From Golden To Olden

At 34, De La Hoya Jabs His Way Into Age of Boxing Uncertainty

SAN JUAN, Puerto Rico -- It was not an auspicious sign.

"Look at that bruise," the boxing promoter said.

One recent morning during training camp, on the eve of perhaps his most lucrative bout ever, the promoter glanced at Oscar De La Hoya in the mirror, not liking what he saw. Under his right eye, the 34-year-old fighter had a deep purple shiner, suffered during a sparring session. For the promoter, it was further evidence of a discomfiting truth: The boxer's days were ticking down. The promoter's fight company would soon lose its greatest meal ticket -- a handsome, media-savvy champion known as the Golden Boy who, more aptly, has long been his sport's Golden Goose. But the promoter also knew that some fighters got old in the ring overnight, that for the sake of his health the boxer had to know when it was time to quit. It was then that the promoter, Oscar De La Hoya, looked into the mirror and smirked at the reflection of Oscar De La Hoya the bruised fighter. "It's complicated," De La Hoya said. "Sometimes I ask myself: 'What the hell am I doing here?' I know this isn't going to be going on for me a lot longer."

Next Saturday in Las Vegas, he will defend his World Boxing Council super welterweight championship against undefeated 30-year-old Floyd Mayweather -- generally regarded as the best pound-for-pound fighter in the world. De La Hoya's name on the marquee chiefly explains why the MGM Grand sold out its 18,000 seats for the fight, and reached a live gate record of more than $19 million, in only three hours. The biggest draw in boxing even in the wake of four major losses, De La Hoya has generated about a half-billion dollars in revenue during his 14 1/2 -year professional career. But Mayweather, winner of titles in four weight classes, is the betting favorite in Vegas -- the faster boxer with the reflexes of a cheetah, the quick-talking taunter who has mocked De La Hoya. "He's an arrogant brat who thinks he's invincible and, I'll admit it, he gets under my skin," De La Hoya said. "He's a good fighter. I want to do him a big favor now, teach him a lesson, and help straighten out his attitude."

For his part, Mayweather has been busy honing his antihero pose, happy to play Dr. Evil to De La Hoya's Dr. Phil. Mayweather hangs with 50 Cent, calls himself the "villain of boxing," refers to De La Hoya alternately as "the Golden Girl" and a "fake-ass fighter," and suggests that De La Hoya lacks courage, predicting in expletive-ridden tirades that De La Hoya's losses have proven that he will "lay down" in a tough fight. As if in need of added motivation, the challenger has worked up a grudge against De La Hoya the promoter, furious that his rival, as the fight's bigger attraction and principal moneyman, has essentially dictated the terms of their meeting -- everything from the fight purses (De La Hoya will receive a guarantee of about $25 million to Mayweather's $10 million, not including De La Hoya's multimillion-dollar promoter's share) to the boxing gloves they will wear (Reyes gloves, which De La Hoya's handlers believe favor their big-punching fighter) and the combatants' weights (154 pounds or under, heavier than Mayweather has ever been for a fight).

De La Hoya, too, has worked himself into a nicely contained and frothing fury toward Mayweather, whose father, Floyd Mayweather Sr., had been De La Hoya's trainer until this bout, replaced largely in the interests of avoiding conflicting loyalties, says De La Hoya. "[Floyd] Senior used to tell me the kid was a brat, too. The kid's embarrassing. He has this guy named King Tut who carries his jewelry around. What's up with that?"

He laughs, feeling less irritated about Mayweather the more he talks about him. He admits that, perhaps for the first time in his career, his rage toward an opponent has been dampened by his realization that it is late in his career, that this fight has more to do with proving himself to himself than besting an irascible opponent.

"I'm planning on giving him a spanking, but, you know, Mayweather's still a kid," he explained. "I know what it was like to be young and undefeated. You don't think anything can happen to you. Then you lose a fight and get humbled a little. I'm not the same now as I was at 27 or 28. You change. No one loves getting older. I woke up the other day and my elbow was hurting. I'm 34. It's all different now."

He is at that age when even legendary fighters can feel their mortality, feel it in new body aches and facial swellings unfathomable in their prime. At 34, Sugar Ray Leonard got floored twice and hammered by a relative unknown named Terry Norris, never to win again. Sugar Ray Robinson was increasingly vulnerable by 34, and Roy Jones showed the first signs of a decline that soon led to two brutal knockout losses. "Look at that -- never had anything like this in a training camp before," De La Hoya said sideways at an aide, touching his shiner, faintly amused and perplexed. He held a tiny makeup jar, trying to decide how much to put over the purple mess, before he sat for a magazine cover shoot and his aides let the rest of a media horde through the doors.

A 35-year-old sparring partner had put the shiner on him, though not just any sparring partner. Fast and wily Shane Mosley, a former world champion, had hit De La Hoya the day before with a left hook that had whistled in between the thick leather of De La Hoya's protective headgear. It was the same Mosley who had beaten him twice in mega-fights but who, as a business partner in Golden Boy Promotions, De La Hoya's fight promotion company, had come to San Juan to accept the task of trying to mimic the speedy Mayweather during training.

Mosley had done his job -- if anything, done it too well. He had freely clocked De La Hoya with both hands. "We're trying to get Oscar to react with speed and to counter," Mosley said softly. The shiner had come after Mosley executed a favorite Mayweather tactic: He hit De La Hoya with a left jab to the stomach and then, feinting a jab toward the identical spot, changed the left hand in the same motion to a tricky hook that he whipped high onto that bit of flesh beneath the right eye of a surprised De La Hoya.

The shiner, looking uglier now as the morning had worn on, suggested something discouraging about De La Hoya's chances of eluding Mayweather's swiftest shots. But De La Hoya, blessed with a champion's gift for denial, nonchalantly dismissed the worries: "It's only a bruise, a badge of honor, a battle mark." Just the same, he didn't need more questions about it; maybe the bruise could be made to disappear before the photographer clicked away and most of the reporters walked in. He opened the makeup jar, studied his reflection again and began dabbing the cover-up on the shiner.