Fight Night in West Texas

Fighters started trickling in around 5 o'clock. With them came the storms. Giant, muscular clouds crept towards Pecos Coliseum in Fort Stockton, Texas, but the mostly teenage boys emerging from pick-up trucks barely looked up. And when the downpour began, none ran. Carrying gym bags and gallon water jugs, the already-wrist-taped contenders entered the coliseum sopping wet. No umbrellas. No complaints.

Among them was Abel Mendoza, an 18-year-old currently training in El Paso, but a native of the area. "Honestly, this is probably the most important fight of my life because I've never fought at home," Mendoza told me that morning in his dark hotel room.

It came as no surprise that Mendoza, who is competing in the upcoming Olympic trial qualifier tournaments later this summer, hadn't fought in Fort Stockton before. For many, the drab town of 8,000 serves little purpose other than a place to get gas. Ruler-straight highways extend from its central intersection in all directions. To the East, the big cities, Houston, Dallas, and San Antonio. To the West, El Paso. To the South, Mexico. To the North, emptiness—the nearest city is Albuquerque, 250 miles away. Leaving or entering town means traversing hundreds of miles of red desert.

Despite Fort Stockton's isolation, on Saturday June 13, 2015, dozens of boxers made the trek there to participate in the first ever "West Texas Fight Night," a boxing spectacle with one toe in organized boxing (USA Boxing, the country's largest amateur boxing association, sanctioned the bouts), and one toe in backcountry brawling (the event was BYOB).

Mendoza himself organized the event. With the help of his family, Mendoza solicited sponsorship from dozens of local businesses to raise the $10,000 dollars necessary to rent the venue and pay for refs and doctors.

"I never imagined myself doing anything else. I've done boxing all my life. It's all I know. This is what I want to do and I want to try to make the USA team," said Mendoza.

What compels a kid like Mendoza to take on the logistical nightmare of organizing a 15 bout fight night? A dire lack of local competition. The problem is perennial in West Texas, where the population in many counties averages 1-2 people per square mile. High school football players make two hour commutes to practice, and similarly, up-and-coming fighters regularly drive the distance between New York and Philadelphia to train. The most committed contenders travel even farther. Michael Dutchover, 17, who will also be fighting in the Olympic trial qualifiers, said he went all the way to San Antonio for just eight rounds of sparring. The drive—without traffic—takes more than four hours.

"There's not a lot of professional athletes in the area," said Mendoza. "There's not a promoter."

Mendoza left home at 16, moving three times in two years to chase tough bouts and quality training. Fabian Mendoza, Mendoza's dad, is lucky enough to have savings from the recent oil boom in the nearby Permian basin to finance his son's travel, but says losing his boy to the road has been a struggle.

"I miss him all the time. I just gotta be tough. I worry most when he's traveling," said Fabian. It's no easier for Mendoza's mother. At the event, she ran the concession stand. Alma Mendoza and other volunteers—mostly family members—sold hot dogs and quesadillas they had prepared at home and brought with them to the coliseum. "Sí pues hemos hecho muchos sacrificios, hemos trabajado duro, hemos tenido muchos gastos para ayudarlo, para que él llegue a triunfar." "Yes, we've made many sacrifices, we've worked hard, we've had many expenses in order to help him, so that he can be successful."

According to Frank Guerrero, founder of the Alpine Boxing Club in Alpine, Texas, more and more people are willing to make sacrifices to find good fights. "We want to come together and fight. That way there's better competition, there's more athletes, and it's just better for the sport of boxing, in our area, to grow it," said Guerrero.

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The better competition in this case was Victor Ramirez. At twice Mendoza's age, two weight classes above him, and at least three inches taller, Victor Ramirez embodies the kind of challenger Mendoza seeks. I met Ramirez at a Mexican joint near the coliseum, Bienvenidos. He rolled in with a crew of nine—coaches, managers, and other fighters, including a few 10-year-old boys (he brought his whole gym). We had met for lunch, but he didn't eat anything. During the interview I tried to decipher the giant tattoo stamped on his neck, ultimately deciding it was a rat's skull. "He's strong. He's got that man-strength," Mendoza had said about Ramirez. I could see what he meant.

Ramirez spoke at length about the community at his gym, Heavy Artillery, in El Paso. "Somos una familia. Somos amigos, familia. Siempre estamos juntos unidos y estamos juntos en todo," he said. "We are a family. We are friends, family. We're always united and together in everything."

Throughout the day other visiting fighters echoed this sentiment; because the boxers spend so much time training and traveling together, a deep sense of camaraderie develops.

When asked how he felt about fighting a teenager, Ramirez smirked through uneven teeth. "Comfortable," he said.

That cockiness is what brought these two fighters into the ring together. "Ramirez and I have a rivalry," said Mendoza. "We were at the same tournament, watching each other's fights. After he saw me KO a 23-year-old, I heard him say, "I'll knock out that kid in the first round. Ever since, he's been trying to go up against me."

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Entering the coliseum, if there hadn't been a red, white, and blue boxing ring in the center, you'd think you had walked onto rodeo grounds: Dirt caked the floor, animal chutes flanked the arena and "Look out for rattlesnakes" signs were posted anywhere there were shadows.

Represented gyms including Heavy Artillery, Midtown Soldiers from Midland, and Rival from Odessa, staked out corners of the arena and warmed up. More than 500 spectators entered soon after. Fathers carted coolers of Lone Star beer; Mothers held infants; abuelas in canes trailed in from behind, inching through doors held open by polite Texans wearing cowboy hats.

Meanwhile, Mendoza was losing his shit. Still undressed, he paced in a room behind the kitchen, growling into his cellphone in both Spanish and English. A (a later resolved) miscommunication with USA Boxing over ticket sales threatened to sabotage Mendoza's investment.

"Are you going to be able to focus once the fight starts?" I asked.

"I don't have a choice," said Mendoza.

Back in the arena, matches were starting. Competitors ranged from bantam weight teenagers to young fighters barely taller than their coaches's knees. Two fights featured young girls. Most of the fights were short—three rounds total. For the younger kids, each round was a minute, for the older ones, 90 seconds or two minutes. Often the combatants were facing familiar opponents—boxers from nearby towns who travel the same circuits. "In the ring you're enemies, out of the ring you're friends," said 11-year-old boxer Damien Sanchez.

When 9 p.m. rolled around, however, the two men stepping in the ring harbored little affection for one another. As Mendoza and Ramirez approached the ring from opposite ends of the arena, the DJ blasted hip-hop and the announcer introduced "two of the greatest fighters in Texas." Mendoza's closest friends stood and cheered. Mendoza gave fist-pumps with gloved hands. There was no security or rope to separate the athletes from the spectators.

The main event was different than the lead-ups. Mendoza and Ramirez fought four three-minute rounds, a long fight by amateur standards. In an attempt to simulate a pro fight, neither wore head gear. Ramirez muttered under his breath, and as he blocked Mendoza's jabs, shook his head mockingly. And though Ramirez towered over Mendoza, the fresh-faced fighter held his own. He possessed technical proficiency his opponent lacked, and outfought the elder Ramirez all four rounds. When the announcer declared him the victor, the arena erupted.

"Abel! Abel! Abel!" the crowd cried. He hopped out of the ring, holding his plastic champion's belt high above him. Spectators rushed towards him. Hugs, selfies.

"Abel, how does it feel to win this fight?" I asked.

"I did this in my own hometown. I'm excited. I'm excited! This is everything I've fantasized about," he said.

By the time people started to leave, the rain had picked up again. This time there was lightning. The boxers and their families got into their trucks, and began the long drive home.