Boxing in Baja Sur
Here's a non-fictional account in a lighter vein. 4 pages
Box
I saw the first poster for a boxing match on a telephone pole in the little village just five kilometers from my pueblo. I didn’t stop to read it but
I could see that it was going to be Saturday night in my town so this being Friday I paid more attention when I saw the next one down the road a ways.
Didn’t say what time, where, how much to get in – just said the town and showcased one of the boxers in the main event, undoubtedly someone well known
in the sport.
Next morning I drove around until I found a guy who said they were selling tickets at El Faro restaurant. The little place on the highway at the edge
of town was a beehive of activity – promoters, sponsors, fighters, trainers and corner men, press people and hangers on filled the place to
overflowing and made it impossible for breakfast diners to get a meal. I bought a general admission ticket for 100 pesos from the bartender and
learned women were invited free, gratis. The boxers filed past me to get to the buffet. I saw a scale in the rear open patio where the weigh-ins must
have just taken place so the fighters who might have been fasting until this very moment were rushing to take a gladiator’s pre-fight meal.
The boxers were all young, quiet and serious as they grabbed their plates and utensils. The would-be party goers were loud and flush with the promise
of a night of beer and fun at the Concha. The reguladores, the officials for the event, all looked, well, official. I was thinking if I were a
participant I would most likely be serious too, perhaps brimming with enthusiasm and resolve mixed with abject fear of failure, injury to flesh, bone
or pride.
My wife and I got there before 5:30. The first bout was scheduled to start at 6 and I wanted to get good seats. The place was practically empty and
stayed pretty much that way through the first two or three fights. For a long while we were alone in the front row, almost close enough to touch the
edge of the sturdy portable ring. The delegado and his extended family sat next to us. Lynda and I waved to our many friends; maids and fishermen,
gardeners and policemen we had come to know over the last 15 years of continuously living in this little paradise near the beach. I few gringos
finally showed but most of them took seats on the other side of the ring.
The little city hall building was not big enough to hold all the fighters so many were shadow boxing on the grass behind the bandstand and we watched
their white taped fists making furious flurries around invisible rings, making damaging contact with the chins and rippling solar plexis of their
imaginary opponents. It took forever for Mundo and two other guys to get the sound system and the lights the way they wanted them. One of his helpers
had to climb a high relic of an aluminum step ladder (which lacked the all important cross piece that usually locks into place to make you feel almost
safe) to replace bulbs in the lights 15 feet above the small canvas platform.
Getting close now. A box of cardboard round-number cards showed up along with two pretty young girls, one of whom would eventually get her chance to
smile and let her little black ankle strap wedgies bring her hips and legs around in a tantalizing and crowd pleasing dance preamble.. She wore
painted on jeans, a black tank top with just an inch of firm white belly showing that looked almost like a grinning pirate with a pouty little belly
button mouth.
The prelims were bouts with the youngest, newest students of the sweet science who wore appropriate head gear. They were able, well trained and
anxious to show their handlers and the crowd that they had art and heart. The smallest, youngest boxer was too small to merit even a mosca, fly weight
ranking, at about three feet nothing; he was dwarfed by his cumbersome equipment but he danced around the ring, jabbing and slashing with all the
skill of a professional.
As the seats began to fill, the crowd grew more vocal in their instructions and applause. Now the veterans came on showing their hard won amateur
boxing skills without headgear. Like most matches anywhere the bouts were uniquely interesting. One common thread which would please any crowd was
that the young men were all in terrific condition, except for one, and well trained and ring tested. The matchmakers had done a good job.
For me there were two memorable contests. The first headlined the talents of a veteran boxer from La Paz they called El Gorillita, the Little Gorilla
because of his size and his style. He was by far the oldest of the contestants and boasted a huge, blubbery girth. His opponent had the physique of a
boxer and the handsome face of a Grecian Olympian. They were both powerful punchers; the fat man delivered haymakers from way down near the canvas and
the other man was often lucky to just miss the lethal connection. When he had the opportunity to throw his own giant-killer punches they resounded off
the bigger man’s ample supply of fat with a whap one could hear blocks away.
The Gorilla man put up a good fight but the other man was much quicker. For whatever private reason the Gorilla would now and then punch with both
hands at once – boxing the other man’s ears might explain the comic move. The referee admonished him that the double handed onslaughts would not be
allowed as they constituted illegal rabbit punches. Since they seemed to give him no real advantage the crowd was doubly pleased that he continued and
that the ref’s words were lost on him. The big man seemed to smile around his mouthpiece most of the match and in the end the fight had to be stopped
because he could no longer keep up the pace or defend himself properly. He took defeat like a champion, hugged the other boxer and the ref.
The main event featured a fight for the bantam weight belt for the region and pitted the champ, Andres Romero of La Paz against Benjamin Guzman of
Mazatlan on the Mexican mainland. I was struck very early with the musculature of the challenger, his handsome but rugged countenance and also with
the veteran reigning champ who seemed to be able to slip and slide and dodge in a style that personified the hit but don’t get hit model of excellence
in the boxing world. Both men connected with punches to the head and body with amazing speed and force but the challenger could not catch, corral or
nail the other man while he himself began to suffer the hit and run damage that would eventually be his undoing.
I was mesmerized by the action, the absolute bloodlust I felt within me and vibrating about the make-shift arena through the throng; now on their feet
they filled the place with cheers and jeers, urged each man to continue or change something as their favoritism dictated. Each time the challenger
took a stunning blow and was unable to answer for lack of balance, experience or guile, his rage took hold of him, painted his face a mask of
determination and bravado which I took on with him. While I thought the challenger wouldn’t last to the end of the bout, he proved me wrong and
finished on his feet, beaten and fatigued, cut and bruised. I was so emotionally spent at the end it was as though I had been in the contest.
I had noticed the loser’s tattoos across his shoulders but only after the bout, when I heard some whispers in the crowd about them, did I learn that
he, at some time, had been a member of the notorious Gulf drug cartel. The telltale ink boasted his affiliation through depiction of a seashell, a
peso and a gun.
Later, at home, over a bed-time snack I replayed the evening’s entertainment in my mind and was impressed by the cultural symbolisms I witnessed at
the event. The fat but lovable clown who tried but lost got the biggest applause of the event – brave and clumsy he aimed at winning but took some
pleasure in treating the crowd to his perfect human comedy play. Surely the last bout showed Mexico’s colors. Good and evil danced about the ring as
the reformed criminal succumbed to the determination of the skilled and adaptable veteran who risked his position of valor even in a tiny and obscure
setting. Mexico struggles mightily to reform and its frustration is evident in every quarter of the country.
As for the town, the sponsors, it could be said they paid for their pleasure. For a chance to practice, to get the feeling of being in the ring
lights, on the canvas the boxers traded experience for a payday. Surely they could not have earned much from this meager crowd – I saw a sponsor give
the littlest boxer’s handler 300 pesos for the boy. I know a few thousand pesos from the fightgoers could not make a gain for the village. Perhaps
there was barely enough to cover the gas, the meals, the chair and ring rental. All in all I can say each and every person there got more than their
money’s worth.
Somehow boxing seems to best symbolize this country – more than soccer, c-ck fighting or bull fighting. Boxing is an all or nothing sport. To strive
to become the best, one cannot dabble in the sport. It is all but impossible to be an accountant and a champion boxer. Mexican boxers are world
renowned for their valor, their willingness to risk it all in the ring. They are committed to the sport, to winning.
Someone asked me once “What’s the difference between them being committed and in being involved?”
I gave the standard answer “You’ll know when you next have ham and eggs for breakfast. Think of the chicken as involved. The pig was committed.”
[Edited on 4-5-2011 by Osprey]
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