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Feature
The
Boxer with Perfect Ears
Vicky Larraín
By
Santiago Roncagliolo
The Contender
The day he walked into Madison Square Garden, the Peruvian
boxer Romerito faced 25,000 Americans insulting him at once.
Worst of all, the audience was howling his rival’s name.
Or rather, his nickname, which was even more terrifying. The
world light-weight champion was named Ray Mancini, but they
just called him Boom Boom.
Everyone
in Peru was watching that fight on television, September
15, 1983. I was only eight years old, but I remember that
the
kids were running around excited and hitting each other in
the schoolyard. First they hit each other as if they were boxers.
Then, they hit each other more forcefully because they all
wanted to be Romerito. Eight in my twenty kid class had signed
up at the gym to be boxers. We all wanted to play at whatever
yielded champions. When Jaime Yzaga went up in the tennis ranks,
we bought ourselves racquets. When the national Women’s
Volleyball team got to the Olympic finals, the kids stopped
thinking of it as a sport for pansies. In 1983, for the first
time, boxing was making its way, punch by punch, into Peruvian’s
hearts. In April, Ibáñez was knocked down in
Tokyo in a world final. In November, Oscar Rivadeneyra would
fight against Michael Spinks in the heavyweights. But Orlando
Romero, “Romerito,” was the one who raised the
most hopes, because he had always been a torpedo.
“I started fighting in the streets, like all boxers,” he
says, twenty years later. “In school, the bigger ones
love bothering the little ones. When you’re the little
one, punches are the only way to show that you’re not
a fool.”
Romerito
still has a boxy build, as if he were a block of cement.
Two ears stick out on the sides of his shaved head
so that he looks like a trophy. He brags about these ears,
and in general, about that smooth head: no cracked lobes, no
nose flattened by punches. “I always knew how to dodge
the punches,” he adds, pointing out his face. “This
is the proof.”
The day
he entered the ring for the first time, Romerito remembers
crossing the gym through a long line of broken eyebrows and
cauliflower ears, and swearing to himself that he would never
end up like that. He was fifteen years old and it was his first
fight in the neighborhood Golden Gloves tournament. Until then,
he had only seen boxing on TV. He remembered Muhammad Ali and
Joe Frazier’s fight, Muhammad Ali vs. George Foreman,
Muhammad Ali vs. whomever. He had also walloped a few kids
in the neighborhood. As a matter of fact, it was clear that
he had a better future with his fists than with his studies.
And to prove it, he won the tournament.
From then
on, Romerito starts to train and build up his reputation
with his father’s help and his poor mother’s fear.
He sells pastries and studies to be a commercial accountant
while the titles come one after the other: Champion of Trujillo,
Regional Champion, Northern Champion, National Amateur Champion.
At nineteen, he wins the National Professional Championship.
Then, what he calls his “golden age” begins.
“I
started to win against everyone. Every guy they put in front
of me was a guy I knocked down. And that was with
me being one of the youngest among the professionals.”
Professional Boxing in Peru has never been a million-dollar
industry. Romerito got 200 dollars per fight and a lot less
for sparring with other champions. As his reputation increased,
he started to charge for wearing Power sneakers or for putting
a beer logo on his robe. Besides that, he got very little.
The real money was only in the United States and in one fight:
the world title. Everything he could do before getting there
would be unseen and poorly paid.
With that goal in mind, Romerito starts to train with the
South American middle-weight ex-champion Mauro Mina, the most
famous Peruvian boxer of the time. With Mina, he won the South
American, Latin American and Continental titles. That same
day his problems started.
“A good trainer doesn’t tell you “come on,
kid, one two, one two.” A good trainer knows about strategy.
He gives you ideas. Mina did that, until the Continental final,
September 20, 1980. That time, I fought for the title against
a Colombian who hit me in the jaw in the fifth round. I spent
the rest of the match complaining about my molar. Mina ordered
me to keep fighting. I fought seven more rounds and knocked
the Colombian down three times. I won the title. But the next
day, when I couldn’t eat, I realized that my jaw was
broken in two places.”
Three months later, Mina started training him with 155-pound
boxers. Romerito was faster, but when he took a punch, it was
as if a tank had run him over. He asked his trainer to set
up sparrings for his weight. Mina told him not to be a fag
and Romerito fired him. He already felt more confident.
“After Mina, I hired Nicolás Cárpena,
a Peruvian living in Argentina who brought his whole school
from there. He had an impressive gift for gab. He treated me
like a world champion. And with him, I began to feel like a
world champion.”
He defended
his titles enough times to ascend the rankings with 30 wins
and one tie. He always came out clean, without
any scars, because he used his waist a lot: he weaved in and
out, if he couldn’t punch hard, he clinched or used his
head. His specialty was half-distance fighting, dodging and
blocking in his search for open spaces. And when he found them,
he was heartless.
That’s how he made it to Madison Square Garden. And
that’s how he made it to his last obstacle, Ray “Boom
Boom” Mancini.
The Champion
Boom Boom was born in Youngstown, Ohio, the son of another
boxer, but not just any boxer. In his heyday, Lenny Mancini
had defeated various world champions, and it was a general
prediction that he would take the lightweight belt in the
near future. But a future was exactly what Lenny didn’t
have. He had to serve in World War II and was wounded at
the front. When he returned, he kept fighting, but he never
recovered his game.
This war
veteran, of Italian ancestry and profound American beliefs,
became obsessed with the idea of taking revenge on
life: he signed Ray up at the gym at a very young age, went
with him, instructed him, indoctrinated him. Ray went professional
the same year as Romerito. There’s no need to explain
where the sonorous sobriquet Boom Boom came from. But it’s
not easy to figure out where he got the strength to hit so
hard. With surprising alacrity, Ray beat his way to the world
finals.
Boom Boom’s first attempt as a contender for the title,
against Alexis Argüello, was pronounced one of the best
fights of the eighties by ESPN and Ring Magazine: they fought
14 brutal rounds before Argüello’s experience prevailed.
But his second attempt, against then champion Arturo Frías,
was the beginning of a deceptive glory forged by strange circumstances.
Days before
the fight, while Mancini trained in Tucson, three armed men
appeared at his hotel asking for him. They were told
he wasn’t there and they left. When he found out, the
boxer called the police and continued his physical preparation
under police watch until the end. The episode was never resolved.
When he
finally faced Frías, Mancini pulled a first
round out of his sleeve that was considered history’s
best. Basically, he was a beast. An initial blow fifteen seconds
into the start of the fight almost took the Venezuelan out
of commission. A straight right split his eyebrow open. A surprising
combination took him first to the center of the ring and then
against the ropes. Boom Boom had been punching for a good long
time without any response, concentrated on demolishing his
rival, when the referee declared the fight over. Frías
had taken thirty hits in less than three minutes. Lenny Mancini’s
blood had been crowned, one generation late, lightweight world
champion.
His first
defense of the title, against Ernesto España,
was almost routine: K.O. in six rounds. But the second one
would change Mancini’s life and the face of boxing forever.
It happened on November 13, 1982 at the Caesar’s Palace
in Las Vegas. The challenger was Korean Duk Koo Kim.
The Korean
had come to the fight through one of those obscure WBA designs.
Nobody knew any of the eighteen opponents he had
beaten in his previous Korean fights, nor the only one he had
defeated away from home, in the Philippines. His chief attributes
were that he was a southpaw fighter—and not every pugilist,
not even the champions, was prepared to fight against a southpaw—and
big. Too big. He had to make a great effort in the weeks leading
up to the fight to lose weight and get down to the category
limit. But he did it because he knew that this was his first
and last chance to be the world champion. He was so obsessed
that, days before the fight, he wrote on his hotel mirror, “Kill
or die.”
On the
day of the fight, Kim faced up to Boom Boom Mancini. They
were even in the first rounds, but as the fight wore on,
the American’s greater experience in long battles became
evident and, above all, so did the fact that he had learned
his lesson against José Luis Ramirez, another southpaw.
Nonetheless, Kim was relentless. In Round fourteen, Mancini
knocked down his obviously worn-out rival and the referee had
to stop the fight to avoid a beating.
Five minutes
later, the Korean slipped into a coma from cerebral lesions.
Surgery couldn’t prevent his death, five days
later, from fulfilling the prophecy written on his mirror.
The fight
between Mancini and Kim led the WBC—and later
the rest of the boxing associations—to reduce the fights
to twelve rounds. But it didn’t prevent the champion’s
depression. After going to the funeral in South Korea, Mancini
decided to take a vacation to deal with the emotional impact.
The worst thing, according to his own words, was being recognized
as the boxer who killed Duk Koo Kim. He thought of it as a
terrible accident in which he regretted taking part. After
many months he went back to fighting, but all of his fans,
all of America and particularly his father Lenny, thought Mancini
wouldn’t be able to recover his spirits.
And then Romerito arrived.
The Fight
Sometimes, the lives of two men intersect for a moment, mirroring
each other. In that moment, either one of them could break
the barrier and change places with his reflection. Fortune’s
whim can arrange for them to be directly across from each
other. Sometimes, that moment lasts nine rounds.
“The screaming spectators and the bets against me, it
was all the same to me,” Romerito recalls with his perfectly
preserved ears, “I was going to win that match. The majority
of Americans didn’t even know where Peru was, but I was
going to make sure they wouldn’t forget.”
Romerito likes to remember the fight while he sits at the
bar of the restaurant he manages in Madrid. If someone asks
him, he puts the DVD in the bar television set and explains
his fighting strategy and that of his opponent, step by step.
He stops the images and speaks at length about a position or
a punch. He sends free beer around. The more people listen
to him, the more animated he becomes. The waiters smile as
they pass, and some look bored. Here he goes again with the
fight.
The fight
against Mancini started a long time before Romerito entered
Madison Square Garden. The New York Times had written
that Romerito was a “pushover.” The bets were 5-1
against him. At night, Boom Boom’s fans went to the Sheraton,
where the Peruvian was staying, to harass him. He received
dozens of calls to his room telling him to lose in the first
rounds to assure the winnings. Some threatened him with death.
His agent decided to cut the boxer off from all contact. He
wouldn’t take phone calls from anyone, not even his family,
unless it was approved. And forget about looking at a newspaper.
The challenger
was calm anyway. On television, it always seemed like the
champion was a giant, solid, with arms as wide as
legs, an image that had been reinforced with the death of Kim.
But on the day of the press conference, Romerito realized that
they were the same size, and he felt confident. Ray’s
arms weren’t so thick. His body weighed barely a quarter
of a pound more than the challenger, but he did, Romerito admits,
have one hell of a back.
“From that moment on, I thought of the fight as just
another one. The reporters asked me, ‘What did you come
here for?’ I answered, ‘I came to win.’ The
reporters laughed. And I laughed. Because I was going to prove
it to them.”
The day
of the fight, 25,000 people were challenging at him to prove
it. In the audience were Marvin Hagler and “Stone
Hand” Durán, who would fight a month later. And,
of course, Lenny Mancini, the champion’s father, chased
down by all the cameras.
“Boom Boom was a killer. He usually won the matches
in the early rounds, without giving one a chance to catch his
breath. And he expected to do it again this time. To surprise
him, I had to make sure I didn’t ever stay in the same
spot. Weave. Dance around the champion, always to the right,
and with my left hand in front of me, jabbing non-stop. That’s
also how I would avoid the heavy punches.”
When the
bell rang, the champion did what was expected and came charging
like a bull. Romerito concentrated on changing
his pace. He covered and moved around to attack. At one point,
Mancini got him over to the ropes, but Romerito counterattacked
and escaped again, always to the right. Mancini persisted in
the second round, but he was slightly dazed. He couldn’t
adjust to the weaving and even though he got in a few punches,
he also had to clinch more when Romerito came in close. In
the third round, the champion made the Peruvian’s eyelid
bleed and he got in a low punch. When the bell separated them,
the judges gave two advantage points to Boom Boom.
“But that approach couldn’t last long. Since he
was expecting a quick victory, Mancini exhausted himself more
quickly than I. In the fourth round, he lowered the intensity
and I clocked him with a left punch to the face. You see? Here’s
the replay. When I went back to my corner, the trainer said
to me: now, two of the referees will make you the winner.”
The following rounds were much more aggressive. A dangerous
right hook by Mancini could have decided the fight but a return
hook left him with a dangerously swollen eyelid. Mancini suffered
an awful seventh round that further slowed him down. At the
end of the eighth, he looked tired, he was breathing through
his mouth, and both he and the pretender were sporting matching
wounds on their faces.
In the
ninth round, it was clear that Romerito’s chances
were increasing as the fight wore on. But he needed to get
close, and this left him vulnerable to the champion’s
arm. Confident in his strategy, he kept spinning to the right,
trying to dodge and find gaps in the defense. In minute two,
Mancini tried to land a straight right. Romerito thought that
the next punch would come from the left. He blocked and stuck
his arm out to counterattack, but his arm collided against
the one coming in the opposite direction.
“And
then I felt the collision: Boom Boom, in the jaw.”
A miscalculation.
One of Mancini’s maneuvers. Romerito
only remembers the blow to his head as it bounced against the
floor. By the time he got up, the fight had ended.
The Return
When my Peruvian photographer suggested I write about Romerito
for a magazine for immigrants in Spain, I wasn’t very
interested. For me, it was just another one of those stories
about Peruvians who almost win, about whom, in my country,
a litany of ready-made phrases has been coined and repeated
ad infinitum: “we played better than ever and lost
like we always do,” “it’s still mathematically
possible,” “God is Peruvian,” those kinds
of things.
With the
passing of time, however, the subject of Romerito came up
once and again in immigrant get-togethers. My photographer
was also my roommate, so our home became a gathering spot for
beer-drinking, nostalgic Peruvians. Everyone who visited us
remembered Romerito perfectly, the expectations, the Peruvian
flags, the mythical fight. But everyone had a different version
of what happened after. Some said that Romerito had had drug
problems, that he’d been checked into a rehab center.
Others said he’d been in prison. Some speculated that
he’d been hired as a bodyguard for mobsters and politicians.
In any event, it seemed clear that his real fight hadn’t
been against Boom Boom, but against his own position as the
idol of a country too familiar with defeat, addicted to it.
We immigrants
tend to fight against the stereotype of the winner. Even
when we don’t get our papers or work, our
families back home are happy about how well things are going
for us; they congratulate us and assure us that we did the
right thing in leaving Peru. Apparently, we’ve won just
by leaving. When you can’t take it anymore and you go
back to your country, you become a failure. Maybe, in Peru
you can buy a car, have a house and start a family, but it
was supposed to be easier in Europe—everything is easier
in Europe—and you didn’t do it there. You’ve
given up on your dreams. You’ve lost the fight against
destiny. The immigrant lost in an elusive European paradise
is dying of success. The one who returns goes on to live as
a failure.
I suppose
all stories—real or not—interest us
for personal reasons. That part, the return, is the one that
interested me most in Romerito’s story.
The day after the fight at Madison Square Garden, Romerito
boarded the first flight home. Many of the reporters who had
mocked him congratulated him on his performance, but he felt
like he had let down his entire country. To his surprise, his
country was waiting for him at the airport, chanting his name.
From the time of his arrival, Romerito received one homage
after another, in the capital and then in his home city of
Trujillo, which named him its favorite son.
Amid these
celebrations, his bad mood gave way to the desire to fight
for the belt again. The last Peruvian pretender to
the world title, Oscar Rivadeneyra, also lost in November.
Romerito felt moved by national pride. He kept fighting in
Latin America and he kept winning. He was still young. He trained
to try again against Mancini. He became obsessed with him.
When he felt ready again he asked for a rematch, but the champion
wouldn’t agree to one.
In 1984,
Boom Boom lost the belt to Livingstone Bramble. After the
fight, he spent the night in the hospital with 71 stitches
around one eye. The next year, after fifteen hair-raising rounds,
he wasn’t able to recapture the title and he decided
to retire from boxing. He didn’t know—he still
doesn’t—that Bramble had also defeated Romerito,
to whom life would always deny the satisfaction of a rematch.
“I felt like the lights in my career went out with Mancini’s
defeat. Soon after, my rhythm was thrown off by an infection
in my tonsils and my sinuses. I had to stay in bed, I stopped
training, and then I couldn’t go back to it with the
same gusto. I had lost my will. The next time I lost a fight,
I retired. I only had two defeats in my whole career. A Peruvian
hasn’t fought for the world title again since.”
With the
$100,000 he earned from the fight, Romerito bought a house
in Lima and another one in Trujillo, enrolled his children
in private schools, paid for his entire family’s medical
bills, made loans that were never paid back… When the
prize money ran out, for the first time in his life, Romerito
had to consider a life at the margins of boxing.
From that
moment on, the almost-world champion turned into a salaried
worker. He took marketing courses and, capitalizing
on his public image, got a position as the sales rep for a
beer company. But the company was acquired by a larger one
and Romerito lost his job. Later, he worked for a toothpaste
company, but that company was also acquired and with it, his
job. Due to the worsening recession in the late nineties, it
became harder to get a job. Romerito sold toys. He worked as
a wholesale chicken vendor in the markets until the retailers
stopped paying him. He got himself a gig fishing cod on an
industrial boat. He worked as a city watchman. Through all
of these jobs, television crews sought him out constantly to
broadcast the champion’s decline, in color, for the whole
country.
“I just wanted to work, like anybody else. But when
I was a watchman, every time I stopped a thief, someone would
call the press and the cameras would be there to cover it.
In the middle of the arrest, I’d have a microphone in
front of me asking: Romerito, how did you stop this malfeasant?
Did you hit him? Could you describe the fight? Is it really
hard to have failed after almost becoming the world champion?” The
thieves themselves were the most surprised. Some tried to take
advantage of all the confusion to escape, and then the whole
chase appeared on national TV. But that was rare. The majority
of the guys I arrested just asked for my autograph.”
Fed up with the harassment and the lack of money, Romerito
tried to find his fortune in the United States, but he never
got a visa from the country that had defeated him. Until the
day he met Mario Broncano.
The Escape
Broncano was a boxer a generation younger than Romerito. He
had learned to fight on the street and also at Maranga reform
school, where he served time for minor crimes and house burgling.
As a fighter, he was so fast and talented that the Boxing
Federation asked for him to be pardoned. The kid was really
promising. From his first competition, he kept winning until
he was crowned Amateur South American Champion, becoming
the new great hope for the national gloves and reviving the
spirits of Romerito and Mauro Mina.
But Broncano
lived in different times and came from streets that were
more violent. He spent all the money he won in the
ring on base—unrefined cocaine. A television program
offered him a monthly salary to save him, so he could concentrate
just on boxing, until they discovered that all they had done
was finance his nights out. They cut off his funding. When
he exhausted his savings, he started robbing again so he could
keep smoking.
Broncano
roundly and repeatedly rejected any charitable opportunity.
He said he had grown up on the streets and would die there.
He didn’t want to be the world champion; he just wanted
to get high. The press mocked his wasted life—he was
fighting less and worse every day—to which Broncano responded
loudly, “Leave me alone and go to hell.” Now, some
say that he didn’t even fight that well, that the media
made it up because Peru just plain needed a winner. In anything.
Around
that time, Romerito was still a city watchman. The press
had relented a bit, but his dream was still to get a
visa to the US. One night, while he was on duty, he received
a report about a burglary. When he got to the scene of the
crime, he found an unexpected spectacle. The thieves were usually
submissive, their heads down, but this one was screaming rudely
at a policeman and threatening to punch him. The policeman
was clearly terrified. Romerito’s pugilistic abilities
were necessary.
When he approached the thief and turned him around, he recognized
Broncano.
The kid also recognized him. He smiled and said,
“Romerito, brother! Don’t
jail me, now, man.”
Romerito gave him a good scare, threatened to shut him up
for life, stuck him in the city truck and then let him go at
a beach in Chorrillos district. A long time after, in a brawl
that happened while he was trying to rob a fruit stand, Broncano
lost an eye.
After that
incident, Romerito increased his efforts to leave the country,
and, for the first time, he was lucky, as if the
young boxer had given him his own squandered luck. The municipality
where Romerito was working got a fellowship offer to train
boxers in Spain: twenty-two days, all expenses paid except
for the plane ticket. None of the small time trainers could
afford the trip, and the selection of important trainers had
dwindled or died; Ricardo Valdés had been killed, Ricardo
Buga was in prison, and others had given themselves to drugs.
The scholarship was about to go unclaimed. Romerito convinced
the city government to pick him by offering to pay for his
own plane ticket. His name still provided some good publicity:
they would arrange a big press conference to announce his return
to boxing in a new era. The return of the champion, the phoenix
of Peruvian boxing, the new dawn of national sports. Now, Romerito
remembers it with a smile:
“I got the fellowship, we did the press conference and
I got a leave of absence for twenty-two days. They’re
still waiting for me.”
In Madrid,
he worked as the bouncer at a nightclub and a painter. As
time went on, he found that Peruvians—about 100,000
of them in the city—still remembered him fondly. So he
decided to open a business selling food from his country. Now
he runs two restaurants and a bar frequented exclusively by
immigrants. And he remarried.
Boom Boom
himself made a few attempts at returning to boxing. He fought
against Hector Macho Camacho in 1989 and lost by
a few points. He tried it again against Greg Haugen in 1992,
but he was knocked out in the seventh round. He retired definitely
in 1993, with 29 wins (23 by K.O.) and five defeats. Since
then, he started a career in Hollywood. He was in the action
movies “Iron Eagle III” or “Thirty Minutes
to Die.” Yahoo’s guide to movies provides a summary
of “Lethal Combat,” one of Mancini’s box
office hits. “Charlie is a boxing star… in his
hometown. He’d like to become world champion. What he
doesn’t know yet (he’ll soon find out) is that
the mafia loves to fix fights, making his dream no easy thing.
Telefilm right in the ring, it has intense fighting scenes.”
It sounds
like Romerito’s story, with Hollywood standing
in for Peru. In any event, it’s all the same now. Romerito
spends his day at the bar with photos of his boxing successes
on the walls. Among these images is one of him posing with
the Peruvian goalie Teófilo Cubillas, with the King
of Spain, with Peruvian President Alejandro Toledo, with comics
and musicians from his country. He likes to be recognized.
And Peruvians like to recognize him. The day of the interview,
the photographer for this piece brought three other Peruvians
so they could serve as an audience. Romerito answered all of
my questions talking to the improvised gallery. When I sought
him out again to watch the video of the fight, he asked me
to invite my friends. The fight with Boom Boom is still the
moment of his life for which everyone will remember him, the
moment which he will remember for the rest of his life.
Only a
few years ago, after decades of requests, did the U.S. Consulate
give a visa to Spanish resident Orlando Romero to
see Madison Square Garden at last. During the trip, Romerito
looked for Boom Boom so they could take a picture together
twenty years later. The ex-champion wouldn’t see him.
As a matter of fact, in Mancini’s Internet biographies,
the Peruvian seems to have disappeared. Some say that he defended
the world title without specifying against whom. Others mention
Kim, España, the British George Feeney and the Mexican
double champion Bobby Chacon. But none speak of Romerito. History
has defeated him by points.
Santiago Roncagliolo has lived in Mexico, Peru, and Spain.
He is the youngest winner of the prestigious Alfaguara Prize
for his novel Red April (2006). An earlier novel, Pudor,
was recently released as a movie in Spain. He is also the
author of The Prince of the Caymans and a collection of stories
Growing Up Is a Lonely Occupation. He lives in Barcelona
and is a regular contributor to the Madrid newspaper El País.
He is currently at work on a biography of Abimael Guzmán,
founder of the Shining Path. Petroleumworld does not necessarily share these views.
Editor's
Note:This commentary was originally published by Virginia Quarterly
Review, 2007/10/01. Translated from
the Spanish by Anna Kushner. Petroleumworld
reprint this article in the interest of our readers.
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03/30/08
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