Why do I say that? Because after that fight, the Mexican government never again disputed my right to display its flag. It was only for that fight. Strange, isn’t it?
While Chávez publicly dismissed me as some inconsequential pretender to his throne, I concentrated on studying the man behind the myth. I didn’t think I could knock him out. He had the head of a bulldog, grounded by the boulder that served as his jaw. But I did think I could outbox him by using the advantages of youth and speed.
I saw an immediate improvement in my skill level under The Professor, but I think he was at his best in preparing me to fight Chávez. My opponent was a man who knew only one style: come forward, be aggressive, and have no fear. He thrived in harm’s way.
How was I going to slow him down and neutralize his power? The Professor taught me how to do just that.
It was in the training camp preparing for that match when everything clicked. One day, I was throwing my combinations, always moving, staying on my toes, sailing around the ring. I felt like a matador and my sparring partners, in comparison, seemed like slow, plodding bulls. I was the master of my domain.
That’s when everybody in camp accepted Rivero as the real deal. Look at what he has done for you, everybody would tell me. They didn’t have to tell me. I could see. I was a believer. Whatever he said, I did. He was truly The Professor.
By the week of the fight, I had put aside visions of Chávez as a legend and prepared to fight the man. That remained my mind-set for all but one fleeting instant when I first stepped into the ring. As I looked across to the other corner and saw him, I was ten years old again, thinking, That’s the great Julio César Chávez. He can’t be real.
But I caught myself, refocused, and when the opening bell rang, I was ready.
I boxed well in the opening rounds, blunting every charge of the old bull as if I was wearing the red cape. I didn’t feel the bitter sting of those trademark body shots. Instead, he felt the sting of my jab. I used it to open a cut over his left eye in the first round. By the fourth, with Chávez’s face covered in blood, the fight was stopped.
Pride would be the last thing to go with this warrior. He later claimed he already had the cut when he entered the ring, that it had been caused by his young son bouncing on his knee and then jerking his head backward, smashing into Chávez’s eyebrow.
I’ve heard a lot of excuses by a lot of fighters over the years, but that had to be the lamest.
As an added bonus, I won Chávez’s WBC 140-pound title, giving me championships in three weight classes.
While there were blue skies ahead for me, there was nothing but a cloud of gloom hanging over the Mexican boxing community. They took it out on me. Hadn’t I proven my worth to them? Forget it.
When I came home, my peers were on the bandwagon, but the older generation had a hard time accepting Chávez’s defeat.
“Who are you to beat our champion?” they said. “That wasn’t the real Chávez. And it wasn’t even you who beat him. It was his kid.”
They really believed that.
I had believed Mexican fans would finally accept me, but I was fooling myself. It was worse after the fight.
Several months later, I was grand marshal of the annual holiday parade in East L.A. Riding in a car with my father, I was booed. People threw fruit at me and yelled that I hadn’t really beaten their champion. Police had to surround my car. My father yelled back, telling my detractors to shut up.
I couldn’t understand why they were acting that way. I’m one of you, is what I wanted to say.
I found myself having argument after argument with older people around the neighborhood, always forced to defend myself.
“Where were your kids born?” I would say.
“Here in East L.A.,” they would admit.
“So what’s the problem?” I would ask. “I was born here, too. My parents are Mexican just like you.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a Mexican,” they would say. “You’re a pocho. You’re a gringo.”
“I’m an American,” I would say, my voice rising. “What’s wrong with that? I’m the same as your kids.”
“That’s different,” they would insist.
It was a pointless argument, but one I couldn’t seem to escape. I don’t think my father ever really understood the problem. He was born in Mexico, plain and simple. But me, what was I? Was I an American? Was I a Mexican?
I was mad, I’ll tell you that. Mad enough to want to beat their hero once again, to show I had Mexican blood in me as well.
My chance came two years later when Chávez and I had a rematch. Forget the boxing and the moving, the fancy footwork and the quick fists, I told myself as I prepared for the second fight. This time, I was going to stand in front of Chávez, toe-to-toe, and show those Mexican fans I could fight his fight. I could be just as macho as Chávez.
That’s what happened. I stood in front of him in a test of wills. I have to admit, he took some blows that would have put anybody else down. I remember landing my 45 punch four or five times flush on his jaw. The old guy still had granite in his chin and a heavy, solid punch emanating from his fists. He caught me with a right hand that caused me to see stars. I was dizzy, but fortunately, he wasn’t able to follow up. Finally, Chávez blinked first. He’s the one who didn’t come out for the ninth round.
He hadn’t acknowledged my victory in the first fight. He was too busy looking for an excuse, which he found in his son. And in the press conferences prior to the second fight, Chávez acted as if the first fight hadn’t even happened. But after the rematch, he told me, “You beat me. You are a great fighter.”
The torch had finally been passed.
XVI
STRADDLING THE BORDER
The anger and bitterness that descended upon me in the wake of the first Julio César Chávez fight should not have come as a surprise. For many years, I struggled with an identity crisis. I wasn’t accepted as an American by some and I didn’t feel I was accepted as a Mexican by others. I felt like I didn’t belong.
Maybe it’s because, as a high-profile athlete, I tried to satisfy everyone. It was very important to me to show I was proud of being born in this country, but also proud to have Mexican roots.
It started at the Olympics when I carried both the Mexican and American flags into the ring for my gold-medal match. That created an image of me people still remember. At that moment, when I came into the public eye on a world stage for the first time, it was as a guy straddling two cultures.
But it’s difficult to maintain that image with pride when you are always getting criticized for it. For example, after Barcelona, I received a lot of complaints from Mexicans who were saying, “Who does this guy think he is? He was born in the U.S.A.”
When I fought Chávez the first time, I planned to wear these funky shorts that had the Mexican and American flags intertwined. Mexican government officials, in the letter threatening a lawsuit, said I couldn’t wear the trunks because I wasn’t born in Mexico. It was mind-boggling to me. Everybody else can wear trunks like that, but when I do it, there’s a threat of a lawsuit. I didn’t understand it.
The issue came up again when I fought Fernando Vargas in 2002. This is a guy who feeds off a gangster image and claimed his tough-guy persona made him more of a true Mexican than I, even though he, too, was born in this country. That made me angry. Who is this guy to tell me how Mexican I am? I thought his image tended to portray hardworking, taxpaying Hispanics in a very negative manner.
In my 2006 fight against Ricardo Mayorga, I wore a patch on my trunks in reference to a proposition in an upcoming election. My position, which was sympathetic to undocumented workers, resulted in phone calls and e-mails blasting me. “What in the hell are you doing?” they asked. “You should die. I thought you were an American. You were born in this country.”
I don’t let such attacks bother me anymore. All those conflicted feelings about my heritage are behind me. I was persistent, believing that one day, pe
ople would accept me.
Now people tell me, “Thank you for representing us. Thank you for always believing in us. Thank you for never forgetting us. Thank you for being proud.”
Such acceptance, however, doesn’t remove me from my responsibilities as a man caught in the middle of one of the hottest issues in the country: immigration. People in Mexico, even some family members who still live there, implore me to lobby U.S. officials to use their power to relax immigration laws. Over here, I have people telling me just the opposite.
It would be a lot easier if I didn’t get involved at all. I could just go about my business. Between boxing and promoting and my various other financial investments, I have more than enough on my plate, but I can’t turn my back on a problem that affects so many people whose roots run parallel to mine. I have my beliefs about possible solutions to this difficult problem and I will continue to air them and contribute to the public debate.
Let’s limit that debate to positive suggestions. We don’t need any more finger-pointing. Both sides, if they are honest, must accept some of the blame. This much I think we can all agree on: The current system is not working. There’s chaos on the border.
I’m certainly not for opening up the gates and allowing anyone who wants to come here to simply march in. But I’m also not suggesting a permanent lock for those gates. Many of the people trying to cross the border just want to work, want to make a better life for themselves and their families.
Sure, you have some rotten apples who are giving a bad name to all their fellow immigrants and they should be dealt with harshly. Send them back. That’s only fair.
For the others, let’s implement a more diplomatic approach. Mexicans view the border patrol as the enemy and the border itself as a hurdle they are determined to leap over, tunnel under, or smash through. We have to find a way of making it friendlier, a way to educate those on the other side about the process they must follow to come across. We must instill in them an awareness of the benefits of following the process.
If they want to come here and work, we should give them proper documentation to do so for six months. After six months, they can earn another six. After a year, if they have acted as good citizens, paid their taxes, and contributed to the economy, then they can begin a process leading to citizenship if they want to stay longer. Everybody would be accounted for through this process.
Let me stress, it should be a comprehensive, extended process. Nobody gets citizenship overnight. It is not a gift to be bestowed without strings attached. Congratulations, you snuck across the border, we’ll make you a citizen. No, nothing like that. Nothing is easy in life.
I’m not absolving the Mexican government of responsibility in this matter, either. Mexican officials have to step up and play a big role in enforcement. It’s not going to work if the effort is only made on this side of the border.
As for the illegal immigrants already here, don’t just send them back home. I’m not saying we should stamp their passports and overlook their past. But again, we should find a way to make them legal, give them the opportunity to work within the system to gain citizenship so that they can continue to live the American dream, but do so without having to hide in the shadows. Why not? There are people who have been here undercover for ten years, fifteen years, maybe even longer, working hard, raising families, and obeying the laws of this great country.
There should be an orderly line for going through the requirements of citizenship based on how long an immigrant has been in America. Those first applying to come across would have to start at the bottom of the list and work their way up. Wait your turn.
Bringing immigrants out of hiding would be a worthwhile accomplishment for all Americans. It would be much safer for both those who are here illegally and the rest of the country if immigrants have records of who they are, have certificates or green cards or, eventually, passports. I think the people who come here would benefit, I think our economy would benefit, and I think agencies dealing with everything from law enforcement to health care to education would benefit.
Something must be done because, with the situation the way it is now, illegal immigration is never going to stop. It just isn’t. That’s reality.
I also believe strongly that those who immigrate to this country, regardless of where they came from, should learn English. This is America. The first language is English. You go to Japan, you speak Japanese. You go to Colombia, you speak Spanish.
I don’t understand how people can complain that this country isn’t doing enough for them. They should be grateful. As an immigrant, you are coming to a country that is giving you a chance to live a better life. Respect it. That’s what I do, what my family has done, what my ancestors did.
I will never forget my roots, never forget where I come from, but I am in debt to the United States of America. This is the country I was born in, this is the country that gave me a chance to go to the Olympics, and this is the country that has allowed me to prosper in the years since.
We, as Latinos, need to stand up and recognize the wonders we have experienced in this country. We are Americans.
I have tried to do my part to give back to this great land of ours through the Oscar De La Hoya Foundation. I consider it a privilege to do so.
My efforts began after I won my first world championship. I loved the feel of the belt around my waist, but I also felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. I saw all the young kids looking up to me, and I remembered when I was a young kid, looking for role models as I was shuttled from gym to gym.
Why not give these kids a gym they can call home? So I acquired the old Resurrection Gym, refurbished it, and staffed it with trainers to give the next generation of fighters a place to chase their dreams.
This was the start of my foundation. With all the championships I have won over the years, what I am most proud of is the positive impact I have been able to have on other people, largely through this foundation.
Over the past dozen years, it has grown in reach and influence. Thousands of kids have come off the streets to spend their otherwise idle time in my gym and learning center.
One of those kids, José Navarro, even followed my path to the Olympics. He competed in the 2000 Games.
My desire to use my good fortune for the benefit of others has not been limited to the ring. After my mother died of breast cancer, I wanted to establish a cancer institute in her honor. In 2000, I achieved that goal with the opening of a state-of-the-art facility in my old neighborhood in East Los Angeles. The Cecilia Gonzalez De La Hoya Cancer Center at White Memorial Medical Center offers diagnostic and treatment options for patients with all types of cancer. Thousands have taken advantage of its facilities to fight this deadly illness.
In 2003, I was also able to establish a neonatal intensive-care unit, and a labor-and-delivery center at White Memorial.
I was honored to be able to do this for my community, and I hope that my charitable reach will eventually stretch nationwide.
In a way, I came full circle in 2004 when, in conjuction with Green Dot Public Schools, I opened the Oscar De La Hoya Amino Charter High School, the first new public high school in East Los Angeles in over seventy years.
Overcrowded classrooms are a problem everywhere in the country. To be able to relieve some of that pressure and give students a chance for a better education is very satisfying to me.
I am sure my mother would be proud.
Photographic Insert
Mother Cecilia, age seventeen, as a bridesmaid in a friend’s wedding. (Photo courtesy of the author)
The 1968 wedding of Oscar’s parents, Joel and Cecilia. Mother Cecilia poses here with Miguel Salas, one of Joel’s uncles. (Photo courtesy of the author)
At home with the family. From right to left: Oscar, Uncle, Joel, Cecilia, and baby sister Ceci. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar’s mother Cecilia and brother Joel Jr. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar the gym rat, on the right.
(Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar and his father after a win at a local tournament. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar, age eight, right before a tournament. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar and his young stable mates at the East Side Boxing Gym. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Cecilia, Oscar, and cousin Irma in Durango, Mexico. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar’s first holy communion. Joel, Cecilia, and godparents Hermila and Franciso Gonzalez. Oscar is in the middle with baby sister Ceci in front. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar, right, throwing his famous left hook at the Azteca Gym. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar with two of the more than two hundred trophies he won as an amateur. (Photo courtesy of the author)
The Child Prodigy. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar gives his mom bunny ears on a family trip to Disneyland. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar’s parents in a happy moment on Christmas Eve at a relative’s house. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Oscar’s mom Cecilia and little sister Ceci. They were in Washington to watch Oscar in the 1990 Goodwill Games. It was one of the last times his mother saw him fight. She passed away several months later. (Photo courtesy of the author)
Three generations of De La Hoya fighters: Oscar stands with his grandfather Vicente and father Joel. (Photo courtesy of the author)
American Son Page 12