Socrates Batoto: A Champion of the Orient, Inspired by the Great Flash Elorde
PhilBoxing.com
Tue, 25 Mar 2025
Edgar ‘Socrates’ Batoto was a proud Waray, a fighter from Bato, Leyte—a land shaped by challenge, determination, and quiet strength. Boxing can be both unforgiving and rewarding. Talent, skill, and grace can take a fighter far, but in the end, the sport favors those who can do one thing—finish the fight.
Batoto carried that warrior spirit into the ring, moving with the precision of a dancer and the sharpness of a blade. But for all his brilliance, he was missing one thing—the finishing touch that separates great fighters from champions.
He didn’t look like a brawler. Standing at 5’6”, the same height as Luisito Espinosa, Batoto had the sharp features and lean, wiry build of Bruce Lee. And like The Dragon, he relied on speed, precision, and technique over brute force. He wasn’t a slugger—he was a sniper, a fighter who picked his shots carefully and landed with accuracy.
Batoto was first managed by my father, Hermie Rivera, who saw something special in him—his footwork, his timing, his ability to box rather than brawl. My father once described two of his best fighters in a way that’s always stayed with me:
“If Luisito Espinosa was Baryshnikov, then Batoto was Nureyev.”
To drive his message home, with his friend Jack Fiske, my father once intoned, ”Espinosa, a two-division world champion, was elegant—graceful and precise. Batoto? He was something else. His movements were raw, untamed—a perfect blend of instinct and artistry. Both had impeccable footwork.”
But as beautiful as his style was, my father also knew what Batoto lacked—the ability to close the show. For all his talent, for all the dazzling movement and picture-perfect punches, Batoto wasn’t a finisher. And in the unforgiving world of boxing, that would cost him.
I was just a boy, maybe seven or eight years old, when I first saw Batoto train at Elorde’s Gym in Sucat, Parañaque. Inside that legendary gym, the unmistakable presence of Flash Elorde loomed large. The retired world champion still carried himself like a man who could go twelve rounds if he had to.
From behind a swinging black heavy bag, Mr. Elorde’s sharp eyes locked onto a wiry Visayan fighter atop the ring—Socrates Batoto. ‘The Kid’ was in his rhythm, unleashing a crisp left jab–right straight–left hook combo on the fly, his nimble footwork bringing to mind Muhammad Ali.
Down went Batoto’s sparring partner, and Elorde took notice.
“Ganyan, basta hindi bara-bara, Bai… pasok yan,” beamed the great world champion Mr. Elorde. (“Right on. Stick with the plan and you’re in.”)
Then Mr. Elorde did something unexpected.
“O, ako naman,” he said, slipping on a pair of shop-worn gloves. (“My turn.”)
Six or seven years into retirement, and still sharp as ever, Mr. Elorde stepped into the ring and went three full rounds with Batoto. He didn’t take it easy on him. He made him work, teaching him subtle slips, counterpunches, and noggin-shakin’ hooks.
When the sparring ended, Mr. Elorde turned to my father and said, “Hermie, konti pang hasa kay ‘Kid’ at pwede na sa kampeonato.” (“A little more sharpening, and the Kid is ready for a championship.”)
That day, Batoto had earned the respect of one of the greatest Filipino boxers to ever live. But as great as he was, even Mr. Elorde couldn’t teach Batoto how to finish.
I was still young, but I remember it well—the night Batoto fought Kenji Kato at the Rizal Memorial Coliseum. It was the fourth round. A right hook to the breadbasket. Kato crumpled, gasping for air. It wasn’t a wild punch, not a desperate swing—it was clean, surgical, the kind of shot that breaks a man from the inside. He had all the tools to be great. And he proved it when he got his shots at the world title.
The stories were my father’s, but I lived through them in a way. He told me about Mexico City, 1974—the night Batoto challenged Alfonso Zamora for the World Flyweight Championship. Against all odds, he knocked the fearsome puncher down. For a fleeting moment, it seemed like he had stunned not just Zamora, but the whole world.
Then there was Caracas, Venezuela, 1975—the night he fought for the World Bantamweight Championship against Betulio González. Batoto dropped him, too.
But like in Mexico, it wasn’t enough.
After those world title fights, Batoto moved to bantamweight in 1975, but the speed that had once made him special had slowed. His footwork wasn’t as sharp, his stamina betrayed him, and soon, he walked away from the ring.
Career Span: 1968–1978
• Total Fights: 35 Wins: 20
• Losses: 14
• Draws: 1
• Knockouts: 8
• Rounds Fought: 249
• KO Rate: 40%
He never held a world championship belt, but he had something else—a special place in our hearts.
When my dad was still around, we’d lose track of time in late-night conversations, replaying the fights, the close calls, the nights when the Kid stood one punch away from glory. Talk of grace and footwork—what made Filipino fighters great—always led us back to Socrates.
Tucked among my late dad’s mementos he left behind are photos of those days—reminders of a fighter we never forgot. I share them now, along with the memories I’ll carry always.
Back on March 29, 2016 at the 16th Elorde Awards Night thrown by the Flash’s family, Mr. and Mrs. Johnny and Liza Elorde, Batoto was honored for his achievements as Philippine and Orient Pacific Boxing Federation flyweight champion.
Though time took us down different paths, it brings me peace knowing he lived a full life. ‘The Kid’—aka “Bat Socrates”—was surrounded by family and friends…not broken, not forgotten.
I never got the chance to say goodbye, and after all these years, I still wish I had. He wasn’t just a fighter I admired—he was family in his own way, the big brother I never had.
Note of Appreciation:
Marami pong Salamat to the family of the great Flash Elorde for honoring Socrates Batoto. He is the champion directly below the likeness of The Flash in this photo (courtesy of Rappler, 2016). Image excerpted in compliance with the Fair Use Doctrine.
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