I Got a System

I grew up surviving, alone, on the streets of Central L.A.

There was an atmosphere of violence which permeated the entire youth culture.

I was small as a kid, 115 lbs. A flyweight.

Dad had taught us never to back down from a fight, and I never did.

But I took a lot of punishment from bullies

I went to a local gym in the Skid Row section and started boxing.

5 days a week I would take a beating and try to learn self defense, I had a nominal trainer, but he gave me one quick lesson, put me into the ring and I basically didn't interact with him much after that, just like on the street, I was on my own.

During one particularly violent sparring session I was knocked out cold.

I regained consciousness downstairs, in the locker room where the wrestlers hung out and trained.

The walls were bare, sweat stained cement.

I tried to focus on the kindly face of a middle-aged Mexican man peering down at me with a look of intense concern on his careworn face.

I didn't know who he was.

I didn't know who I was, or where, or why.

I was lying on the cement floor as he crouched over me.

“Are you, alright?” he asked softly.

Faces passed through my mind in flashes of memory, I couldn't remember who they were.

“Yeah, I'm OK.” I answered.

What else could I say?

The man's name was Dave Fierro.

“Mike, you need a trainer. I have a lot of respect for you. You've got guts. You come here every day, you get beat up, and you still come back. But you can't learn this by yourself.

You can be a fighter.

You've got the heart, but you need me. I've got a system, I can make you a great fighter.

What do you say?”

I looked around the locker room.

Two overweight, sweaty wrestlers were practicing their moves, with fake groans and grunts and howls of pain and anger.

"A system?"

Dave smiled, he looked like a gnome, "Yep. It's the best system there is, and you can be a part of it."

“I don't know, Dave. I think maybe I just don't have what it takes to be a fighter."

Dave smiled. "But you do have what it takes. I've watched you, everyday." He laughed, "Man, I have seen you take some serious beatings. At first I thought , 'he won't be back.'

But there you were, the next day. Your problem isn't a lack of ability. You just need to learn the fundamentals, and the advanced stuff that I can teach you. look, I don't want to say anything bad about your coach, Louie, but he hasn't taught you anything. You go into that ring everyday and swing away, the kids you spar with, most of them are taught by me. Haven't you noticed that they start boxing and within a few days they are better in there than you are?"

"Yeah. I just figured they were more athletic."

He laughed. "They aren't, and I'll prove it to you. Now, Louie is technically your manager, so , Mike, don't get mad. He was about to tell you to quit. He said you didn't have it, and he couldn't watch you get beat up anymore."

Dave leaned forward, conspiratorially, "I said, you're right, Louie, he's no good, but he doesn't want to quit. So why don't I take him off your hands, I don't want to, but I feel sorry for him too. Maybe I can do something with him.

Louie jumped at it. He kissed my ass in gratitude. Now, when he sees you in a month, and you are boxing the ears off his fighter, I want him to remember that he was going to tell you to quit. I don't want him to think I cheated him out of his best fighter."

My head was spinning, Dave was right. I had taken numerous beatings in the ring upstairs. Dave thought he could make me a great fighter.

I didn't believe it. I thought he was trying to save my ego. But, I didn't want to accept defeat, I wanted to be a fighter. My father had been a Boxer, one of the best amateurs the country.

My stepfather, Al Cruz, had been a professional fighter, probably the best boxer pound for pound in the country.

I idolized him.

I didn't want to let him down.

"OK, Dave, thanks."

That was the first step in a long, hard, and unbelievable journey.