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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He set his jaw and looked away, eyes rimmed and gleaming with tears. "My only hope," he said quietly, "is that she's gotten the proper therapy to put her life back in order. And that's always possible. It's not to say you're going to forget what happened to you. But you can put the past behind you to a point that it doesn't assault you every day. When I was growing up, the past always haunted me. Those demons were with me every day. My inability to let the past go caused me to stop being the victim and become the perpetrator. That's what I regret. I care about having raped her. Putting my family in shame. Not having won the title? Who gives a shit?"
We were almost alone in the restaurant. A young Hispanic man in a suit had passed our table several times. Finally he stopped and said, "I know you from somewhere. Is your name Ayala? Do you have a brother . . . ?"
"Yeah, I'm Tony. Sammy used to work here. How you doing?"
The young man shook his hand and immediately fell into the rhythms of barrio English. "Yeah, Sammy and I worked together. Banquets, catering. How you doing, man? You doing all right?"
"I'm doing great, man. I'm doing a hell of a lot better than I was last year."
"Good luck to you, man. It's an honor meeting you. Having you here."
Mood buoyed by the exchange, Tony looked at me and said, "Where were we?"
"Your crime. Your demons."
"Well, I don't think of my crime as a demon. But that woman will always be scarred by what I did. It's a wound that will never heal. I hurt this girl. I invaded her sanctuary—her bedroom. Being violated is not something you get over, ever. I wonder if she can sleep at night. Whether she has to lock all the doors. I'll carry that with me the rest of my life."
THE FIRST HINT WAS THE TRAFFIC. From every approach the cars and trucks inched toward the silver dome of the old coliseum. Its seating capacity was over 10,000, and it filled up. Even in the highest rows, I couldn't see open spaces. I had wondered if they might show up dressed to the nines, as Muhammad Ali's fans did when he came back from the idleness forced on him by his refusal of the draft. But it wasn't like that. The style here was boots and jeans and cowboy hats. It was a blue-collar crowd—largely Hispanic but not predominantly, as I had expected.
One person who did dress was Lisa Ayala. Her hair was up and she wore a glittery black dress. Accustomed to working, she had plunged into the fight by practicing her trade, which is selling things, and she had sold a lot of tickets. She moved around ringside chatting, checking on the comfort of her tiny, quiet mother-in-law. I could tell she was nervous because she couldn't stay in her seat. I had spoken to her too about the prospects for their marriage. "We've hardly had any time together," she told me. "[During] the lawsuit by the other promoters, he had to go back to Philadelphia to be deposed. On the way back, our flight was canceled in St. Louis, and we had to stay over. We went to the park, a museum. It was wonderful. But we're living with his parents"—it was the only time I'd seen her roll her eyes. "It's an adjustment, just the personal space. Tony's bond with his dad is so strong. They talk about building two houses on the same piece of land. I don't know. I'm just going with the flow."
The stars of the undercard, "Jesse" James Leija and Tony's sparring partner, James "Cowboy" Coker, had tough fights—they earned their money. When the time for the main event arrived, a nine-piece mariachi band assembled in the ring. The entry of Manuel Esparza brought down an avalanche of boos. His trash mouth had cost him admiration he might have won for his spunk. Pretty Boy wore a hooded gold lamé robe. In the ring he shadowboxed, danced on his toes, genuflected. The voices and guitars of the mariachis built to a crescendo, the trumpet player blew melancholy notes, and the bellow of the crowd engulfed everything else when Tony stepped into the ring. It struck me as I looked up and around that his appeal has much to do with machismo, all right. But he's also tapped into something else: people who feel they've been unfairly given up on as losers in their own lives. That's a powerful constituency if he can still get it done in the ring.
Tony shed a short yellow robe and rolled his shoulders, rolled his neck. There was no glaring face-off when the ref called them together at center ring. Tony was all business, and at the bell he was after Esparza like a spider with a fly. Esparza had meant to step and glide from side to side, scoring with his longer arms and faster hands, but the legs that are supposed to be an old fighter's bane were this one's advantage. Tony was a master at cutting off the ring. The kid tried to dance and establish his range, but Tony's angular steps intercepted and continually closed the distance. Esparza was soon on the ropes, forced into corners, and all his concentration was devoted to blocking punches and slipping them with his head. Tony no longer fights with the wildness of his youth. His sparring partners taught him that he doesn't have the same reflexes, that he'd better keep his hands up. His expression was almost thoughtful as he threw a right-hand lead, whacked the kid's ribs with his left hook. But they were arm punches, doing little damage when they landed.
Between rounds the old man stood before his son's stool with his feet spread wide and whirled a towel in rapid circles. It couldn't create much cooling wind, but it looked showy. In the other corner Esparza complained to his dad that his new gold trunks didn't fit. Simultaneously he was trying to box and keep his pants from falling off. His dad yanked them high over his groin protector and wrapped adhesive tape around his waist.
The second round and the beginning of the third were like the first—Esparza trying to fight off the ropes and out of corners, Tony struggling to find the rhythm, remember the combinations. Then, on the ropes just above me, Tony bent his knees, twisted his hips, and with a loud whunk landed a left hook that sent tingles and the thrill of the old days all the way up his arm and shoulder. It landed just under Esparza's rib cage. Whatever organs lay under there, the impact made the kid's face go pale and blank with pain, and his legs collapsed. By grabbing the rope he managed to stay on his knees and make the count. Seconds later, Tony battered him to the canvas again, and the ref jumped between them. Fight over.
The roar of the crowd became the whistling and sustained applause of homecoming. Tony stepped in place, nodding in response. When the tape was off and the laces were loose, he threw one glove to the crowd, then the other. He kept drawing his hand over his mouth, controlling his emotion. Esparza put back on the gold robe, and as he stepped through the ropes, people were booing him again. He stood on the ring apron and took two mocking bows. Objects sailed through the air. Tony saw it and sent his dad to call Esparza back. Tony walked around the ring with the kid, holding his hand up. Young Tony wouldn't have done that.
The press conference afterward was smooth. Tony answered each question in English, then paused and replied in well-phrased Spanish.
The strategy, his handlers explained, was all planned out. He'll fight every four to six weeks, though the schedule will be flexible for television. In each fight the opponent will have a little more skill. The fan base is San Antonio, and ultimately they want to prove they can fill up the Alamodome, but they're going to promote him in Corpus Christi, the Valley, El Paso, Albuquerque, Tucson, Phoenix—all the way to L.A. and De La Hoya. You could call the campaign "The March to Oscar: Who's the Real Chicano?"
"Huge fight," contends the crafty veteran from Philly, Don Elbaum. "Could be the biggest ever. Nobody will know how much Tony's got left until he's in the ring with De La Hoya. If they do it right."
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