is a country where luxury hotels are side by side with shantytowns. It's an oil-rich country but has tottered for years on the brink of economic disaster. It was once the wealthiest country in Latin America, yet many homes are without floors or windows. The country is famous for beauty pageants, but its rate of violence against women is among the world's highest. The country is beautiful, known for mountains and lakes and religious statuary—a 153-foot concrete Virgin Mary stands on a hill in Trujillo like a bored sentinel—yet Venezuela is one the most crime-ridden countries in the world. Glossy tourist pamphlets advise visitors to not go out at night.
Venezuela's escalating crime rate was a result of the 1970s oil boom. Encouraged by the swift growth of the cities, a glut of country people drifted into urban areas. The result was overcrowding and a lot of unemployed young men. Boys who had been the sons of farmers became robbers. They formed kidnapping rings. This was Valero's world.
Unlawful activities aside, Valero's life took another turn when he was seventeen. That's when he noticed a pretty girl whose aunt lived near the gym. She was Jennifer Carolina Viera Finol, a thirteen-year-old student at Simon Bolivar High School. She was of Portuguese descent, dark haired, dark eyed, willowy. She was a typical Venezuelan girl, one who imagined she would be a model or a pageant winner. Edwin told his buddies that Jennifer would someday be his wife. Jennifer's sister, Andreína, introduced them.
Edwin and Jennifer grew close quickly. He picked her up at school every afternoon on his yellow Yamaha motorcycle. Jennifer's parents objected. Then they relented. They could see the pair were in love.
By the time Jennifer turned fourteen, Valero had convinced her to be with him forever. It would be years before they were officially married, but they drove off in a banana truck to live together in Tovar, twenty-six miles west of Caracas.
At the time, it probably seemed like the height of romance.
• • •
Young love didn't interrupt Valero's amateur boxing career. He won eighty-six bouts, losing only six. He won three consecutive national amateur championships. He'd found his calling.
He journeyed to Argentina to qualify for the 2000 Olympics. He lost on points to Brazil's Valdemir Pereira. After that, he took the wrong bus home from the Caracas airport. He found himself in an unfamiliar neighborhood. Bandits took his passport, his money, even his silver qualifying medal. He cried for two weeks.
Valero would, however, win the 2000 Central America and Caribbean Championship in Caracas, defeating Francisco Bojado for the gold medal. Bojado would be Mexico's Olympic representative that year in Australia. Beating him must have given Valero some satisfaction. The fight was close, but Valero stunned Bojado in the final round. He impressed Bojado's trainer, Joe Hernandez. “He was,” Hernandez would say years later, “a monster.”
As he entered manhood, Valero stood a bit over five feet six, and weighed around 126 pounds. He was the size of Antonio Esparragoza, the power-punching star from Cumaná. Esparragoza had represented Venezuela at the 1980 Moscow Olympics, turned pro the year Valero was born, and enjoyed a four-year reign as WBA featherweight champion. Valero admired Esparragoza but told his coach that he wanted to be even greater, to be world famous like Muhammad Ali. It was a grand vision. Even the best Venezuelan fighters rarely fought outside of Latin America.
Still, it appeared Valero was turning pro at a good time. Though heavyweights had always taken the spotlight, some of the most popular fighters in the business—Johnny Tapia, Marco Antonio Barrera, Erik Morales, and a new star, Manny Pacquiao—were in the featherweight range. They fought in Las Vegas and were featured on HBO. Valero and his team must have been encouraged by the growing prestige of the lighter fighters. With a style suited to the professional ranks, and a hunger for fame, Valero could invade these lower weight classes like the Visigoths sacking Rome. Perhaps, unlike most Venezuelan fighters, he'd leave his mark in America.
But the story nearly ended before it began.
On February 5, 2001, Valero was ripping down the street on a motorcycle. His father had been in a car accident, and he was on his way to help him. Stories varied. Either Valero slammed into a car and hit his head on the back windshield, or he flew over the car and landed headfirst on some asphalt. He wasn't wearing a helmet.
He spent thirteen days in a hospital. Doctors found a small blood clot between Valero's scalp and skull—not in his brain. They gave him a choice: he could wait six months to see if the clot would clear up on its own, or they could operate and remove it. Wanting to get out of the hospital and resume his boxing career, he opted for a relatively simple procedure where the clot was drained. It wasn't considered major surgery.
He probably thought that was the end of the matter. He was nineteen years old, strong as an ox, and crafty as a rat. He had Jennifer at his side and a promising future as a boxer. A little knock on the head wouldn't stop him.
• • •
Seventeen months later, on July 9, 2002, Valero made his professional boxing debut at United Nations Park in Caracas. He needed just a bit over two minutes to knock out a fellow named Eduardo Hernandez.
Hernandez never fought again.
The months after Valero's surgery had been torturous. He wasn't allowed to fight right away. He took odd jobs to support himself and Jennifer but proved inept at everything. In March, Edwin Jr. was born, adding to Valero's pressures. Broke and desperate, Valero enlisted in the Venezuelan army. After two busts for fighting, he was dishonorably discharged.
“I like to hit men,” Valero said years later. “It liberates me.”
Valero finished out 2002 with first-round knockouts over Danny Sandoval, Alirio Rivero, Luis Soto, and Julio Pineda.
Pineda never fought again.
Sandoval tried Valero a second time in March 2003, but again, it was lights out in one round. In May, Edgar Mendoza fell to Valero in the first.
Mendoza never fought again.
The Valero of these early fights was calm, efficient. He had a picturesque right jab. He looked like an archer when he threw it. He threw his left cross with supreme confidence. His trainer at the time was Jorge Zerpa, an experienced hand.
In May 2003, Valero was matched against Colombian Dairo Julio. Though decidedly better than Valero's previous victims, Julio failed to get out of the first round.
Valero was 8-0, with eight knockouts. A Valero representative contacted Joe Hernandez in California to assist with Valero's American debut. Remembering Valero from the 2000 Caracas tournament, Hernandez was eager to see how the kid had improved. He would soon hail Valero as the best prospect to come out of Venezuela in thirty years.
• • •
From the moment Valero entered the Maywood Boxing Gym in Los Angeles, Hernandez saw immediately that someone new and unusual had arrived.
He had high cheekbones and piercing eyes. He looked regal, carrying himself like he'd already been a champion for years. The only thing that ruined the picture was an explosion of acne that covered much of his face, as if teen hormones still percolated inside him. Valero was fighting at super-featherweight, but his frame could easily carry another ten or fifteen pounds. He was raw, high spirited, with extraordinary power and speed. Hernandez tended to time rounds at four and a half minutes, and Valero would punch nonstop. Sometimes he seemed unpolished. Sometimes he looked like a veteran who knew every move in the book.
Hernandez
