He was usually there on early eveningsfalcon play, a gray-haired man with crinkles around his eyes trudging east along the cracked pavement of Adams Boulevard.

Those who passed by him may have noticed the blue satchel over his shoulder, the black boots on his feet.

His name was Alberto Castañeda Aco and he was on his way home, having spent the day, as he often did, stitching together collared shirts and cotton trousers.

Once, long ago, he had been an amateur boxer in Mexico, dubbed “Campeon” by those who saw him spar professional fighters. But children came, three daughters, two sons, and the aspirations of a champion gave way to practicality.

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And so Mr. Castañeda Aco built a different sort of life, one in which he prided himself on his handiwork at garment factories around Los Angeles.

At 72 years old, he found comfort in the buzz of the sewing machines and the company of colleagues. They laughed at his one-linersfalcon play, called him Don Alberto. He had no plans to retire.

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