A Heavy Weight
Before he was convicted of rape and hauled off to prison in 1983, Tony Ayala was one of pro boxing's most prominent stars.
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In San Antonio many people believe the old man is evil. But as he talks about the troubles that have beset his family his speech takes on evangelical rhythms and flair. "One time my oldest son said, 'Where were you when all these things began?' My wife and I sat down. When you don't have an education, and your income is low and you have to pay the rent and you've got kids, you hold many jobs. I washed cars, changed tires, worked in restaurants. I used to go to the farms and buy fresh eggs and sell them out of my pickup on the West Side. I was always working. That's where I was. I wish I could have brought them up in a better neighborhood. I used to go to the city council and plead with them. But it wasn't until rich kids on the North Side started using drugs that they got excited. Then we had a War on Drugs.
"It breaks my heart. I never knew about the abuse my son endured. Demons hounded him throughout his life. And when he used drugs and alcohol, he just exploded. When my son was incarcerated, I didn't come out of my house for three months. There is an old saying that everybody makes firewood out of a fallen tree. That's what happened. I went broke. My wife and I lost everything. Everything. So I went back on the road. Emanuel Steward, an old friend, gave me work at the Kronk Gym in Detroit, then we opened Kronk West in Tucson. We were away for eleven years. But we're not strangers. We've been in rough seas before. And now Tony . . ."
He looked away and blinked his eyes. He apologized for his tears. "I don't know how we can make things right. I told him, 'Tony, there's nothing we can do. Just go forward.'"
After a moment he wiped his eyes and raised his chin proudly. "When I came back to San Antonio, a young man said, 'You're the old warhorse. In the old days your name went from pillar to post. But you're history. It's our turn now.' Well, here I am," he said, gazing around the gym. "We own this place. Tony will eventually take over for me. As far as Tony's concerned now, don't be surprised if he's a better fighter than he ever was. Sure, he's going on thirty-seven. But go back to the yesteryears. Fighters like Jersey Joe Walcott, Archie Moore, George Foreman. They were on top well into their thirties and forties. Things are no different now, and Tony's here to prove it. And if he doesn't make it, let me say it in the manner of my son: He's already a winner. He's a free man."
Two days before the weigh-in, the press conference at a San Antonio hotel was packed with boxing people and press. Young Manuel Esparza was digging all the attention. He zipped around the room granting interviews to anyone who asked for one. Ever since he arrived in San Antonio he'd been talking trash about Tony. When he took his turn at the podium, he turned to Tony and asked him if he preferred mustard or mayonnaise—Tony gazed straight ahead, eyes like jade—"because I'm going to be feeding you fist sandwiches all night." The kid squirmed and giggled at his wit.
In the crowd some looks were exchanged. Esparza's record was deceptive. He'd won his first twelve bouts, nine of them four-rounders, and since then had been mediocre. In his last outing he'd gotten stopped. He had knocked out only five opponents, so his strategy had to be to hang in for ten rounds and try to steal a decision in Tony's hometown. He was a carefully chosen opponent for the first bout. In the old days, Tony fought like a baited wild animal released from its cage—like he truly loved to do damage. He spat on one opponent after knocking him out, gave another a whack after that one was counted out. He once chased Roberto Duran down a New York street, daring boxing's ultimate macho man to get in the ring with him.
But at the weigh-in Tony stunned even the most cynical observers. "Jesse" James Leija had taken a fight on the undercard. Tony looked at the boxer he had called a coward and said, "I would like to offer my sincere apologies to James. That was said at a moment when I was not in the best frame of mind. I never once questioned your character outside the ring. And in fact I commend you for that. I wish I had conducted myself in the same manner when I was younger." Surprised applause erupted. One thing people had never expected of Tony was class.
A couple of nights before, I had met Tony in a hotel restaurant. Why San Antonio? I had asked him. Why not go someplace where he could truly start over?
"This is where I was born," he answered in a deep voice. "Where I was raised, where I raised a lot of hell. Where I broke a lot of hearts."
"So you're trying to make it up to people?"
"I can't make up anything to anybody," he replied. "Sixteen years are gone. I can't expect people to forget what happened. That's one of the things I have to accept. The past is related to my family, related to the victim. There's nothing I can do about that. So I'd best just leave it alone. Otherwise it would just consume me and kill me all over again." He paused a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was gruff. "All I can do is the best I can. I'm never going to be perfect. I still have my faults. Lisa probably told you there are some days she hates my guts for the way I am."
I was a little jolted by the way he put it. "No. She didn't say that."
He lowered his gaze and toyed with the food on his plate.
"I was married to a beautiful woman. But that wasn't enough. I was always out chasing other women. Trying to get another notch on my belt. I had to keep proving my sexuality. It was the same with my fighting. I had a sheer hatred of losing. Because losing meant more than just losing a fight. Losing meant being stripped of my manhood."
"Of all the things that could have happened that night," I said, "why rape?"
"Well, rape is about anger and violence, right? You impose your will on another person. But it's more complicated than that. I was convinced I was unworthy of being loved. I thought the only way I could be with someone like Lisa was that I had fooled her into thinking I was an okay guy. If she knew the truth, she wouldn't be with me. The actual rape: I was drunk, I had broken into the woman's apartment, and I was looking for someone who didn't know me—a total stranger. In the mix of all that, the sexuality had to do with me being a man. I wanted to impose myself on a woman as a way of proving my straightness, my heterosexuality. Which goes back to my being abused, being sodomized, being pushed into things I didn't want to do, and blaming myself, thinking somehow I had invited the situation. Plus all the other—the control and dominance and anger. It's like a soup; it's all thrown in. It's hard to distinguish where one ends and the other begins."
"Will you ever be at peace with yourself?"
"I am now. I never thought, 'I don't deserve to be in prison. I didn't hurt her that bad'—nothing like that. I think I should have gone to prison for what I did. I committed a horrible crime. But how much time is enough time? Too much time? You've got to give people the desire and motivation to turn their lives around. And give them an education and the foundation to get out and find a good-paying job. You can't expect a thirty-six-year-old man to work at McDonald's the rest of his life. Punishment for the sake of hurt. Anybody's going to rebel against that. I think that's where the whole system's got it wrong. Of course, I'd assume the victim thinks I should die in prison for what I did. I would guess she thinks I'm the devil incarnate because of what I put her through."
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