Return of Los Navarros: Championship Edition Enrique Calzada Varela (bio) “Oh! There’s a right hook! Followed by a straight shot to the kidneys.” “That one right there hurt him, Jim,” adds Clide “the Junkyard Dog” Brown, the ex-heavyweight-champ-of-the-world-turned-analyst for the network. The announcer of the fight, Jim Limply, continues berating the airwaves like the berated belly of the contender. “El Charro is hurt!” shouts Jim into the microphone like a hungry impatient patron yells into a malfunctioning drive-thru intercom. “Left, left, right to the body! Williams is pouring it on now!” “El Charro is in trouble. The punches are getting through his defense,” says the Junkyard Dog. “There’s a cut on El Charro’s eyebrow now! He’s absorbing tremendous shots,” adds Jim passionately. “He needs to get off the ropes if he plans on sticking around, Jim,” interjects the Junkyard Dog. “Right hook to the jaw. El Charro is stunned! Left, straight right, right hook to the face!” Miguel El Charro Navarro is on the ropes. Literally. He’s been losing the bout since the bell rang way back in the first round. He has two rounds left to turn it around. His dream of becoming the undisputed middleweight champion of the world, like his long-deceased grandfather, flees with every punch he receives. El Charro leans back on the ropes and bounces on them like a swinging punching bag as he attempts to dodge the barrage of fists flying his way. Another shot catches his temple. Then another one finds its mark on his left cheek. His face is red and getting swollen. Blood from his eyebrow splatters in all directions with every punch landed on his cut. “El Charro is helpless to stop the shots from middleweight champ of the world Williams! He’s pouring it on! Ten seconds left! There’s the bell. Saved by the bell! What action! What a round for Williams! This is what championship boxing is all about!” Jim enthusiastically relays to the TV audience. [End Page 220] “El Charro is losing this fight,” adds the ex-champ. El Charro lowers his gloves from the front of his face. He hesitantly breaks his defensive stance and, like a frightened turtle peeking out from its shell, lifts his head to see if the coast is clear. He sees his trainer Chucho Martinez chaotically waving him back to his corner with a bloody white towel. Step by wobbly step, like a borracho on his third bottle of mescal, he staggers back to his corner and collapses onto the small wooden stool awaiting him. Williams jogs back to the opposite corner like a smug blonde who has just completed a five-minute mile. He gracefully takes a seat on his little wooden stool too. His trainer and a cut man surround him paparazzi-style. Splashes of cold water flung from Chucho’s cupped palm hit El Charro’s chest and face in a futile attempt by his trainer to pull him back into the moment. “Despiértate, carajo!” his trainer yells at his face. El Charro only shows hints of life when cold water is run down his trousers by his cut man Egoriño. Egoriño is a hunched old man of 101 with surprisingly thick, slicked-back white hair for his age. He was also his grandfather’s spit-bucket holder as a kid. Miguel, before he became El Charro, used to ask Egoriño, repeatedly, to retell him the stories of his grandpa’s fights. He used to like to hear the stories of how his great-grandpa fought in the Mexican revolution by day alongside Pancho Villa and how he fought the toughest boxers in all the land by night. He was a raider of government palaces, a plunderer of corrupt money, an arsonist of military strongholds, and a ravager of the boxers. ________ “Así empezó,” Egoriño would often start his stories. “Peleándose con los hombres de su banda. Después de la guerra, encontró éxito en el cuadrilátero, como lo había encontrado en la sierra.” If not for Egoriño’s stories, Miguel, El Charro, wouldn...
Read full abstract
Apr 27, 2021
Jesse M Crosson + 1
Open Access