'Irish' Joe O'Rourke & Eloy 'The Prince' Perez

BOILER ROOM

OF THE DAMNED

A rookie boxing journalist marvels

as world-class fighters rock each other

in a steamy Oxnard boxing gym 

Merging on 101 was like being pulled south on a river of highway, and somehow someone knew he was there waiting. This was supposed to have been a business trip, a mission of sorts: find guests for our radio program, The Ringside Boxing Show, and  get to know the behind-the-scenes of the boxing world. It was also a coming-out party for a new member of the press -- myself.

After a bit of travel, though, this writer was thinking he had come to an unattractive place. One could describe Oxnard, California as "an industrial park meets debris by the sea." If there was any aspect of scenic charm to this place, where the hell was it?

  Amidst the oppression of a southern California heat wave, an outdoor thermostat screamed 110. Inside the Oxnard Boxing Academy, the heat was as heavy as death, oppressive as the closing door of one's tomb. It's lighting was reminiscent of that eerie dim pallor before a big storm. In this oven, the term "warming up" did not apply, so Eloy ''The Prince'' Perez was stretching now. In his demeanor could be found the suggestion that the morning was somehow lost, and may become an afternoon without focus.

 Only in this privileged and secret realm is the boxer's life so full, his promise so complete.  And yet, slowly, languidly, two boxers enter the ring, almost as if acknowledging mutual boredom between themselves. Could it be the exertion of previous workouts still with the;m, or had that the light, heat and space of Oxnard put the proverbial ''zap on their heads?''

In any case, neither fighter gave an impression of readiness.  In a real match, this might be a moment to extort some fear from each other, but this was not a fight -- this was sparring; movement without true exchange -- or so the writer naively thought.

The electronic bell sounded and suddenly all of this made even less sense. They came together like two mummies in search of one another in the dark, all the while neither rearding the other as a true threat. They were all forearms, pushing each other like contesting rams interlocking horns in a territory dispute. 

This seemingly lethargic exercise dragged on for two or three listless rounds -- and then, it happened. Seemingly in defiance of this unrelenting sluggish pace, Brandon "Bam Bam" Rios, an undefeated, Top 10-ranked lightweight, suddenly lived up to his moniker and drove an overhand right straight into the head gear of a stunned Perez, also unbeaten and world-ranked. The steamy gym echoed with the unnerving and unmistakable sound of a high-powered punch ... AND, MY GOD, WAS IT ON!

Despite the cautious and unhurried fashion of the first few rounds, Eloy had been hit. Hard. No opponent in recent memory had hit him like this, and certainly no other sparring partner had dared. With caution thrown to the wind and mutual respect dispensed with, they wove and bobbed like the perpetual "yes" motion of the oil rigs the writer had seen on his drive south.  All at once, the height and reach advantage of Rios asserted itself.

For Rios it was working now. He had begun to dominate the action to the point where Eloy's only course of action was to somehow take control of the center of the ring. This, too, proved futile. It seemed Rios had caught Perez with a number of uncounteredd punches and had not been caught once in return.

For this writer -- an acquaintance and an admirer of Eloy "The Prince" Perez -- this was becoming uncomfortable to watch, even ugly. Could it be that the weird halo of light around him foretelling a future world champion was somehow being snuffed? Here, somehow lost, was his energetic and skilled presence of previous pro bouts. However, the writer was not sufficiently familiar with the methods of  his trainer, Max Garcia, to have even a remote understandng of what this sparring session was really all about.