The Mr. America Title is Cause For Celebration - But Never Like This, Laughs Danny Padilla - January 1978 Issue of Muscle Builder and Power Magazine. - By Jack Neary, Editor.

"Play That Funky Music" pounds from the JBL speakers in multi-decibel accompaniment to the suggestive undulations of several well-packaged foxes shaking their booties for the preservation of disco (if not the pleasure of as many get-down dudes who follow the gyrating curves with a fine step of their own.) Tiffany's is where it's at this sultry summer night in Los Angeles and Danny Padilla is feeling good. He is well into his second snifter of who-knows-what and somehow doesn't fit the image.
Padilla turns to look at a couple on the wood parquet dance floor. Their distended arms and tangled legs writhe like animated driftwood and Padilla's shoulders bob and weave to the thump of the bass. The girl wears a pouty look of detachment as if to say tres chic darling, that's what I am. The guy, who must weigh all of 125 pounds and sports a chest the girth of your wrist, returns Padilla's stare with the silent message: so you've got biceps the size of volleyballs, but can you dance?
It takes two to tango and presently Ken Waller, the Marshal of Mirth, was along with a tall, sylphidine woman, icy eyes framed with a few deft, black strokes of liner, who was just dying to meet the new American Bodybuilding Champion. Waller had primed her well, her glass was alive with a swirling mini--maelstrom of spirits and her manner suggested that she had taken frequent dips into her liquid. "Hey Danny," Waller piped in his chirpy Kentuckian voice. "This is Claudia, and she wants to dance with a real Mr. America."
Padilla, almost a foot shorter than the woman, let forth a shriek of glee and soon was boogeying down in wild fashion. At one point his short albeit massive body dropped quickly into perfect splits, indeed as finely executed as Karen Magnussen the figure skater might have done. The woman, Claudia, bounced about in a fog of her own, hardly noticing the excessive acrobatics of so burly a partner. Ah, but then this is the unwritten language of the disco and she was only playing the game.
Danny Padilla was as happy as happy can be. He had, after all, just won a photo finish in the IFBB American Bodybuilding Championships that evening. It was a much-needed victory for Padilla, his confidence was sagging like a windless sail and rumors of his demise were circulating the games trenches. People were saying that after his loss to Egypt's Mohammed Makkawy in the 1976 World Championships in Montreal that he would never put it together again. That he couldn't put it together. That he was fat boy with a one-way chit to Fat City. Mr. Lipid on the Adipose Express.
We knew of that Padilla. His penchant for carrot cake was becoming a legend on the West Coast. He had blown both the 1976 American Championships and World Championships over as short a distance as it took his spoon to travel from dessert-laden plate to gaping, crumb-flecked mouth.
He returned to Rochester, New York after the Montreal disappointment and went into virtual hiding. He was toying with the thought of retirement, and then he came out with the proclamation that he was to turn professional and enter the Olympia. Before long it was merely a yellowed dream and all around Danny Padilla's sense of himself reeked of doubt.
His infrequent phone calls informed us of a major imbroglio brewing with the Internal Revenue Service over a tax discrepancy. The successful grocery store he and his Dad own was on shaky ground and Danny was as busy with a pocket calculator as he was with dumbbells. There were the injuries to consider. One scathing winter night he ran from the gym to his parked car along an icy sidewalk. He slipped and slammed his knee into the car door. Painful stabs fired through the joint and it would be many tortuous nights later before the leg was well. Training wasn't easy.
But during that time last winter there was a concerted movement afoot in Padilla's mind to do a little cerebral housecleaning. The cobwebs were wiped clear of his ego and soon the catharsis came, popping him free of his cocoon of self-contempt. Padilla had it deep in the gut that he would show the critics.
Of course the barrage of criticism may have served as a well-timed psychic laxative; his revenge centers unfurling to the jiggling of Olympic bar plates. With a new goal burning hot in the ego Padilla returned to the gym, this time a shabby one in Rochester, and began the haul back into bodybuilding's stratosphere.
The word around Gold's only two months before the June American Championships was that Padilla would not be competing. Even the man himself indicated so over the phone. His lust for winning and all had faded miserably. The tax thing was hindering him. The injuries. And he questioned himself; could he come in ripped? Many said no, and were all too prepared to say I told you so. But here we were at Tiffany's; swinging singles haven of the Marina and Danny Padilla was living it up like only a champion would want to.
Cloaked in a veil of semi-anonymity he came to Los Angeles to compete and indeed plunked himself down immediately on the Roman chair for a lengthy bout with the sit-up. He weighed 165, down 15 to 20 from last year's weight. His legs were truly ripped and while his abs were covered constantly, you knew he was tight, and ready. Ready to show that Padilla could get cut up. He was.
Now Danny Padilla isn't your average bodybuilder no matter how smooth he may care to be. His genetic predisposition to gaining muscle size is considerable. He has the same type of soft muscle tissue that Arnold Schwarzenegger has; the stuff that pumps up so grandly. Full, flushed, huge. The Padilla lines of course put him right up there alongside anyone. There isn't a bodybuilder breathing today that has the total physique of Padilla. Throw out any of the sport's clichés to describe the 25-year-old Puerto Rican and they would fit. Every one except ripped to ribbons. Or so we were led to believe.
"With one year of hard training Danny Padilla could be the greatest bodybuilder in the world," foresees rival Mike Mentzer. "As short as he is, Danny has a perfect body in terms of size, proportion, shape, you name it. With a good diet there is no question that Danny would destroy Makkawy and I already see him being the big threat for the 1978 Olympia. I have always been most worried about facing Padilla in competition."
The contest was a close one. Middleweight champ Roper Callard had never been in better shape and there was the threat of heavyweight Peter Grymkowski. But Padilla in shape is Padilla unbeatable and so it was.
"It just seems like too much to believe," giggles Padilla. His mouth was stretched so wide in a smile, it seemed the lips would tear. "I told myself that I was going to prove myself by coming to the contest in great condition. I let a lot of people down last year. This year I am more serious than ever. There is nothing I want more than to beat the Egyptian at the Universe in France. But even in my present condition, I guess I was lucky to win."
So like Padilla. Always selling himself short and here again is the evidence of a most pliable confidence. “I have been eating nothing but fish. Maybe that explains why I always want to jump in the water. This year it is going to be all diet. I know the muscle will be there but I have to diet. No more carrot cake."
He said it with a certain trace of remorse. But he also seemed kind of giddy that he had done so well in dieting for the American Championships and, well, you know, could even go for this sort of thing.
Waller wasn't about to let the first short man to win the America in quite a while to take the victory sitting down. There was to be a celebration! Everything was going just dandy at Tiffany's, but you knew something was up. Waller had gotten Padilla slightly tipsy for the first time in his life, or so he swears. Yes, the same Waller who frequently joined Padilla In visits to Baskin-Robbins where they would both sample at least 25 of the available 31 flavors. That was last year. Now Waller was shocked at the transformation that Padilla had succumbed to, and was expressing an interest in fish himself. Now Padilla was having an influence on the Grand Inquisitor of Fun and Games, an influence in the right direction. In fact, Waller, preparing for the Olympia, has never been more dedicated to the spartan life and though a mighty sacrifice, he is faring well.
Padilla, as drunk as he claims to have been, was holding his own on the dance floor. Waller had more adventurous plans than The Bump or The Hustle, although the hustle may fit the occasion. “Danny you're going to pose for the people,” cackled Waller, his dark blue eyes glazed and twinkling. "What?", "Hey, you're going to go out on the dance floor, take off your shirt and pose for everybody."
Padilla seemed to sober quickly. "No way, Kenny, I don't want to get involved in any of your plans." This sort of banter went on for a few minutes. Padilla's negative response only made Waller more obstinate and before long he was up talking to the disc jockey.
"Look, all we want to do was get Danny out there to pose. Just hit the house lights, stop the music, give me the microphone and I'll explain what's going on." There was reluctance at first, but Waller knows people and soon had the club's manager tittering about the scheme.
"Okay Danny, everything's set." "Look Kenny, I don't want to do it.", "Hey you have to do it! In '74 I posed at the Pink Pussycat in Hollywood. Didn't bother me. You gotta do it."
You knew Padilla was embarrassed when the house lights went up and the crowd, which had been duly excited by the public relations work of Waller, began the chant "We want Danny!" Denny Gable and Dan Howard began to pull the brown knit pullover from Padilla's torso and an embarrassed giggle slipped past Padilla's lips. Waller took up with the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time at Tiffany's we will have a special bodybuilding presentation. The 1977 Mr. America is with us tonight. He is the most perfect of bodybuilders and for a short man to beat tall opponents, it is a great accomplishment. Seldom does a short man come along so good as Danny Padilla!"
Padilla was shoved out onto the now vacant dance floor and instantly the audience, which had formed a ring around the area, applauded. Catcalls faded in and out. Padilla stood there shirtless, an impish smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.
"Okay, Danny, hit it.” Wow! Double biceps and it was immediately obvious that most assembled here had never seen anything like this, The lat spread drew gasps and the disco boys feigned nonchalance as they patted their perfectly coiffed heads.
Padilla carried on with pose after impressive pose, displaying the super shape that had earned him his biggest title yet only an hour or so earlier. Through it all he smiled but now and then flashed Waller one of those you- bastard-you'll-pay-for-this looks.