In his off hours, Canel loafs around his home in Croton, reading Sherlock Holmes or playing chess—for two years, he did a radio program with Capablanca, the great Cuban master. In New York he usually lunches at El Rancho Grande, a Latin American restaurant on West 44th Street. There he reminisces with Patsy Alvarez, the proprietor, who once boxed as The Patent Leather Kid. They talk about such characters as Vicente Six Cylinders, a fighter, and Martin Dihigo, a Cuban ballplayer who, Canel says, was one of the greatest he ever saw. El Rancho is a gathering place for Spanish-speaking ballplayers and boxers, and during lunch Canel is likely to cut up touches with Al Lopez, whose father also came from Asturias, Juan Marichal, Camilo Pascual, Zoilo Versalles, the Rojas-Alous or anyone else who happens to be in town.
What with his crushing schedule, Canel is at last unable to take on any more jobs. A couple of weeks ago Tachito Somoza, the son of the old general and the current boss of Nicaragua, made Canel an attractive offer to come down to broadcast ball games this winter. Canel decided that he was too busy to accept, but he likes to tell friends that Gillette made him turn it down. The name of the man fronting as president of Nicaragua is Schick.