Barnum’s name still has a ring to it

Joey BARNUM is sitting at a booth in Matteo’s restaurant punching the air, showing me how it ought to be done in boxing, and how the kids aren’t doing it right anymore

The jabs are swift and sure, the way he threw them as a No. 3-ranked lightweight in the ‘40s. At 82, weighing only a few pounds more than he did back then, Joey demonstrates the quickness that made him a contender.

Matteo’s is his haven, a place where Frank Sinatra ate when he was in town and where showbiz old-timers meet on Sunday nights with almost ritualistic consistency for some of the best Italian food in L.A.

Joey is looking good in a dark suit, light-blue shirt open halfway down his chest and a diamond-studded miniature gold boxing glove dangling from a chain around his neck. On the table in front of him is the ornate oversized belt of the World Boxing Hall of Fame, which he was inducted into six years ago at a ceremony as lavish as the belt. He is jabbing at a phantom opponent not only to prove that he’s still got the stuff of champions but also to illustrate how he is going to teach young boxers the ropes when he begins a whole new career as a trainer.

“I need something to do; I’m going crazy,” he says between bites of linguini and clams. A Sinatra tune plays in the background. “My daughters are running my bail bonds business now, so I’m not doing that anymore. And I can be a better trainer than Clint Eastwood.”

He isn’t smiling when he says that. The night before he had seen “Million Dollar Baby,” and, while he thought the ring training sequences were pretty good, he was disgusted with the role of Hilary Swank as a boxer. “Women shouldn’t be fighters,” he says flatly. “Blood coming out of her eyes and nose. My God.”

He also has a technical flaw to criticize. It is in the scene where Swank turns away from her opponent and receives a devastating punch from behind.

“He should’ve told her,” Joey says, “that you don’t turn your back on the other fighter until you get to your corner; he might play dirty, like in the movie.” He shakes his head in disbelief that Eastwood would not have mentioned that to her.

Joey has brought the Hall of Fame belt to show it to me and also to show it off generally. He has also brought a copy of the manuscript of a book he hopes to have published. It’s called “Gloves Off” and is about his career as both a boxer and as “bail bondsman to the stars.” Joey says the book has been rewritten and is ready to be published, but it is unclear when or by whom.

“It’s all in there,” he says, tapping at the sheath of papers. On the cover is a photograph of Joey with Marilyn Monroe, one of the many celebrities he once palled around with, and a picture of him in drag. He has told the story a thousand times, in print and in TV interviews, how he dressed as a woman once to catch a bail-jumper.

He gives me a copy of the book and lowers his voice as he says that someone is interested in maybe making a movie about him, but he can’t talk about it yet. Boxing promoter Ken Thompson confirms that he’s going to give Joey a shot at training young fighters.

“We’re looking for some new faces now,” he says. “I want Joey to show them the moves that kept him from getting messed up.”

Joey illustrates. He tucks in his chin as he punches, then moves his head to the left and then to the right in a kind of rhythmical swaying motion, like a cobra ready to strike or a boxer dodging invisible punches from the gloved fists of an apparition from the past.

The lure of boxing has never left him. Two years ago, he was talking about making a comeback as a fighter. He had a date all set and an opponent named. I watched him train at a gym in South El Monte. He was quick on his feet all right, and his punches jolted a body bag, but even a guy like Joey, who has kept himself in shape and who still runs two miles a day, five days a week, can’t fight the years.

Time is tougher and quicker than any boxer who ever existed, even Ali and Sugar Ray and the great Joe Louis. Time throws punches that Joey might not be able to duck, and a hit to the head could kill him. The State Athletic Commission knew that and nixed any comeback attempt.

Joey says he understands all that as we leave Matteo’s, the Hall of Fame belt safely tucked into a cloth carrier. There’ll be no more ring time for him. “So if I can’t fight ‘em, I might as well train ‘em,” he says, trying to make light of the realization. “They don’t know how to fight inside or how to bounce off the ropes. They don’t know how to counterpunch.”

Then he strides off, light on his feet, punching the air a couple of times, hearing the crowd that cheered him on a long time ago.

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Al Martinez’s column appears on Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at al.martinez@latimes.com.