Fighting El Fuego (Homerun Edition)

Chapter 1: El Fuego

"How's that feel?"

A lean black man in his sixties wraps another layer of tape around my right hand. I make a fist and slam it into the open palm of my left. The thwack it makes lets me know that the taping job is first rate.

"Feels good," I answer, sliding off the training table and standing upright. I begin throwing punches at an imaginary opponent. Shadowboxing, as it's called, is the best way to warm up before a fight. I throw several hard jabs into the air. My nerves calm every time my arm extends.

"Stand still," the man says firmly. I stop in my tracks. He begins to put a thin coat of Vaseline on my face. I hate the slippery feel of the Vaseline. Still, I know how important it is. I try not to move while he rubs it in. In a few minutes, I'll be glad it's there. When my opponent hits my face, his glove will slide. "This goo is gonna help you from ending up with a face like mine," the old man laughs.

I force a smile. I wonder if my face will ever look like his. "Thanks," I say softly.

He nods his head in a knowing way. He then winks at me and says, "Don't worry, kid. You ain't gonna end up as ugly as me." I smile again, for real this time.

Throughout this process, a serious-faced official watches over us. I throw a few more punches into the air, finishing with an uppercut. I think about my parents, my coach and my brother. Suddenly my heart is racing. I realize in this moment how desperately I want to win tonight. Not just for me, but for all of them.

Once finished, the old man puts down his roll of tape and jar of grease. He picks up a pair of gloves and shoves them onto my hands. He laces them up, tight, and he slaps them hard with his hands. The room is now quiet. I begin hopping around again, throwing more punches into the air. My hands are adjusting to the gloves. After a few minutes, I can't even feel the gloves--they have become a part of my hands. I am now completely focused, ready to fight.

"Stay still," the old man repeats. "We're not finished." I stop moving again as he helps me into my headgear. The padded helmet amateur boxers wear for protection fits snugly on my head. He steps out of the way so the official can approve his work. As the old man turns to leave, he shouts over his shoulder in Spanish. "Buena suerte." Good luck to you. I nod.

I watch as the former boxer-turned-trainer makes his way toward the exit. The room is once again completely quiet. That's exactly the way I like it before a bout. But the old man still has to open the door to get out. When he does, all the noise from the crowded arena pours in on me. It's loud out there. Although the cheering gets my adrenaline pumping, I look forward to the silence returning.

The door clicks closed and I am alone with the official. He opens a folding chair and sits in the far corner of the locker room. I start to throw a few more punches into the air, practicing a powerful combination. I know that this fight will take all of my strength. It will also take every ounce of my self-control. For a boxer to be successful, he needs to control his emotions. He needs to stick to his game plan. Fighting on emotion does not work in the ring. I learned this lesson as a kid--the hard way.

My breathing is a little heavier now. I've done a decent job warming up. I can hear my heart beating and nothing else.

I'm eighteen years old and getting ready to fight in the Olympic box-offs. I'm here at the Olympic Training Center in Colorado, home of the U.S. team. Just being here is a dream come true. But I'm not going to stop now. I want to make the team, represent my country, and bring home gold. In a few minutes, I am going to be fighting the most important fight of my life. It will determine my fate as an Olympic boxer. If I win, I go to the Summer Games in San José, Costa Rica. If I lose, I go home.

I'm in the best shape of my life. At five feet, seven inches tall, I now weigh a solid 140 pounds. I'm ready to become America's representative in the light welterweight division. My opponent is the nephew of a former world champion. His uncle held the professional junior middleweight title for several years. Most of the newspapers are predicting his victory over me. I don't care. I know what I have to do to win, and I plan to do it.

I walk past the silent official and over to a mirror hanging on the wall. I take a long look at myself. First, I glance down at my white shorts with the blue beltline. Then, I stare at my white tank top and red sneakers. I proudly wear the colors of the American flag. Yet, I know these colors also represent Puerto Rico--the country where my parents were born. These colors constantly remind me of my responsibility to my family. And to the two places I love.

For me, life wasn't always this exciting. I hadn't always felt a love of country, or even a love of myself. There was a time when I never could have imagined representing anything. Back in the day, I didn't pursue any goals and I didn't have any dreams. I didn't even know who I was. I was lost. If you knew me when I was a kid, you never would have believed I could come this far.

Standing in front of the mirror, I stare into my dark brown eyes. I look past the pupils, deep into my heart. "There you are," I whisper. "El Fuego." I can still see it in my eyes--the fire, the beast. Sure, I've learned to control it over the years by long ago burying it somewhere deep inside of myself. But I know that fire is still dangerous. And I know that I will always have to keep an eye on it. Because once ignited, el fuego will burn out of control. And it will take me down with it.

When I was a kid, anger ran my life. I never knew when an explosion was coming. Once it started--and el fuego took hold--I couldn't do anything to stop it. It was like a living thing. It breathed. It ate. It hated. And it nearly ruined my life. It was a long time before I realized I couldn't kill this fire raging inside. It was part of me. I had to live with it. I had to learn to control it.  

In the middle of these thoughts, the locker room door opens again. I turn away from the mirror as the noise from the crowd rushes in. This time the door stays open. I put my robe on and throw a few jabs into the air. I stare out toward the lights of the arena.   Now my heart is really racing. Smack! I hit my gloves together and turn toward the door.

The old man speaks to me again. "Let's go, kid, fight night."