My Dad, John J. Baker, passed away thirty years ago.
He had been doing something that he loved, fishing at Lake Merced, where he had a sudden heart attack and died instantly. Seems it was just yesterday that I went through his things and found a dog-eared steno pad that looked like a piece of junk. I never even knew the notebook existed. It was filled with newspaper articles and photos, documenting his amateur boxing career, culminating with his winning a gold medal in an SF Examiner Golden Gloves championship fight in 1935.
I knew about the medal. I had it framed with his "winner's" photo. He always told us the reason he changed his name from Butchinoff to Baker was because Butchinoff wouldn't fit on his boxing robe. He boxed for the Twin Peaks Parlor, the Knives & Forks Club, and the Tommy Cello Athletic Club.
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What I didn't know was how much all of this meant to him. He never talked about his boxing. He admired Muhammad Ali (Cassius Clay at the time) and thought Ali had quite a career ahead of him (understatement of the century).
My Dad's parents fled Russia during the fall of the Romanovs and eventually settled on Potrero Hill in San Francisco. He was in the US Army and served with the 82nd Airborne Division during WWII (sixteen jumps).
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He worked for Schlage Lock Company for thirty one years (won the pie-eating contest at the 1958 company picnic) and was the most honest man I've ever known.
He would drive back across town to a restaurant if he discovered they overcharged him for a meal. The youth groups at our church, the Russian Full Gospel Temple at the foot of Potrero Hill, always asked him to referee their games and keep score because they trusted him.
He would never raise his voice in anger. When I run into these old friends, they still remember how kind and honest "Brother John" was. His old friends would always remember the hot temper he had as a young man and newspaper articles claimed his punches packed quite a sting. I wish I had known him then.
I went to my first boxing match last year. I saw Andre Ward in Oakland. My Dad was with me; I carried his old notebook in my purse. And I know he enjoyed the fight; I had a really great seat!
Happy Father's Day, Dad. I'm very proud of you and I miss you.
