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The fight, front-page news in Puerto Rico almost daily, has been hyped as the Fight of the Millennium. A welterweight title-unification match, it pits the Puerto Rican IBF champion Trinidad (35-0, 30 KOs) against East L.A. Chicano De La Hoya (31-0, 22 KOs), the WBC titleholder, at the new Mandalay Bay Hotel in Las Vegas this Saturday. De La Hoya is guaranteed $15 million for the match. Trinidad will earn $8.5 million plus $300,000 for training costs. And both men get an additional $4 each for every pay-per-view customer over 850,000, for a fight that's expected to garner a record number of home viewers. (And jail viewers the Puerto Rican government recently authorized funds to show the fight in the island's prisons.)
The boxing world is divided in its predictions. Some say Trinidad is hungrier, more focused, stronger. Others say De La Hoya is quicker, smarter, and despite his Golden Boy celebrity a determined money fighter who finds the right knockout punch at the right time. But perhaps the most interesting thing about the fight is the way it sets up a series of spectacular oppositions: the country boy versus the city kid; the virtuous versus the flashy; Don King versus Bob Arum; the Puerto Rican versus the Mexican American. "This is the biggest Mexican Puerto Rican matchup since Wilfredo Gomez and Salvador Sanchez [in the early '80s]," says Bert Sugar, boxing historian and editor of Fight Game magazine. "I remember there was a salsa band coming down one side and mariachi coming down the other side and they got into fights all night."
The TrinidadDe La Hoya contest casts light on the little-known rifts and rivalries within the U.S. Latino world, the East CoastWest Coast conflict, as it were. Puerto Ricans, amassed in New York, have always had a little more of the media attention, while Mexican Americans, based in California and Texas, have banked on their greater numbers and longer-term settlement in the U.S. to gain political clout. Mexican Americans listen to norteno and ranchera music, Puerto Ricans to salsa and merengue. Rarely do those twains ever meet.
Trinidad, light-years behind De La Hoya in terms of glitz and recognition, is the kind of quiet, unassuming country boy that Puerto Ricans, who have a longtime love affair with the underdog role, love to love. Born and raised in bucolic Cupey Alto, Trinidad is a clean-living type who attended a Sunday service with the Baptist congregation of the Christ Mission Church in Fajardo, the town where his training headquarters in the Hotel Conquistador were located. At the height of the typically charismatic service, Trinidad was invited to the pulpit by Reverend Jose Luis Acosta, who led a prayer in support of the man they call Tito. Although he doesn't claim to be devoutly religious, Trinidad "asked God that I would succeed and bless me, my family, and all of Puerto Rico."
Luis Santiago Arce, who's been working the Trinidad beat for the San Juan daily El Nuevo Dia, characterizes Trinidad as a "healthy, humble guy who always has time for his fans and his community." Everyone hopes he'll avoid the fall from grace that ruined the careers of previous Puerto Rican heroes like Edwin "Chapo" Rosario, who died of a drug overdose in 1997; Wilfredo Gomez, arrested in 1994 on charges of domestic violence and cocaine possession; and Esteban DeJesus, who had public struggles with drugs and AIDS.
ââ Meanwhile, on the Left Coast, Oscar De La Hoya is a one-man financial empire. He has just signed a recording contract with EMI records, and his total income this year is expected to reach $40 million, making him the highest-paid athlete in the world. His pop-idol good looks rival Ricky Martin's, he's impeccably bilingual, and he plays up his Mexican roots by wearing nouveau-Zorro outfits into the ring. But his incredible crossover success has brought him criticism.
"The big thing around here is Chicanos have problems with Oscar, and Mexicans do too," says Lalo Lopez, editor and founder of Pocho magazine, an influential Chicano satirical rag with a chatty Web site.
"The Chicanos ask, 'Why doesn't he live in the barrio anymore?' even though he contributes heavily to his old high school," says Lopez. "Some Mexicans are down on him because he's too assimilated, asking, 'Why does he bring the mariachi bands into the ring? He's trying too hard to be Mexican.' "