Fighting El Fuego (Touchdown Edition)
Chapter 1: El Fuego
"How's that feel?" a lean black man in his late sixties wraps another layer of tape tight 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 quick 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, calming my nerves a bit every time my arm extends.
"Stand still," the man says firmly. I stop in my tracks as he begins to apply a thin coat of Vaseline to my face. I hate the slippery feel of the Vaseline. Still, I know how important it is, so 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 on the Vaseline rather than connect solidly with my head. "This goo is gonna help you from ending up with a face like mine," the old man laughs, revealing a crooked smile with several missing teeth. I glance past his mouth and up at his twisted nose, which looks to have been broken a few times.
I force a smile, wondering if my face will ever get worn down the way his has over the years. "Thanks," I say softly.
He nods his head in a knowing way and then winks at me before saying, "Don't worry, kid, you ain't gonna end up as ugly as me." The calm look on his face in the middle of these tense moments reflects a serenity that can only come from a lifetime in the ring. I smile again, for real this time.
Throughout this process, a serious-faced official watches over us, making sure that all my preparations are legal. As I throw a few more jabs into the air, and finish off a combination with a hard upper cut, I think about my parents and my coach and my brother. Suddenly my heart is racing. I realize in this moment how desperately I want to win this one. Not just for me, but for all of them.
Once finished with the pre-fight preparations, the old man puts down his roll of tape and jar of grease. He picks up a pair of gloves, which he proceeds to shove onto my hands. He laces them up, tight, and slaps them hard with his hands when he is finished. The room is now eerily quiet. I begin hopping around again, throwing more punches into the air. My hands are adjusting to the feeling of the gloves more and more with every moment. After a few minutes, I can't even feel the gloves--they have become extensions of my hands. I am now completely focused, ready to fight.
"Stay still," the old man repeats to me. "We're not finished." I stop moving again as he helps me into my headgear. The padded helmet that amateur boxers wear for protection fits snugly on my head. After strapping it on, he steps out of the way so that the official can approve his handiwork. As he turns to leave, he shouts powerfully over his shoulder in Spanish, "Buena suerte." Good luck to you. I nod my head.
I watch as the former boxer-turned-trainer makes his way toward the exit. The room is once again completely quiet--exactly the way I like it before a bout. But, unfortunately, the old man 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, and though the cheering gets my adrenaline pumping, I look forward to the door closing and the silence returning.
The door clicks closed and I am alone with the official. He opens up a folding chair and takes a seat 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, and with it every ounce of control that I can muster. For a boxer to be successful in the ring, he needs to control his emotions and stick to his game plan. Fighting on adrenaline does not work in the ring. I learned this lesson as a kid, and I learned it the hard way.
My breathing is a little heavier now and I know that I have 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 box-offs here at the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs. This building is the home of the U.S. Olympic Team. Just being here is a dream come true. But I'm nowhere near content stopping now. I want to make the team, represent my country, and bring home a gold medal. In just five 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 Jose, Costa Rica. If I lose, I go home.
I've already won at the U.S. Championships, the Eastern Trials, and the Olympic Team Trials. Still, to make the U.S. Olympic boxing team and compete for a medal, I've got to win one more.
There's no denying that I'm in the best shape of my life. At five feet, seven inches tall and a solid 140 pounds, I'm vying to become the U.S. representative in the light welterweight division.
My opponent is the nephew of a former world champion, who held the professional junior middleweight title for several years. Most of the reporters and newspapers are predicting his victory over me. This doesn't faze me. I know exactly what I have to do to win, and I plan on doing it.
A long mirror hangs crooked on the back wall of the tiny room I'm waiting in. I walk past the silent official and over to the mirror. When I get about a foot away from it, I take a good long look at myself. First, I glance down at my white shorts with the blue striped beltline. Then I stare at my white tank top and down at my red sneakers. Although I proudly wear the colors of the American flag, I know the same colors also represent Puerto Rico--the country where my parents were born and the place most of my relatives still call home. These colors constantly remind me of my responsibility to my family and the two countries I love.
For me, life wasn't always as exciting as it is tonight. I hadn't always felt a love of country, or even a love of myself. There was a time when I could never have imagined representing anything or pursuing any kind of goal, especially such a lofty one as becoming an Olympic athlete. Back in the day, 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 would never have believed that I could have made it this far.
Standing a few feet from 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 white hot fire, the beast. Although I've learned to control it over the years, by long ago burying it somewhere deep inside of myself, 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 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--once el fuego took hold--I couldn't do anything to stop it. It was a living thing. It breathed. It ate. It hated. And it nearly ruined my life. It was a long time before I realized that I couldn't kill this fire raging inside me. It was part of me. I had to live with it. I had to learn to tame it.
In the middle of this thought, the locker room door opens again. I turn away from the mirror as the noise from the crowd takes over the tiny room. This time the door stays opened wide. 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 doorway.
The old man speaks to me. "Let's go, kid, fight night."