He Knows of Boxing’s Danger but Believes He Can Beat It

Over at the Westminster Boxing Club, where pretenders and contenders both believe that the road to happiness goes through the heavy bag, Joe Manzano is wrapping up another workout as dinner time nears. Twenty-two and dressed in black, he’s sparred five rounds and then done another three with the bag--left, right, feint, dodge, hook, jab--all the while punctuating his punching with the grunting “unh! unh! unh!” of a boxer at work.

Then it’s over for another day. This is how every day of his life goes--up before dawn to run in the cool of early morning and then sweating in the gym by late afternoon.

“If I could fight every two or three months, I could be making good money,” he says. “I’m making enough to get by now, but this is the time to be making money. You know how it is in boxing--you can’t let your time go by. I just bought a ’94 Honda Accord. I need some fights.”

Boxing is his life now because he thinks this is the year--or maybe next year--when he steps up to the big time and proves he can make a living at this frustrating, exhilarating and dangerous sport.

It’s that danger that I want to discuss as we sit in the living room of his Gardena home, a small stucco hard by the freeway and railroad tracks. While we talk, his 2 1/2-year-old son, Byron, plays quietly on the floor. “I don’t give it much thought,” Manzano says, about the prospect of getting badly hurt in the ring. “But when I hear about fighters dying, that’s when I start thinking.”

Manzano is no chump. He’s the reigning state bantamweight champ, a title he won in Orange County two years ago at 118 pounds. Danger stalks all boxers, but it especially targets the smaller divisions. Last week, an Australian featherweight died of a brain hemorrhage after collapsing during a fight. Since 1994, six of the seven ring fatalities occurred in weight classes under 135 pounds. Manzano didn’t see the TV replay of the fallen Aussie but acknowledges that smaller fighters seem particularly vulnerable.

Everybody, he suggests, but himself.

“That’s why I train 100%, so nothing happens. One thing I hate about boxing is getting hit. I don’t want to get my face all beat up, but that’s the risk you’ve got to take in the sport.”

In a career that now, by his count, spans some 80 amateur and professional fights, Manzano is confident he’ll retire with his senses intact. “It depends on the fighter’s style. I’m more of a boxer. I hit and move, I like to make the other fighter miss. I’ve never gotten hit with a solid punch. That’s why I’ve never got knocked down. I’ve never even felt a solid punch so far. I got dazed but never hurt.”

Boxing has always been the poor man’s sport, and I ask Manzano if he fits the stereotype. Not exactly, he says. He grew up in San Pedro and graduated from San Pedro High School. When he was 8, he started following his big brother to the gym and lacing on the gloves himself. By the time he was 15, he had won junior tournaments and was hooked on boxing. Manzano continued in the sport; his brother retired prematurely after eye surgery that repaired a detached retina.

“About the money,” he says, “I never needed anything. You know what, to be honest, I never had what I wanted, but I never needed any, either.”

So, yes, boxing ultimately is about the money. And about its twin seductress--fame.

“In boxing, you can make a lot of money if you’re good at it,” Manzano says. “By now, I know I can be somebody because I’m a good fighter. It’s been rough, but I’ve liked it, because I like to win, and people see me on TV or when I come out in the papers. I like the fame you get in boxing.”

I ask if he’ll get out before his brains get scrambled. No doubt about it, he says.

He plans to retire at a relatively young age. He hasn’t formulated a plan yet, but he hopes to parlay the money he makes in boxing into some kind of business. He likes the way Oscar De La Hoya is a “smart guy” who “doesn’t look like a boxer.” Manzano wants to pattern himself after that.

I wonder if this is a guy who will quit while he’s ahead.

The day before, Burney Spencer, the co-proprietor of the Westminster Boxing Club, told me about boxers and their willingness to absorb punishment.

“When you take a kid with a bit of an education, a sheet to sleep under and some food on the table, then there’s something else in life for him,” Spencer said. “Everything doesn’t hinge on winning that fight. But when you’ve got a kid from the ghetto, everything does depend on winning. That’s all they’ve got. When they lose, it’s all over and they know it. So, they have to be willing to take the punishment.”

Manzano sees himself as the first kind. I find myself hoping he knows himself that well, but I pick up mixed signals.

This is a guy who first boxed when he was 8. He’s a guy who loves the gym and seeing his name in lights. He’s a guy who displays his championship belt in a trophy case in the living room.

On the other hand, he’s transferred most of his trophies to the garage. He says his boxing regimen has made him miss a lot of fun that he wants to catch up on. He’s a guy who says, “A lot of fighters when they retire, they don’t have nothing else to do. I want to have something else to do when I retire.”

So, we’ll see.

Meanwhile, young Byron, who had been playing a board game by himself, walks over with kid boxing gloves. Manzano laces them on his son’s hand, and Byron starts throwing lefts and rights at the big mitts his dad holds in front of him.

“He really hits hard,” Manzano says, laughing. “In another couple years, I gotta take him to the gym.”

Dana Parsons’ columns appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at the Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.