Just Between Us

by Mario Lopez

  Greg, the most critical judge, was right there on set with us to score my performance! I doubt that I could have been any more intimidated. Much to my relief and gratitude, Greg was supportive and an all-around awesome guy from beginning to end. And he was pleased with my portrayal, which was what mattered most to me.

  The role was physical, which I loved, but it involved a crash course in high diving. I’ve never been afraid of heights and I’ve always loved swimming, but diving was something else. Diving and what they call “air awareness” were necessary for me to master if I was going to be good at this role and convince people, for two-plus hours, that I was an Olympic diver. Guess what. Out of all the activities Mom put on my childhood roster, diving was not one of them. In fact, I had never dived before and I had to learn how to dive reasonably well in time for the first day of principle photography. As in, right away. But hey, that’s how the business rolls. Directors usually don’t give you a year to learn a skill when you’re the lead in a film; you’re given perhaps a few months and then they yell, “Action!”

  How did I get up to speed? Pun intended, I dove right in. Literally. I went to the nearest pool with a regulation high diving board—ten meters or thirty feet—and started trying the various jumps and dives I’d seen done by amateurs and pros alike. In one of my first practice sessions, I jumped off the high dive and became so disoriented that I landed on my back—smack!—and had the wind knocked out of me. The feeling of hitting the water with that force, from that height and at that velocity, was as if I had hit the ground. After that, I was sufficiently humbled and scared enough to not try to man up and do it on my own. In fact, I was able to train with the USC diving team and then even Louganis helped me a little bit, just so I could get comfortable on the board.

  The movie pushed me out of my comfort zone in other ways too. Besides the diving, the script called for me to kiss a guy. For a straight man, kissing another guy, even if you’re an actor and you’re just playing a part, is uncomfortable at best. But if that was in the job description, no complaints from me. However, I thought that before going on set and starting to film, it might be a good idea to prepare my dad for what he would see when the movie aired.

  “Dad,” I began, when I sat him down over a weekend visit home, “about this movie, you know besides the diving, it’s also Greg’s personal story, right?” He hadn’t read the script, so he shrugged and waited for me to go on.

  I hesitated, searching for the right words. My dad was always supportive and he truly never had a homophobic bone in his body. But I’m still his son and, old-school macho guy that Dad is, I didn’t want him to freak out later on and think that I’d purposely kept something from him. It was important for me to let him know that I didn’t have any issue with it because this was true to the real-life person I was going to be portraying and, as an actor, I had to be true to that, no matter how awkward I’d feel. In trying to be sensitive, I was hoping too that if I prepared my dad, he would also get the word out to the rest of my family and our friends. This was, after all, a less open-minded time than today. Audiences were more judgmental and there weren’t public forums in support of gay marriage or shows on television like Glee that openly portrayed gay relationships. In fact, this movie was taking chances with subject matter seldom touched on—issues not only related to sexuality but also about bullying and family dysfunction.

  “So,” I finally explained, sort of, “there may be a surprise or two, you know . . .” With his look of confusion, I went on to say that there was going to be a scene between me and the actor portraying Greg’s boyfriend.

  “Well, what the hell are you going to be doing?” my dad barked.

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Fine,” he said, thinking about it. “Just don’t fall in love with the guy!” Then he laughed. And that was that.

  At the time, I didn’t really know everything the director was planning to shoot or how he would shoot it. Dad was cool with whatever I had to do to play this role and so too were my mom and the rest of the family.

  So, with those discussions behind me, the day came at last to shoot the scene that would require me to kiss the actor playing Greg’s partner, Tom. I understood that this was supposed to be a loving moment and was ready to let the director tell us what his vision was and let us just go for it with the camera rolling. Kind of like diving off the high dive. Only, instead of taking the plunge on set, the actor playing Tom wanted to rehearse ahead of time.

  “Rehearse?” I asked, not without trepidation. But then, thinking about it, I thought we might as well get it out of the way. If we rehearsed, we would look professional and comfortable. “Yeah,” I agreed. “You’re right. Let’s rehearse.”

  So we kissed. The best I can say is that it was weird. The worst part, as I recall, was that I thought I felt tongue. Yikes. After rehearsal I kept hoping not to have to do it for the camera. But it was what it was—part of the job description.

  We get to the set the next day and—surprise!—the director cuts the scene. Talk about a bittersweet moment. On the one hand, I was relieved not to kiss on camera, and on the other hand, I now realized I had kissed my fellow actor in a rehearsal for absolutely no reason. I felt like Lucy in the Charlie Brown cartoon when Snoopy licks her face and the caption reads, “Yuck.”

  I laughed so hard that I had kissed a dude for nothing. The other actor may have been a bit disappointed. He told me I was a good kisser.

  Other than that twist in the real-life plot, Breaking the Surface was a blessing at that time in my life and career. It certainly helped open doors to career opportunities that would have remained closed. Perhaps not as many as every actor would love all the time, but that’s showbiz—you have to fight not to be pigeonholed into a Hollywood “type.” Just as important is how tackling the role allowed me to grow up, open my mind to new possibilities as a performer, and move past the mind-set of A. C. Slater.

  One of my prouder moments came in 1998 when I was nominated for an ALMA Award for Breaking the Surface. I wasn’t overly disappointed that I didn’t win, except I would have liked to have been able to hold up the award and say to my cousin Louie, “Primo, this one’s for you.” Or acknowledge him in some way. But truly I was honored to be there. These awards, sponsored by the National Council of La Raza, were always a reminder of the need for more representation of Latinos and Latino artists in the entertainment field. Of course, as a Mexican kid who grew up in the barrio, that had long been an issue for me. But on that occasion, when I had the chance to rub shoulders with fellow nominees in different categories, I realized for the first time that it was time for me to step up and do more to promote opportunities for all of us within our diverse Hispanic community. At the time, I wasn’t sure how to go about taking on a cause like that. What I was sure about was that striving to be successful would only help—in whatever form that success was to take.

  What was to stop me? Well, frankly, me. Yep, as an adult, I was still the same high-energy kid that my mom tried to keep out of trouble by making me take dance classes and wrestling and karate. Clearly, something that required an intense level of discipline and training, something new that I could learn to master, was exactly what I needed for focus and balance.

  And you know what they say: seek and ye shall find. They also say that when the student is ready, the teacher appears.

  Both held true for me.

  • • •

  The sign on the door read “Wild Card Boxing Club” and it was owned by Freddie Roach, one of the most famous trainers of all time. The gym sits right in the middle of a seedy section of Hollywood on top of a Chinese Laundromat and next to a well-attended meeting place for Alcoholics Anonymous.

  In mid-2001, I was in my late twenties and had lived in Hollywood for about a decade, so I must have driven by the Wild Card Boxing Club numerous times. That summer I had just started working on developing a TV talk show that was slated to
be like Oprah but for men, and I was spending a lot of time at the Sunset Gower Studios over on that side of town.

  There was nothing glamorous about this gym. Outside on the street, no urban renewal plan had come in yet to improve the neighborhood for tourists or locals. You can picture it: trash everywhere, stray cats, homeless people strolling around. It was just the hood, the sort of place you’d find most boxing gyms. But for quite a while there was something about the sign on the door and the gym’s reputation that had made me want to go check it out. Finally, after a meeting at the studio one evening, I stopped making excuses and walked over, pushing past the sign on the door and into another world.

  Boxing! Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? Ever since high school, when I wrestled competitively for the last time, I had needed a physical outlet as a way to release pent-up aggression. Boxing was much more suited to my enjoyment of the more aggressive combat-type sports, specifically one-on-one competition. Wrestling and boxing are similar in many ways in that they have a simplistic, primal, and pure essence at their root. Man on man. One on one. There are no team members and no one to rely on. If you lose a fight, it’s because of you. When you win the fight, you get all the glory. While there are boxing matches in which I think the judges must be blind, in general it’s the best man who wins the battle.

  As a fan of professional boxing since I was a kid, I grew up with aficionados of the sport all around. My grandfather Tata Trasvina, my mom’s dad, boxed back in Mexico in his youth, so it was in my blood all along. Plus, I knew about the similarities between wrestling and boxing. In watching boxers over the years, I recognized the need for a boxer to have self-knowledge. Training and sparring give you the chance to get to know yourself and to gauge what you are made of as you step in a ring. You learn to push yourself past your own limits and see yourself under the direst circumstances, as in a fight. Whether it’s wrestling or boxing, it’s definitely a fight. There are skills, technique, fundamentals, and rules, but it’s a fight. In structured combat like wrestling and boxing, we get a chance to unleash that part of our human nature as men that has a primitive desire to beat out the other man—to fight.

  As I cruised into the gym the first time, all of that intensity was on display. The vibe was gritty and tough, with the same cool-looking boxing gym setup you’d see in the Rocky films. But the difference here was a) this was the real deal, and b) I could look around and see world champions training next to ex-cons, ex-cons training next to businessmen. Everyone was so compatible with one another and the energy was electric.

  When I spotted Freddie, trainer of everyone from Mike Tyson to Oscar De La Hoya, he was quietly watching a young boxer hitting one of the big bags. The inimitable Freddie Roach, raised in the Boston area, was about forty at the time, and with his blond hair, slightly graying and cut short, and a pair of nondescript glasses, he almost looked like an absentminded college professor. Maybe that’s why one of his nicknames was “The Choir Boy.” But looks can be deceiving. Freddie’s other nickname was La Cucaracha—the Cockroach, who is indestructible—because he was just that tough. Freddie had been trained by the legendary Eddie Futch—who coached such boxers as Joe Frazier and Ken Norton—and Master Roach drew from Futch’s approach to the ring. What they said about Freddie is that he trained boxers to utilize mental strategy in the ring, a more quiet but lethal mind-set to disarm opponents. Freddie used to say that he couldn’t change a fighter but he could take what they had naturally and work to improve it.

  There was no hesitation on my part. I walked across the room, greeted Freddie, and asked, “Hey, can I just drop in and start working out?”

  Freddie Roach shrugged and said, “Yeah. Just come in.”

  It was five dollars a day or fifty dollars a month. It started out as just a thing where I would go into the gym, hit the bag, and train like a boxer. I had never really boxed or had any boxing training. What I knew was from wrestling, and—probably from dance—I had good balance. I also seemed to know how to be relaxed in the ring, which is tough to do when the guy across from you is looking to punch your lights out. Boxing came naturally or I just took to it. You could say I fell in love with it right away—love at first punch.

  I loved everything about it: I loved the camaraderie in the gym, I loved the colorful characters in the sport, and I loved, most of all, the sparring. No surprise there. Sparring at the training level is where you get in that ring and you fight without having to go multiple rounds. Still, you box a live human being, not an inanimate bag that can’t punch back. Oh, but that was just a warm-up for me. I was hooked. Given how well I’d taken to sparring, I decided, why not go one step farther and put myself in harm’s way?

  Eventually, that led to the decision to participate in some amateur sorts of bouts. Freddie Roach has these things he calls “smokers,” which are three-round sanctioned fights. He matches you up—according to your ability and your weight—against another opponent who works out at the gym. You go in there and you fight for three three-minute rounds of fury. Boxers in smokers wear protective headgear to prevent getting cuts on their face. But you can still very easily get knocked out. You can still get a concussion. You can still get the crap beat out of you.

  I had followed the basic three steps, not rushing the process too much: 1) I started my training. 2) It wasn’t long before I wanted to spar. 3) I began testing my skills by participating in the smokers. Regardless of how much you train, how tough you think you are, or how ready you might be to get in the ring, nothing really prepares you for the moment of truth when you lift up that rope and climb inside for the first time.

  In an almost out-of-body state, I felt my palms sweating under the gloves and protective wraps. My heart sounded and felt as if it was going to pound right out of my chest and the air rushed frenetically in and out of my nose like no normal breathing I’d ever known. I was going to do this. I was really going to fight someone.

  The bell rang and we met in the middle of the ring and tapped gloves. We began, as many fighters do, dancing around, throwing jabs and feints to see what the other guy’s style was. Then—pop—I hit him with a right and he returned with a shot to my ribs. It was on. My adrenaline spiked, pumping on all cylinders, and I attacked with everything I had. At the same time, he came at me hard, with hits to my head from right and left. Dizzy, I shook off those blows and kept coming. In my brain, the goal was to prove to myself and to my opponent that I was dedicated and willing to look bad before I could get good. I won the fight that day but I was humbled. I fell even more deeply in love and tied a lasting knot with my new passion: boxing.

  Seeking some degree of moderation, I tried not to overdo it, but in the years that followed I went on to fight in a total of six smokers and would remain undefeated. Once I was even awarded “Fighter of the Night” for one of my more dramatic fights. My record includes knocking out four of the six guys I’d been set up to fight. One time, however, I was the one who got dropped hard. Up until that point I had never gotten knocked down to the mat. But I’ve never gone down since. One guy showed up as a last-minute opponent. He was a very tough guy—an MMA fighter—and just the man to set me straight. Not only was he an MMA fighter, but he also fought southpaw. Adding insult to my soon-to-be injury was the fact that he was also a big guy and heavier than me by a good fifteen pounds.

  My original opponent canceled out, and Freddie said, “Look, this guy’s a tough guy, a real—you know, he’s a real fighter. Are you sure you want to do this? He can fight. Do you want to fight him?”

  Already warmed up and raring to go, I eyed this big, ripped guy on the other side of the ring, wondering if I could handle him. But I had trained really hard and couldn’t chicken out. “Yeah, let’s do it,” I told Freddie. He gave a look, squinting behind his glasses, as if I wasn’t too convincing. “Yeah, man,” I persisted. “I want to fight. I want to push myself.”

  So we got in the ring and toed off, and it wasn’t long before
he caught me with a hard shot to the head. I had hurt him with a body shot in the first round, but here in the second round he caught me good with that big left hook. Remember, he was fighting southpaw and I wasn’t used to a left-hander. So when he caught me with that left hook, oooh, I went down. I don’t even remember. Somehow, I got back up and shook it off. Because I’m in pretty good shape, I can usually take a shot too. But he was strong. At the bell, I was still out of it and they poured some water on my head, enough so that I woke up and regained my bearings. After the explosive hook he landed on my head, I fought a little bit more cautiously in the third round. With only a minute or so left in the round, I sensed that he was tired and knew that if I was going to win this I had to step it up. That’s mental strategy, looking for your opponent’s weaknesses and exploiting them. In a flash, I saw my opening and threw the hardest punch I could muster. I dropped him. That was the Fight of the Night. How could I not be hooked on boxing for good?

  When I fight in the smokers, I always get my opponent’s best efforts. They may not say it or show it, but the last thing someone wants to do is to get their ass kicked by some Hollywood pretty-boy kid. But if you asked Freddie Roach, he’d tell you that I’ve earned the respect of everyone in the gym. Even though I’ve probably had more knockouts than anyone else who has fought in the smokers, new opponents who are thinking of fighting me have been known to say, “Ah, you know, that pretty boy with his little dimples, man, he can’t fight—he’s just all show.” Or they assume that even if I can fight and have some skills, that I’m not tough enough. So they test me.

  Boxing is an equalizer when it comes to toughness. The guys who are really tough don’t have to try to prove anything. The guys who think they’re tough and try to prove I’m not—well, that fires me up in the ring and they end up getting a little bit hurt. The Wild Card Boxing Club gave me a space to change a lot of people’s misconceptions about me. In gaining the respect of the boxers who train there, I was able to become not some Hollywoody type, but just one of the guys at the gym.