012, I sent my fighter, LT, a young amateur middleweight with great potential, to camp with Coach Reid at his gym in Los Angeles. After LT came back from LA, I called coach Reid Sr. to get his take on the kid. Coach was not available, so I dialed Jesse Jr. instead to get things rolling. I’ll never forget that exchange. Rather, I’ll never forget the first time I heard Jesse's baritone.

“Yeah, hello.”

I was taken back by the grave, rich, powerful voice. Jesse had the slow, heavy roll of someone who goes hard and cuts deep.

"Hi. Jesse? This is Arlette Torres, LT’s mentor and sponsor. I wanted to talk about how he did.”

“Loui! Hell yeah! Great fuckin’ kid. Great fighter. You know he got that height and reach. Tall for a middleweight!”

That was it. Right there and then, Jesse and I became instant friends. We talked about boxing for two hours with the ease and flow that only comes naturally between siblings or childhood friends.

Over the next year, I faced one of the worst battles with deep depression and disabling anxiety. I had fought both since childhood, but this felt different. Suffocating hopelesness gave way to implacable desperation. I was gutted. Drowning. Fading away. Never imagined I would be saved. In fact, I detest the whole concept of “being saved”, but I was.

LT would spend as much time as he could hanging out at home with me. When he was gone, Jesse called me. We talked about boxing, traveling, gypsy fights, street fights, drinking, smoking, love, hate, revenge, forgiveness, heartache, betrayal, getting up, falling down, dogs, food and friends. Jesse He told me behind-the-scenes stories about fighters and made me laugh like Mephistopheles on blow.

Our conversations went on for years. Eventually, I came to understand why Jesse and I were separated only by the thin membrane of last names. We didn’t meet people. We collided with people. We believed in nothing and hoped for everything. We loved and hated with equal fervor. We had everything and gave it all away and learned nothing and remembered only what made us feel. We danced with the same demons, carried the same stones.

Every morning, Jesse called.

“Hey killer, you there?”

I would often not answer so he would call back again and again until I picked up.

Our longest conversation was nine hours, not counting breaks. Jesse kept me going over the line, reaching out countless times to take my pulse. We would discuss and debate every single aspect of boxing, except business.

Rather, we waxed poetic about the purity of the sport - history, training, technique, inspiration, cornering, coaching, methods, feinting, discipline, power, the fucking mitts, styles, tricks, habits, corking, early boxing, pioneers, contemporary, modern, Cuban school, EE school, Mexican “style”, Puerto Rican fighters, gym wars.

Jesse loved to cook and eat. I do, too.

"So, you wanna cook with me, killer? What should we make? I have money for steak!”

We would decide what we were going to “cook together” and do it over the phone. I would tell him to sear the steak on super high and then finish it in the oven and melt lots of butter over it. Jesse would take pictures of everything he cooked and of every single damn take out meal he ever got. When Jesse sensed I was fading, he’d go hard.

“Arlette, come to LA, I’ll take care of you. We can watch all the fights you want at my place. I have 5,500 tapes and there’s multiple fights on each. We never have to leave.”

On any given day, we’d jive about best chins, worst throws, head butting, feinting, sneaky tactics, etc. We talked about Orlando Canizales and Johnny Tapia often. Jesse loved Orlando and I have always considered him the best bantam in history. Footwork. Cutting the ring. Rolling the shoulder. Over training. Cus. Eddie. Angelo. Bruce. Donald. Marvelous. Gym wars. Salvador. Pivoting. Angles. Angles. Angles. Slide. Move sideways and turn. Disorient. Sit down on punches. Drop the knee. Look at the chest. Shovel the liver. Fight backwards. Jab jab jab.

I remember one particular conversation about defensive fighters. I asked Jesse for his top three, no thinking, just go.

“Canizales, Floyd, Toney.”

I quipped,

"Locche, Orlando, Finito.”

“Fucking beauty! Locche!”

Slowly and all at once, Jesse and I were succumbing, together and apart. He didn’t ask me for anything and gave me everything. Time. Presence. Silence.

No doing. No going. Just being.

On Friday, April 27, 2018, Jesse was traveling to Philly with his dad to corner an ESPN fight. At the airport, Jesse fell and hit his head. He was taken to the hospital and died of a stroke while unconscious. Swift and devastating, the left hook he never saw coming.

I didn’t get to say goodbye, kiss your forehead and tell you this, Jesse.

Hear me now.

You were a fine gladiator. Emotion in motion. Body electric. All the way alive. Endless pour of love and friendship. You now run through my veins.

I love you.

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