by Michael O'Brien (C) 2001

 Cape Meares…on my better days, or my worst, I grab my dog, a warm coat and a treasure bag and head for the minus tides. Today, there’s a good half mile of extra bare beach to the west.  The dog becomes a frolicking dot in the distance and the sky encloses me like a zipped tent.  As far as I can see, I am alone.

My walk washes the rigor of daily tasks and irritants away.  The sound of the sea envelops me and I turn and look back.  There, in the distance, silhouettes of another human and dog, enjoying their solitude.

A whistle and my dog comes flying, a wide-open smile from the exercise.  We head back, closer now to the other duo.  I have loose agates and unusual shapes of weathered wood in my bag as I approach the man and his dog.  Recognition occurs.  I have seen the white-haired, distinguished looking gentleman before.  I smile and give him a “nice evening, isn’t it?”

He responds with a nod and adds: “You’re the sports guy aren’t you, Mike O’Brien’s son?”  I am  both.  He refers to my job at the local paper as sports editor and my father, who spends a few retirement months a year here.

“Yes I am and I’m also a Michael,” I reply.  “Jim Reilly,” he responds, “I know your dad and mom from Spokane.  I read your stories and might have something you’d enjoy seeing.”

Now’s the time

 “When would be a good time?” I ask.  “Tonight, if it fits,” replies Reilly.  “Give me an hour and I’ll run my beast home,” I say.

An hour later, my dog is out cold, bathed and dreaming of birds she’ll never catch and I slip away to Jim Reilly’s.  Reilly greets me with a cold bottle of beer.  I recognize it as Smith & Reilly, a bottled import-style ale I used to serve at a Portland pub where I pumped beer handles a few years back.  I comment to that effect.

“That’s my beer,” says Reilly.  “Well, thanks for sharing it,” I reply, somewhat confused.  “No, I mean that’s my beer, I’m Reilly, Smith is elsewhere,” he laughs.  “Are you having one?” I ask.  “Not for years…had to leave it behind.  I keep it around for guests.”

I assume I’ve just been shown what he invited me over for…a good beer which he manufactured.   “Come this way, I’ll show you what you’re here for,” says Reilly.  I follow him into a tastefully appointed den.  As my eyes adjust, a shock of recognition comes over me.  I recall my father mentioning the unusual number of ex-Spokanites living in this Oregon coast zip code…and something about Reilly and boxing at Gonzaga University.

A boxing history

 But this is something else.  A boxing journey through the ages.  History on a four by six wall space filled with framed photos…former world welterweight and middleweight champion Carmen Basilio, Willie Pep, who accomplished the same feat, “The Mongoose” Archie Moore, Michael Spinks, once 48-0 in the light heavyweight and heavyweight ranks; current champion Evander Holyfield, former light heavyweight Lindell Holmes, promoter and boxing czar Don King, Muhammed Ali himself and many more, all with smiles, embraces and written salutations to my host, Jim Reilly.

I’m allowed my moment of speechlessness.  I learn that Reilly, spending his retirement at Cape Meares, has been actively involved in the world of amateur and professional boxing since the 1940’s.  He has refereed at least a dozen world championship matches…twice in Tokyo, twice in Seoul, twice in Jakarta Indonesia, once in Europe and several in the states.  He’s been the third man in the ring with George Foreman. 

He’s been fast friends with the late Rocky Marciano and has spent quality time with Muhammed Ali, the man who defines the sport to this writer.  Jersey Joe Walcott was a friend.  “Jersey Joe was an intelligent Holyfield type of fighter, he carried himself like a champion.”  Walcott trusted Reilly for reliable information as to where he could eat, as a black man, in a time when many places in America were still not integrated.  Each time they met, Walcott would say something like “Jim, that was a good place you sent me to in Chicago…where’s a good place here?”

Don King remembers

 Don King?  The man who many of us blame for the diminishment of boxing?  “One thing I’ll say about Don King,” Reilly offers, “is that even if I hadn’t encountered him in years, he’d always remember exactly who I was, where I was from and ask me about some small detail or event from the distant past.  The man has an amazing ability to remember things about everyone he encounters.”

I politely decline another beer.  I’m right where I want to be, just listening to this man.

Reilly, a product of Spokane, cut his teeth in the Jesuit school system, first at Gonzaga Prep and then at Gonzaga U, where he graduated in 1951.  Reilly was a member of Gonzaga’s only NCAA championship boxing team.  He was the two-time lightweight Pacific Coast boxing champion while boxing for the legendary Joey August boxing teams that hailed from Spokane.  Classmates and friends included Bing Crosby and my father.  Raises a smile, that one does.

After his own boxing career, Reilly began training boxers and created 20 regional champions in 1964, with a team largely composed of Morning Star Boys Ranch youth.  Morning Star was a Spokane area learning center for boys flirting with a misspent youth or orphaned.  Reilly’s charges won two national junior and one national senior titles in 1964.  He guided Toby Gibson all the way to the Olympic Games that year.

Pursuing his love for the “sweet science,” Reilly began his career as an official in the days when boxing was a better game and fighters fought at least a half dozen times per year.  The life of a boxing official entailed receiving a letter, usually every two months, telling Reilly he had been selected to referee or officiate a certain fight.  “I usually got one title fight a year.  In those days the money wasn’t really that great.  We would get something like $1,500 for a title match, plus hotel and meal expenses,” said Reilly.  “Things are on a much grander scale now.  The entire industry has ballooned dollarwise, with pay-per-view and larger arenas.”

Memorable matches

 I ask him about memorable ring evenings.  “I had some anxious moments.  Once in Seoul, with 50,000 fans on hand to support their national hero, Jong Dai Park, who was fighting Lindell Holmes of the United States for the world super middleweight title, I was referee when Park became cut by a head butt.  This, under the rules for the match, made it a ‘no contest’ with Park to win on the foul.”  Reilly stopped the bout and the Korean crowd, thinking their man had lost, went ballistic and started tossing chairs at the ring. Reilly, unable to find anyone who understood English, took refuge under the ring and was finally able to get a message to the crowd that their guy had won.

Reilly, entering his seventh decade, is fit and healthy in appearance and I ask why he’s not still refereeing.  “It’s more confusing now.  You’ve got six governing bodies with different sets of rules.  Some allow standing eight counts, some don’t.  You’re spreading yourself too thin to be efficient.”  Reilly refereed as many as 500 fights. 

I ask how he got into the beer business.  While visiting breweries in Germany in 1982, Reilly was impressed with what he saw and tasted.  He came up with Smith & Reilly, an American-brewed all-malt beer with a classic European flavor.   I learn that there is no “Smith.”  “I thought I needed two names on the trademark for marketing reasons,” Reilly explains.  “I didn’t think ‘Reilly Beer’ had the right ring to it.”  Reilly collects beer taps and thinks he may have the world’s largest personal collection.

I want more, even as the sun is setting.  My questions lead to the current state of boxing.  Recent debacles have tainted the sport for many, including myself, I tell Reilly.  “Well, look at Mike Tyson,” he responds.  “He should be suspended permanently…but if he isn’t, there will be millions ready to put their money down again.  Pay-per-view and once-a-year championship fights have brought the game to this point.  It’s a sad thing,” Reilly offers wistfully.

My host’s willingness to share his experiences and opinions has left me rather euphoric as I rise to leave.  I glide home as the sun dips.  I ponder how many other faces in my village have much to tell, layers to peel away.  Certainly, I’ll be more aware of the strangers around me after meeting Reilly.  Home, I find the dog still thinking of birds that might have been hers.  I’m thinking of Jersey Joe Walcott, heavyweight champion of the world, trying to find a safe place to eat in Chicago, not so very long ago.
 
 

Michael O'Brien writes sports for the Tillamook Headlight Herald