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  Once I learned how to encase my hands in that cool gauze, I was ready to use them. I didn’t have any other equipment. The gloves and headgear belonged to the gym and were used interchangeably by all the kids.

  When I got my turn, I started sparring, that unpleasant day in Uncle Lalo’s garage chalked up to the immaturity of a toddler. After all, that was two years ago. Now I was a mature six-year-old.

  After sparring for two or three months, I got my first fight at the age of six. It was at Pico Rivera Sports Arena, a multipurpose building featuring everything from concerts to horse shows.

  We would go down there on Saturday mornings, my father, my brother, and I. The kids would weigh in and then go off to play. The coaches would huddle and try to match us up, putting together kids of equal weight as close as possible in age and build. Sometimes they were able to make a match and sometimes they weren’t.

  On that particular Saturday, my father was trying to get someone to face my brother, but it didn’t happen. There wasn’t a suitable opponent.

  But there was for me, little Oscar, weighing all of 56 pounds.

  It wasn’t like I had been pushing my father to get me a match. I had reached a point where I didn’t mind getting punched and I liked messing around with the other kids during those long days at the gym, stretched even further when the adults disappeared to drink beer and hang out.

  My father, however, thought it was time, even at my tender age, to move up to the next level, to get competitive. My brother already had one or two fights under his small belt.

  I was at the top of the bleachers overlooking the ring, running around with my friends, when my trainer, Joe Minjarez, yelled at me to get down. I had a fight.

  I was excited. Time to emulate the big boys.

  It was kind of funny. I had no equipment, no shoes, no shorts, and certainly no gloves. I had to borrow all of my brother’s stuff. The shorts came down to my calves. The boots were about four sizes too big. They were so long that they curled up in the front like the shoes of an elf. The socks they gave me, tube socks, had to be rolled down again and again just to get them below my knees. I looked like a soccer or baseball player more than a fighter. The gloves? They were so big they practically came up to my elbows. And on top, I had a T-shirt with a 7-Up logo.

  And that’s the way I went off to war for the first time.

  Before I stepped into the ring, which was outside on the dirt surface where the horses usually romped, my father pulled me aside and said, “Move your head. Throw hard punches.”

  When the bell rang, I wasn’t the least bit nervous. I went right at my opponent, throwing punches as my dad had told me and laughing. To me, it was fun, a rush. Boxing had gotten into my blood.

  To my dad, it was very satisfying. After giving me the last-minute advice, he became very quiet once the fight started. He wasn’t one of those parents who continually scream at their sons during a fight, yelling about using the jab, throwing the hook, and keeping the energy level up. No, he just sat there, almost serenely, with his arms folded, taking pride in the fact that it was his son on the attack.

  They stopped the fight a minute into the first round. My opponent, who hadn’t landed a single punch, had had enough.

  I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to do it again.

  VI

  FOOD STAMPS AND MUGGERS: LIFE IN THE HOOD

  From the outside, we looked like a typical Mexican-American family. We didn’t have any more or any less than the other households in our East L.A. neighborhood.

  On the inside, though, there was something lacking, something very essential in the nurturing of a child. Maybe that was typical, too, of our neighborhood. We never talked about anything. We never had conversations around the house. I remember saying just a few words to my mother at a time and that was it. My parents never sat my brother and me down and talked to us about the birds and the bees or any problems we might be having. They never offered to help us with our homework. They simply said, “We’re the parents and you listen to us and that’s it.”

  The thing I regret most is not telling my mother I loved her. She never told me she loved me, either. I knew she did love me and I’m sure she knew I loved her, but we never had that kind of communication. I don’t know if it was deemed embarrassing to say it, or just not part of who we were. I don’t want to say our household was cold, but there really weren’t any emotions in evidence. My parents didn’t know how to express themselves, especially my father. It’s only recently that he has told me he loved me and has given me big hugs. I finally feel he’s proud of me.

  Dinnertime was a good example of what it was like back then. Most of the time, my father would have dinner by himself. I would eat after I got home from the gym and I don’t know when my brother got around to dinner. As for my mother, she was the one doing the cooking. She would wait until the last person had eaten, then, when we all wandered into the living room to watch TV, I would glance back into the kitchen and see her eating by herself.

  I am determined not to make the same mistakes with my kids that my parents made with us. I shouldn’t even say mistakes. It was just part of the culture.

  I grew up in a tiny, second-floor apartment containing a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a half bath barely big enough to accommodate a shower. The whole apartment was barely big enough to accommodate the four of us.

  The kitchen had a table that seated four, but took up most of the space in the room. It was a typical kitchen for that time and place, containing a linoleum floor, a refrigerator, and a stove.

  My brother and I shared a bedroom, sleeping in bunk beds. He was the older kid, so he took control of the decor, plastering the room with posters of heavy-metal groups. I had no say whatsoever.

  We had a pleather sofa in the living room. What’s pleather? Fake leather. There was a big mirror on one wall with a cross hanging down. The prized object in the room was a twenty-inch color TV with two antennas jutting out of the top, their original form twisted and turned from constant adjustment. It would be pathetic in comparison to today’s gadget-laden big-screens, but in that neighborhood in those days, it was like having a movie screen at your personal disposal. Yes, there were only seven channels and you actually had to walk up to the set and change channels by hand, a primitive concept to my own kids, but whether it was watching Dodger games or entertainment shows, that TV was our window to the world, proof there was life beyond McBride Avenue.

  The walls of the apartment were all white, there were no rugs on the floor, and cheap “antiques” could be found in every corner, a very fifties look.

  We had our share of rats and roaches. There were so many roaches that we didn’t even try to kill them. We thought of them more like pets. We didn’t know any different.

  There was a small driveway on the side of our building that we turned into a makeshift baseball field. We cut off the top of a broomstick to make a bat, got an old tennis ball, and we were set. It wasn’t exactly Dodger Stadium, but we were happy.

  That was our world. We never left the neighborhood, living innocently in our little bubble. One time, when I was a kid, my mother and I went to the doctor on the bus. When we got off at the wrong stop, we were lost. My mother didn’t speak English, so we just wandered around for what seemed like hours. In reality, we were in Montebello, not that far from home. Eventually, she called some relative who picked us up.

  Sometimes we had to live on food stamps. They were brown in color, each worth a dollar. My mother would send me to the little corner store with a booklet of stamps to buy eggs, tortillas, and a big can of beans. If the place was crowded, I would hang in the back until it emptied out before pulling out my stamps. I was embarrassed.

  For years, I carried one of those food stamps around in my wallet so I would never forget the value of a dollar, how precious food and the basics of life are to those who don’t have them, and to never forget how far I had come.

  It was only recently that I lost that old food stamp when s
omeone stole my wallet in Las Vegas. After the story of the theft ran across the country, we received hundreds of food stamps in the mail at the Golden Boy offices. Now I have plenty of food stamps to choose from for my new wallet.

  My father tells me that I shouldn’t go around saying we got food stamps because it’s not true. The truth is, he didn’t know because my mother never told him. The idea that the man of the house was working his rear end off to provide for his family and we needed food stamps to get by would have been unacceptable to my father. He had too much pride to allow that. So my mother kept it from him.

  When my sister, Cecilia, was born a dozen years after I had come into the world, we moved to a duplex on Mcdonnell Avenue. We lived in the back behind my uncle Vicente. Even though it was only a block away from our old apartment, for us, it was like moving to Beverly Hills. There were no apartment buildings on our new block, just duplexes. The cramped conditions we had existed in gave way to what seemed like wide-open spaces. We even had a little front yard with a small porch.

  While we had more space on the property, we had less in the unit itself, leaving only one bedroom. The garage was converted into an extra room where my brother and I slept. My infant sister stayed in my parents’ bedroom.

  Ceci brought warmth to our household. As the little baby of the family, she had my father wrapped around her tiny fingers. It was not easy to get to him, but she did. And not just to him. She was loved by and close to everyone.

  We had one car, a late-seventies, light gray Monte Carlo. To me, as a young child, it seemed so huge, almost like a tank. I thought it was embarrassing, not cool at all.

  My father didn’t worry about what was cool. He was just happy to be able to afford wheels. He had a tough, demanding job, but he never complained, always taking a lot of pride in being able to take care of his family. We may not have been rich, but thanks to him, we had a roof over our heads and the freedom to hang out in the gym, where I was able to hone the skills that would enable me to provide for the family in a way my father could never have dreamed of.

  He took comfort from being able, when his tedious day was done, to head to the gym to watch his sons work out. That gave him a great deal of joy. It brought back memories of his own father seeing him fight and of the days when he himself could spend the majority of his time in a gym, honing his own skills.

  My mother was the quintessential homemaker. No matter how small our living space, she was constantly cleaning, dusting, washing dishes, doing our laundry. She would take all day to clean. My brother and I would wonder, How many times can she clean this place? She was meticulous. This was her nest and she was determined to maintain it as a comfort zone for her growing family.

  My mother cooked like there was no tomorrow. She always made chorizo and eggs for breakfast, carne asada or some other kind of meat along with beans for dinner. And you can be sure there was salsa on the table. She was known for her homemade salsas, along with her tortillas and guacamole.

  Every other Saturday morning, we would go shopping at Johnson’s Market, where she would buy an average of $45 to $50 worth of groceries. I made sure I went with her before I went to the gym, because it gave me the opportunity to slip over to the candy section, where I would get a few sweets to pop in my mouth and a few more to stuff in my pocket.

  My mother never worried that I’d have a weight problem. For one thing, I was a very active child, especially after I made the gym my second home. Second, I was a kid who didn’t like to eat. I’d pick at the food or push it across the plate, using my fork or a tortilla as a bulldozer. Anything to avoid putting it down my throat. My mother didn’t buy that, so I had to sit at the table until I had swallowed everything in front of me. That could take over an hour, considering my lack of enthusiasm for the task in front of me. Didn’t matter how long it took. Didn’t matter if the food got cold, which it always did. I was locked into that chair until it was gone.

  It was home cooking or nothing with the exception of trips to the homes of relatives. In all my years growing up, we never went out to a restaurant to eat. Not one time.

  In my teens, I once stopped off at a little Chinese restaurant near our house and picked up takeout. But that was a onetime thing.

  Along with her cooking, my mom took pride in how she looked and acted. It was important to her to try to be the perfect person. Even though she stayed mostly around the house, her hair would be perfect, her makeup on just right even as she went about her cleaning. She wanted so much to look elegant even though she couldn’t afford to buy elegant things. She didn’t have the money to go to a beauty shop, but she would dye her hair once a week, always coming up with a new shade of blond. That matched her light complexion. She had pretty brown eyes, a very beautiful person.

  She was about five-four, five-five, and may have weighed 150 pounds or a little more, heavyset, but she never obsessed over it. She was confident in her appearance, and rightfully so. And she was able to pass that confidence on to her children. Dressing right and looking right has always been important to me.

  My mother always brought laughter to the house. She had a loud laugh, the kind that made you want to laugh with her. When she would get with her friend, Maura, who was like a sister to her, or one of her cousins, or her aunt Hermila, they would be loud and boisterous, enjoying life in their own little world.

  One time my father got off work so early that he beat me home. My mother got into the family car, turned the radio up full blast, and started listening to her favorite music, rancheras. She was singing so loud I could hear it when I got within a few houses of my own.

  At first I was kind of embarrassed. Mom, what are you doing? I thought. All the neighbors can hear you. I was a high school student then, very self-conscious. But then she motioned for me to get into the car with her and we starting singing together. Soon we were laughing and having a great time.

  That’s the moment that comes to mind first when I think of her, before she got sick, before the agonizing final months of her battle with breast cancer. I picture the two of us in that car, singing a duet, enjoying each other’s company, seemingly without a care in the world.

  I never had to do chores as a kid. My parents wanted me to excel in school and in the gym as well, so that was my life. As long as I kept busy at those two places, my mother was happy to handle the home front.

  It was nice, but no chores also meant no allowance, not that my parents could have afforded to give me one anyway. I became known on the school grounds as the kid who never had any money.

  There were lines for food and other lines for school supplies. In one, you could buy cookies or brownies or other snacks; in the other, pencils or notebooks. It didn’t matter to me. I never got in either line because there was no way I could buy anything.

  That never failed to amuse my classmates, who loved to make fun of poor Oscar. If you had told them I’d be known as the Golden Boy someday, they would have laughed even harder.

  At the end of summer, when all the stores had back-to-school promotions, I might get a notebook and some pencils. That was about it.

  Because money was tight, my parents never took us shopping for clothes. I had only one pair of jeans and I just kept wearing them and wearing them until I got sick of them and sick of my friends pointing at them and grabbing their stomachs in laughter.

  To change things up, I occasionally wore my mother’s pants to school, a fact I never got around to telling her. One time I wore a bright red pair, very tight on me, with a zipper in the back. You can imagine how that went over with my friends. I lasted two periods in school, then left.

  After that, it was back to my good old jeans.

  I have to admit, starting when I was about nine, I went to a Kmart on several occasions and stole a pencil and some erasers. I just stuffed them in my pocket and walked out. I was scared, but that didn’t stop me. I needed them for school. I can’t imagine what would have happened if my parents had found out.

  Actually, I can guess what
my mother would have done. It’s funny. My father was very, very tough on my brother and me, very intimidating, but he never laid a hand on us. It was my mother, believe it or not, who handled the physical punishment. She would take off her shoe and throw it at us, or spank us with a belt. Those spankings made us cry when we were small, but as we grew older, it was no big deal.

  One time, as she was spanking me, I started to laugh. She pulled me off her lap and said, “Okay, I’m going to tell your father to whip you when he gets home from work.”

  That got my attention. I was scared enough to quickly wipe the smile off my face and replace it with a look of contrition.

  Normally, I couldn’t wait for my father to get home because that meant a trip to the gym. That time, however, I was in no hurry to see him because I knew it meant a trip into the bedroom for an up-close and personal look at his belt.

  Finally, I heard the dreaded sound of his car pulling up and the door opening. My mother greeted him in tears, pointing to me and saying, “He won’t listen to me.”

  A dark look of anger crossed my father’s face. He took me by the arm into the bedroom I shared with my brother and slammed the door. By then, I was shaking.

  In the room, the frown on his face faded. He broke into a big smile and started chuckling. What was going on? I was feeling equal parts confusion and relief.

  Slowly my father unbuckled his belt and pulled it out of the loops on his pants. Now I was really puzzled.

  “Look,” he whispered. “I’m going to hit the bed with this belt real hard. And every time I do, you make noise like you’re in pain, okay?”

  Okay.

  Wham! Bam! My father pounded that belt down on the bed several times. Each time I give out an anguished yell.

  All of a sudden there was my mother, standing in the doorway, watching the whole scene. She was not the least bit amused.

  While my father could be the good guy in a situation like that, it didn’t lessen my fear of crossing him. He was very strong-willed, very tough in the way he talked to you. It was his way or no way. I respected him, but I feared him.