TALES OF UNCLE BILL
need when you’re covering the wacky boxing business. He had hilarious stories for days and was so proud of his family, but he always wanted to know what was going on in your life as well. Spending time with Bill was always one of the best parts of a fight week in Las Vegas and something those of us who knew him well will truly miss. RON SHELTON Film director and screenwriter I met Bill in the early ’90s when I flew to Vegas on a Friday for a big fight weekend. My friend Allan Malamud, the celebrated L.A. sportswriter, met me at the airport to give me a ride. Bill Caplan was in the passenger seat, anxious to meet me and talk to me about something, and Mud (as Alan was affectionately called), was anxious to calm him down. I had sent to Mud a copy of a new script I was about to direct,
Caplan with WBC president and dear friend Maurico Sulaiman.
White Men Can’t Jump, because there was a one-line part for a sportswriter that I knew he would ask to play. Upon picking me up, Mud said, “I loved the script, but do you think I could audition for the sportswriter?” I said, “Mud, the part is yours.” Then Bill started pushing and trying to get my attention, and he and Mud started bickering like an old married couple. Finally Mud gave in and told Bill it was OK to tell me his idea, though it embarrassed him. And Bill said, “I read the script, too, and there’s a part in there for an announcer at the basketball tournament and it describes the character as a loudmouthed obnoxious white-bread announcer, but if you can change it to a loudmouthed obnoxious Jewish announcer, I’d be great in the part.” I told Bill to consider it changed and he had the part. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. STEVE SPRINGER Former Los Angeles Times writer I lost one of my absolute best friends the other day. Bill Caplan died at the age of 90. He was a huge figure in boxing, although only those who were close to him even knew who he was. Most of the public had no idea. He wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t a broadcaster. He wasn’t a
JuanMa Lopez receives a publicity haircut from Caplan and Dan Rafael.
reporter. He wasn’t a comedian. He was a publicist, but he was also so much more. Whenever something needed to be said, something needed to be done or something just needed to happen, Bill stepped up. One afternoon in June of 1982 in the parking lot of Yang Chow restaurant on North Broadway in Los Angeles, a boxer named Lupe Pintor, who was there for a press conference with his opponent, Lee Seung-Hoon, was tired of waiting for him after an hour. So he jumped into his car and was about to take off. But Bill was not about to let that happen. So, he, all 300 pounds of him, jumped in front of Pintor’s car and landed on his stomach. Pintor got out of his car to push Bill away, but fortunately Seung-Hoon showed up at that moment to calm things down, A photographer took a picture of the moment and sent it all over the country. People were thrilled by the fact that the picture got a huge amount of publicity for the fight. And those of us who were in the parking lot that day got a moment we will never forget about our friend Bill Caplan.
neighboring tables were looking at us as Uncle Bill laughed and laughed and laughed. What I noticed was how everyone was smiling. They didn’t know what we were talking about, but they could feel the levity, feel the love for life that Uncle Bill was releasing into the air. I miss my friend. I’m grateful I can still hear his laugh. KEITH IDEC The Ring Magazine Bill had a very welcome way about him, if you knew him for 45 years or 45 minutes. Whether he was connecting you with the fighters he handled or sharing a meal with you, he made you feel like you were spending time with a family member you could completely trust. He was committed to doing his job to the best of his ability, yet he would also give it to you straight, which is exactly what you
DYLAN HERNANDEZ California Post
When I think of Uncle Bill, I think of his laugh. I can hear it now: Ha-ha-ha! Each “ha” was clearly enunciated, separated from the next by a brief pause. His laugh was a literal showstopper. When he’d start guffawing in restaurants, people nearby would look over, wondering what we were talking about. In recent years, that place was often Brent’s Deli in Northridge. Even after I stopped covering boxing, that’s where we got together every month or two. He’d tell me stories about George Foreman, about the days leading up to the Rumble in the Jungle, about how the Venezuelan government wouldn’t let them leave the country after a fight against Ken Norton, and he’d suddenly explode: Ha-ha-ha! There was one instance in particular that I remember. I can’t recall which story he’d just told. As usual, people at the
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