bare-knuckle prizefights in which the con-
testants fought for money and spectators
made wagers on the outcome.
Though the world of modern day pro-
fessional boxing has ditched the cestus and
bare knuckles, though it has developed
rules and regulations and governing bodies
and safety gear, that hand-to-hand element
is still jarring. Even just in practice sparring
sessions, even with padded gloves and
mouth guards, it is more than a little unset-
tling to see a punch land squarely on an
opponent’s chin or face, to hear the “oof” as
a jab sneaks past a block into a fighter’s gut
or sternum. The sport is still one-on-one,
using hands and wits to defeat the oppo-
nent. Fighters do get hurt; they do sustain
serious injuries, just like pro football play-
ers and basketball players and hockey play-
ers do. But the sport is still essentially
something of hand-to-hand combat, and the
taboo of that confrontation keeps boxing, to
some extent, in the more shadowy regions
of the professional sports world; in a realm
with a reputation for deep-seated corrup-
tion, a realm sensationalized by boxers the
likes of Mike Tyson.
It is difficult to reconcile Mpendo as a
sportsman with this part of the sport’s repu-
tation. Again, it is the quiet refinement you
don’t expect to find from someone who puts
up his dukes and fights for sport. He speaks
of boxing in terms of discipline, focus,
strength and grace. He speaks of the sport
with both passion and reverence. He isn’t
just hungry for a title; he isn’t just in it for the
glory. Mpendo loves the sport, loves how it
works his body, tests his strength, challenges
his mental focus, agility and coordination.
With a record of six wins (three knockouts),
three losses and three draws, Mpendo
describes all of his matches, even the losses,
by saying, “In my heart, I felt I won.”
M
pendo does the bulk
of his training at
Grand Avenue Gym
in Portland (stomp-
ing grounds of skater-turned-boxer Tonya
Harding). Grand Avenue sits inconspicuous-
ly off of SE 82nd, in the bottom floor of a
building with just two windows, sharing
space with a couple of racquet ball courts.
The gym is filled with what at first glance
seem to be gritty, urban characters — most-
ly sweaty, muscled, straight-faced young
men, some with tattoos and shaved heads,
one with intricate cornrowed hair, a cultural
mix of Asians, Latinos, whites, blacks.
A closer look and a little eavesdropping
reveals young guys simply joking and rib-
bing one another, talking about making
weight and whether or not to take a com-
petitive match as they sit and wrap their
hands with the rolls of elastic webbing
they wear inside their boxing gloves. They
are surprisingly quiet, the kind of quiet
you are in church. They focus intently on
jump rope workouts, on punching bag
exercises, on sit-ups, on prepping for spar-
ring matches.
There is a giant of a young man —
maybe 6 foot, 4 inches, well over 200
pounds — bouncing lightly on his toes,
shaking his arms loose at his sides, watch-
ing with a cool expression on his face his
own movement and form in the full-length
mirrors on one wall of the gym space.
Maybe 10 feet away from him is a spiky-
haired Asian kid, 15 or 16, who looks very
self conscious in his baggy denim shorts
and Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt. He looks
at himself in the mirror, puts up his fists,
glances side to side to see if anyone’s
watching him, then drops them back to his
sides. George Gonzalez, a Grand Avenue
trainer who works closely with Mpendo,
Mpendo and Colby Matti sparring at West Eugene Boxing Club.
walks by and urges, “Get moving! Loosen
up and move.” The kid startles a little at
the command, puts his fists back up,
shrugs his shoulders and manages to throw
a couple of very straight, hard punches in
succession at his reflection in the mirror.
Mpendo is also practicing in front of
the mirrors, but the difference in form
between him and the kid is staggering.
Mpendo suffers absolutely no self con-
sciousness, throwing punches not at his
reflection, but at an opponent he is visual-
izing clear as day. He moves quickly,
throws punches from his arms kept up
close to his face and chin. He squares his
shoulders, keeps his knees loose, peeks
from behind his fists, keeps his chin
tucked down as tight as he can. He is fight-
ing. He has that look on his face that chil-
dren get when they are deep in make
believe play — in his mind, he isn’t prac-
ticing; he’s boxing, playing out the whole
scene as if it were actually happening.
Grand Avenue’s Fred Ryan works as
Mpendo’s manager. His job, he says, is to
“minimize the danger and maximize the
earnings” in the very tricky science of
choosing opponents and arranging match-
es with which Mpendo can continue to
build up his record. Of Mpendo’s
strengths, Ryan says, “Paul is quick. His
speed will overcome just about everything
except blind luck. He keeps his weight
right where it should be. And he’s got an
admirable work ethic. When he first start-
ed here, he’d come up by bus two or three
times a week, making the connection
downtown to get here and everything.”
Mpendo and Gonzalez at Portland’s Grand Avenue Gym.
‘You can’t . . . expect to win unless
you really have that killer instinct,
all the way to the last round.’
-GEORGE GONZALEZ, TRAINER
SPORTS
FATALITY
RATES
P E R
1 0 0 , 0 0 0
HORSE RACING: 128
SKY DIVING: 123
HANG GLIDING: 55
P A R T I C I P A N T S
MOUNTAINEERING: 51
SCUBA DIVING: 11
MOTORCYCLE RACING: 7
COLLEGE FOOTBALL: 3
BOXING: 1.3
From Boxing and Medicine , edited by Robert Cantu, 1995.
MARCH 25, 2004 13