They say great fighters don’t quit.
A lie.
Sure. Most of the greats we’ve come to know and watch and love exhibit the sort of bravery that convinces all of us that risking death in the ring is a fair and acceptable compromise, especially when a shot at eternal glory is on the line.
But to quit in a fight — under the right circumstances, of course — that takes strength. It takes courage. And, sometimes, it’s the right move. And how thankful am I, that all of these years later, Israel Vazquez knew when it was the right time to quit.
Since his death was announced on Dec. 3, numerous tributes have been made honoring the memory of the fallen two-time lineal super bantamweight champion of the world. He’s remembered fondly as a battler, a bleeder, a brawler against whom no lead was ever safe. And rightly so.
I knew this first hand. I was a boxing obsessed 19 year old living in the Bay Area the night Vazquez defended his lineal crown against one of my favorite fighters of that era, Rafael Marquez. Staying loyal, I backed Marquez to win. But nothing in boxing — especially against El Magnífico — is ever guaranteed. Just one fight earlier, Vazquez scraped himself twice up off the canvas to come from behind and emphatically stop Jhonny Gonzalez, in what is still one of the most memorable comebacks I’ve ever seen.
But when Vazquez and Marquez first met on March 3, 2007, most of us among the boxing hardcore knew that the fight had the potential to be good, great even. But few could have predicted that the pair would gift us one of the most violent and memorable rivalries of the modern age.
In the second round of that first fight, Marquez’s pulverizing left jab shattered Vazquez’s nose. Magnífico couldn’t breathe. Still, he tried. Vazquez dropped Marquez in the third, and the two gave a thrilling effort until the end of the seventh, where Vazquez quit on his stool.
“I can’t anymore,” he told his trainer Freddie Roach that night.
Relinquishing your crown on your stool. That takes heart.
Last May, Vazquez and Marquez joined fellow Mexican boxing great, Marco Antonio Barrera, on the Spanish-language podcast, Un Round Más. The pair reminisced on their rivalry, and when discussing the end of that first fight, Vazquez admitted, “Me vi corbarde, tal vez,” (“I looked like a coward, perhaps”). Barrera shot down any such notion.
Few might remember today, but Vazquez’s decision didn’t come without critique. Renowned boxing analyst Max Kellerman, who while he didn’t blame Vazquez for quitting, seemed to imply that that decision disqualified him from being great.
“The demand in boxing is that if you want to be great, you have to be willing to die,” Kellerman was quoted in the July 2009 issue of Ring Magazine when discussing Vazquez. Perhaps it's the privilege of hindsight. But to believe that Vazquez isn’t great because he quit in the first fight with Marquez is ludicrous. He is deserving of that moniker, and it’s a shame that he didn’t live to see his induction into the International Boxing Hall of Fame.
Vazquez’s next two fights proved just that.
With blood streaming from both eyes, Vazquez stopped Marquez in the immediate rematch, in what was named Ring Magazine’s 2007 Fight of the Year. And when I learned that the rubber match would be held in Southern California on March 1, 2008, I knew I had to be there.
My seat, just three rows from the ring, cost me $300. It was a steal.
Backing Marquez once more, I was ecstatic when he dropped Vazquez in the fourth, and equally horrified when Vazquez rose to nearly return the favor just seconds later. But my greatest memory of that night came in the twelfth round.
In the closing moments of the bout, Marquez, barely ahead on the cards, desperately tried to fend off Vazquez. With one last final charge, Vazquez sent Marquez reeling into the corner. Had it not been for the top rope, Maquez would've been down. Referee Pat Russell, however, correctly ruled that Marquez had been knocked down, for it was the ropes that held him up.
Somewhere in the chaos of the moment and roar of the crowd, I thought to veer my gaze towards Vazquez. What I saw I will never forget. His face mangled and marked and bruised in customary fashion, Vazquez strutted about the ring, arms outstretched, and nodded to everyone in attendance. Basking in the most violent and significant triumph of his legendary prizefighting career, the language his body spoke in that moment said to anyone who was watching him: This is my night. Enjoy.
Moments later, he would be declared the winner by split decision. I say this as a Marquez fan, the right man won that night. Once my adrenaline subsided, I remembered I had a disposable camera with me. I snapped grainy photos of Vazquez, greeting fans and signing autographs. And when it was time to leave the ring, I remember he did so on crutches.
None of us knew then how much of themselves both Vazquez and Marquez left in the ring. Vazquez was never the same. He would go on to lose his right eye years later, the result of a detached retina he suffered in that third Marquez fight.
He retired in 2010. A year later, I met Vazquez briefly at the Abner Mares vs. Joseph Agbeko rematch in Anaheim. We had a pleasant exchange, though I admit I don’t remember what we said to each other. But he was kind. Gracious. I’m grateful for that moment. I’m grateful for the photo he took with me. I’m grateful, above all, for the memories.
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