do it. Mike Anchondo, a future titleholder and a Maywood gym regular, asked Hernandez, “What do you feed this guy? Nails?”
It was decided to bring in Juan Lazcano, “The Hispanic Causing Panic.” Lazcano was bigger than Valero and a veteran of nearly forty fights. Preparing for a bout in Las Vegas and on the brink of major recognition, Lazcano agreed to spar with the young Venezuelan. Lazcano, who had defeated some quality fighters, must have hated the experience. Though stories differ as to how many rounds he actually sparred with Valero, the one thing all agree on is that Lazcano never came back. He left his gloves and other boxing gear behind, never to claim them.
There were times in Maywood when Valero seemed to defy logic. Many southpaws look awkward in the ring, but Valero was fluid, graceful, athletic. There was such precision in his work that he seemed less like a boxer and more like a fencing master. He was cocky, too. He would tell Hernandez that he was going to hurt his sparring partner with a particular punch, and then he'd do it. Hernandez would tell him to take it easy on his poor sparring partners, but Valero was impulsive. Hernandez once compared Valero to Michael Jordan. “It was that kind of ability,” the trainer said.
Urbano Antillon was a sturdy Mexican-American super-featherweight from Maywood. He sparred a few times with Valero, but he wasn't impressed. The next time they sparred, Valero hit him so hard that Antillon's head swiveled and his legs shuddered. The session was stopped.
Brian Harty was on hand to record some of Valero's workouts for Maxboxing.com. He recalls Valero as tireless, almost robotic. Valero might have cracked a joke in between workouts, but once he was focused, his concentration was unbreakable. “It's impossible to know if the way I describe him now is affected by what ultimately happened,” Harty said, “but there was just a constant buzz around him—and I mean like an electric buzz, like one of those bug zappers. I can't imagine him sleeping.”
Valero buzzed his way through a number of LA gyms, from the fancy ones with modern equipment to the ones where salsa music blared from the house speakers and old fight posters seemed stuck to the walls through sheer humidity. He was like a gunslinger walking into a new town. Nobody knew who he was. There were only whispers and rumors about this gym gypsy who knocked people around. He'd smash them on the arms, in the ribs. Sometimes he'd hit a guy a few times and the guy would simply quit. If someone stayed with him for a few rounds, Valero would playfully pat him on the shoulder at the end of the session.
“He obviously enjoyed being in the gym,” Harty said. “I don't know how a person is able to summon punch after punch with such aggression like he did, though. Whatever was driving him, it was always right there below the surface for him to tap into.”
Hernandez invited members of the local media to watch Valero spar. Among the first to see him was Doug Fischer of Maxboxing.com. In a 2004 column for ESPN.com, Fischer described what had seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime thrill.
“Only two fighters that I have witnessed train in the past ten years come close to Valero's athletic perfection, Shane Mosley and Floyd Mayweather Jr.—and I'm talking about these two multi-champs when they were at their physical peaks,” Fischer wrote. “Valero's aggression, bursting speed, brute strength, and intensity reminded me of the lightweight version of Mosley. His poise, technique, balance, and craftiness reminded me of the ‘97–’99 version of Mayweather.”
Though Valero and Jennifer had an apartment, he spent much of his time in tiny quarters he shared with Hernandez, Anchondo, and Daniel Ponce de Leon, a strong Mexican southpaw who would soon become quite successful. Fischer recalled the volatile natures of Valero and his stablemates, especially with the addition of alcohol. There had been a particularly nasty brawl between Valero and de Leon in a Dallas hotel lobby. “There were chairs turned over and blood everywhere,” Fischer said. “These three, they had a particular dysfunction with alcohol. When they got drunk, they got crazy.” Valero was already stubborn with a temper. When alcohol was introduced, Fischer reckoned, Valero became “a maniac.”
In de Leon, Valero met his equal. De Leon was known to rip off his shirt in a bar and challenge a rival to fight bare-knuckle. “The story I heard was that de Leon bit off a piece of Valero's ear,” Fischer said. “That's why Valero started growing his hair out.”
Valero's main beef with Anchondo and de Leon was rooted in envy. They had main-event status on local shows, and received monthly stipends. In Valero's eyes, Anchondo and de Leon were inferior. The truth was that Valero wasn't well connected. Anchondo had been a pro for three years, and de Leon had been on the Mexican Olympic team in 2000. Valero, conversely, had been fighting in Venezuelan backwaters. “He was a gamble,” said Fischer. Joe Hernandez was acting as Valero's manager and trainer. Oscar De La Hoya's father Joel was a silent partner. There wasn't much careful planning involved with Valero. “It was more like, ‘Let's take a gamble on this guy.’”
Sometimes Valero's wrath was directed at Hernandez. “They split every month,” said Fischer. “Little things would set Valero off. For instance, Joe was very old school, and when the guys appeared in public at a boxing event, Joe wanted them to dress up. Valero thought he was being disrespected. He'd say, ‘Fuck it. I'll train myself.’ But Valero liked Joe, and he'd come back.”
“He wasn't a sweet kid,” said Hernandez.
Despite the drinking and flare-ups, Valero was generally likable. “He was quiet,” said Fischer. “Respectful. Shy. He kept to himself. When he trained, it was like no one else existed. He was in his own little world. But if he talked to you he'd be really cool and sincere. He took pride in himself. And when he shook your hand, he crushed it.”
Valero occasionally talked to his new associates about his criminal past. He said he had known thirty people who were already dead and buried. In El Vigia, Valero said, one had to be either a drug dealer or an assassin. He claimed a contract had been taken out on him, but the killer who drew the assignment was a friend and couldn't do it. Why the contract wasn't given to someone else was a detail Valero didn't explain.
The impression Valero gave was that boxing had saved his life. Without boxing, he said repeatedly, he'd be in prison or dead.
• • •
Valero's first professional bout in America took place on July 19, 2003, at the Activities Center of Maywood—which has since become Maywood's YMCA—on the undercard of a show headlined by de Leon. Valero was matched with Emmanuel Ford, a thirty-two-year-old with a record of 5-20-2. Ford was on the canvas three times before the bout was stopped in the first.
Five weeks later, Valero fought at the Marriot Hotel in Irvine, California. On a card headlined by female minimumweights, Valero met Roque Cassiani, a thirty-three-year-old Colombian who had been in the ring with some good fighters. Valero knocked him out in the first. After a return to Caracas to score a one-round knockout of Alejandro Heredia, it was back to Irvine. This time Valero faced a 0-4 opponent named Tomas Zambrano. As had become his signature, Valero needed less than a round to win.
Valero was 12-0 with twelve knockouts. None of his opponents had heard the bell for the second round. He'd already fought three times in America, more than most Venezuelan fighters. He'd even signed a contract with Oscar De La Hoya's Golden Boy Promotions, only in its second year of operation but considered a major promotional firm. The plan was to bring Valero to New York for an HBO fight against Francisco Lorenzo, a respectable fighter from the Dominican Republic.
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