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The
Contender The boxing gym vibrates with the rankle of chain-hung punching bags swinging from the ceiling like sides of beef; with the tap and squeak of rubber-soled shoes skidding and skipping in waltz steps and box steps, in the twist and hustle of fighting formation; with the periodic startle of the gym timer buzzing 2.5- and 3-minute intervals; with effortful huffs and snorts and grunts of exertion behind power lefts, right hooks, uppercuts, straight punches and jab after jab after jab; with the thud of padded vinyl --- boxing gloves against punching bags, against trainer's mitts, against the ball-shaped speed bag, whose rhythm under a competent boxer is like the roar of a V-8 engine. Amidst this orchestrated clatter is where native Ugandan and Eugene transplant Paul Mpendo bobs and weaves in the dance of a boxer's training. At present Mpendo is Eugene's only professional boxer, and he has his sights set on the big time: His two-year plan includes the pursuit first of a regional title, hopefully leading to a shot at a world title.
A welterweight at 5 feet, 7 inches, and a lean, muscular 145-ish pounds, 29-year-old Mpendo is built like a sprinter or a tennis player, possessing none of the overwrought muscle binding one might mistakenly associate with boxing. "A boxer has to be loose," Mpendo says. "Big muscles make you tight — not good for fighting." A ringer for actor Djimon Honsou, Mpendo's face remains unmarred by the travails of the sport — no smashed or crooked nose, no cauliflower ears, no black-bruised cheeks or eyelids hatched with the scars of battle. He smiles easily, laughs even easier, and bears a quiet refinement that seems at odds with the blood and sweat imagery — not to mention the testosterone-fueled machismo — of the boxing ring. If you saw him walking down the street, you might guess he was a student. In his lilting English, Mpendo says simply, "Boxing got me out." Out of an impoverished urban childhood in Uganda's capital city of Kampala; out of an adolescence surrounded by good friends in rough situations; out of the bleak street world and into school. "I look where I am today, and where I came from, and it is amazing. All because of boxing." In the '80s and '90s as a kid in Uganda, Mpendo started out playing soccer, but found that the team approach was not his thing. "The problem with team work," he says, "is that it irritates me when I get ordered around. It makes me lose my focus … With boxing, I like that aspect of two people tussling it out, of going one on one and having it be totally up to you to do good. Everything is up to you." He had enjoyed boxing from the spectator point of view, and as a teenager he discovered he was a naturally capable boxer himself. "I was good from the start," he says matter-of-factly. He won a boxing scholarship and went on to win a national title for his school. In the middle of Mpendo's academic career, however, the school hired a new administrator who was unimpressed with Mpendo's sport of choice, tagging it as brutal and untoward for a school to be building its reputation on. Mpendo lost his scholarship and found himself back out on his own. He continued fighting at the amateur level, and eventually made the decision to go pro. As a pro super featherweight, Mpendo climbed to ninth in his class for the African Professional Boxing Confederation.
The world outside the ring is full of assumptions and opinions around what it sees as the sport's main characteristics — raw violence and sheer brutality. "I hate to hear that," says Mpendo. "People find out that I am a boxer and they say, 'Oh, boxing is so brutal! It's so violent.' But to me, it is a sport, the best sport." Boxing does, in fact, descend from gladiatorial one-on-one, bare-fisted battles to the death. In ancient Rome, boxers wore the cestus, a metal-studded leather hand covering, with which they maimed and even killed their opponents as part of public spectacles. In ancient Greece, boxing evolved as a popular amateur competitive sport and was included in the first Olympic games. The sport declined in popularity after the fall of the Roman Empire. It saw a revival in 18th century London in the form of bare-knuckle prizefights in which the contestants fought for money and spectators made wagers on the outcome. Though the world of modern day professional boxing has ditched the cestus and bare knuckles, though it has developed rules and regulations and governing bodies and safety gear, that hand-to-hand element is still jarring. Even just in practice sparring sessions, even with padded gloves and mouth guards, it is more than a little unsettling to see a punch land squarely on an opponent's chin or face, to hear the "oof" as a jab sneaks past a block into a fighter's gut or sternum. The sport is still one-on-one, using hands and wits to defeat the opponent. Fighters do get hurt; they do sustain serious injuries, just like pro football players and basketball players and hockey players do. But the sport is still essentially something of hand-to-hand combat, and the taboo of that confrontation keeps boxing, to some extent, in the more shadowy regions of the professional sports world; in a realm with a reputation for deep-seated corruption, a realm sensationalized by boxers the likes of Mike Tyson. It is difficult to reconcile Mpendo as a sportsman with this part of the sport's reputation. Again, it is the quiet refinement you don't expect to find from someone who puts up his dukes and fights for sport. He speaks of boxing in terms of discipline, focus, strength and grace. He speaks of the sport with both passion and reverence. He isn't just hungry for a title; he isn't just in it for the glory. Mpendo loves the sport, loves how it works his body, tests his strength, challenges his mental focus, agility and coordination. With a record of six wins (three knockouts), three losses and three draws, Mpendo describes all of his matches, even the losses, by saying, "In my heart, I felt I won." Mpendo does the bulk of his training at Grand Avenue Gym in Portland (stomping grounds of skater-turned-boxer Tonya Harding). Grand Avenue sits inconspicuously off of SE 82nd, in the bottom floor of a building with just two windows, sharing space with a couple of racquet ball courts. The gym is filled with what at first glance seem to be gritty, urban characters — mostly sweaty, muscled, straight-faced young men, some with tattoos and shaved heads, one with intricate cornrowed hair, a cultural mix of Asians, Latinos, whites, blacks. A closer look and a little eavesdropping reveals young guys simply joking and ribbing one another, talking about making weight and whether or not to take a competitive match as they sit and wrap their hands with the rolls of elastic webbing they wear inside their boxing gloves. They are surprisingly quiet, the kind of quiet you are in church. They focus intently on jump rope workouts, on punching bag exercises, on sit-ups, on prepping for sparring matches.
There is a giant of a young man — maybe 6 foot, 4 inches, well over 200 pounds — bouncing lightly on his toes, shaking his arms loose at his sides, watching with a cool expression on his face his own movement and form in the full-length mirrors on one wall of the gym space. Maybe 10 feet away from him is a spiky-haired Asian kid, 15 or 16, who looks very self conscious in his baggy denim shorts and Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt. He looks at himself in the mirror, puts up his fists, glances side to side to see if anyone's watching him, then drops them back to his sides. George Gonzalez, a Grand Avenue trainer who works closely with Mpendo, walks by and urges, "Get moving! Loosen up and move." The kid startles a little at the command, puts his fists back up, shrugs his shoulders and manages to throw a couple of very straight, hard punches in succession at his reflection in the mirror. Mpendo is also practicing in front of the mirrors, but the difference in form between him and the kid is staggering. Mpendo suffers absolutely no self consciousness, throwing punches not at his reflection, but at an opponent he is visualizing clear as day. He moves quickly, throws punches from his arms kept up close to his face and chin. He squares his shoulders, keeps his knees loose, peeks from behind his fists, keeps his chin tucked down as tight as he can. He is fighting. He has that look on his face that children get when they are deep in make believe play — in his mind, he isn't practicing; he's boxing, playing out the whole scene as if it were actually happening. Grand Avenue's Fred Ryan works as Mpendo's manager. His job, he says, is to "minimize the danger and maximize the earnings" in the very tricky science of choosing opponents and arranging matches with which Mpendo can continue to build up his record. Of Mpendo's strengths, Ryan says, "Paul is quick. His speed will overcome just about everything except blind luck. He keeps his weight right where it should be. And he's got an admirable work ethic. When he first started here, he'd come up by bus two or three times a week, making the connection downtown to get here and everything." Trainer Gonzalez is a little more earnest in his assessment. "I'd like to see Paul putting in way more gym time. He don't get as much as I'd like. You can't miss three days and go to someone's home town and expect to win unless you really have that killer instinct, all the way to the last round. He needs to have that killer instinct," says Gonzalez. Gonzalez and Mpendo have been working on boxing as opposed to slugging, where Mpendo makes more use of various techniques (footwork, defensive maneuvers, counter attacks) rather than just punching. "He can slug, no doubt about it. But with more boxing and upping the training to four or five days, man oh man," says Gonzalez, shaking his head at the potential. Nearing the milestone of his 30-something years, the big questions hang out there, both for Mpendo and for those who know and work with him: Can he maintain his prime long enough to pursue those regional and world titles? Ryan thinks, with steady matches and wins, it's fair to estimate that Mpendo could be looking at a title in as short a time as two years. But with a wife and family and a day job in Eugene, can a commuter training program really give him the edge he needs to reach his goals? Ryan jokes that Paul has "gotten too comfortable and pampered in this American life" that the hunger for a title isn't as sharp. Mpendo insists, "Even though my life is much better, I will always have that drive inside." Here in Eugene, Mpendo supplements his Portland workouts at the West Eugene Boxing Club, even more inconspicuous a facility than Grand Avenue. The 50-year-old club is less than half the size of Grand, but as full of aspiring, young boxers with heart — again, mostly young men, but with a distinct and growing contingent of young female boxers. James Irish, Myron Johnson and Steve Wiltfong are the locals who train and coach the kids at West Eugene. Irish says, "Boxing helps kids learn new respect for people. It teaches discipline, confidence. It's even a little humbling. It teaches a kid that getting somewhere requires training, everyday training. And it gets kids in shape. That exercise really vents and relieves stress."
In this club, Mpendo has a chance to be a little more of a mentor to the younger boxers coming up. One evening, he spars with 21-year-old Colby Matti, who is a relative newcomer to the sport. Between rounds, the two talk about technique and movement, doing super slow-mo reenactments of throwing and dodging punches. "I would definitely love to get into coaching and working with kids some day," says Mpendo. For as passionate as he is about boxing, Mpendo is not blinded by it. In his day job, Mpendo works as a certified nursing assistant for McKenzie-Willamette Hospital. He laughs, agreeing that there is a certain irony in a boxer taking care of the ill and infirm. "But I enjoy it. I like the aspect of taking care of people." He looks forward to pursuing a college education after his boxing days are over. "I love boxing. But I know I'm not going to it forever. I have a lot of other things I need to do."
SPORTS
FATALITY RATES
From Boxing and Medicine, edited by Robert Cantu, 1995. |
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