Golden State Has True Golden Boy

I sat a few rows from ringside in Barcelona, Spain, on that day three years ago when Oscar De La Hoya officially became the golden boy.

This fresh prince from East L.A. seemed to me a perfectly normal, thoroughly decent young man who was proud of winning a gold medal, proud of his roots and proud of himself.

Oscar waved two flags that day. He sounded happy to have represented the land of his birth, the United States, but had not forgotten to include the land of his ancestors, Mexico.

How I envied Oscar the glory that awaited him. Imagine, a kid with two countries. What a fan club.

A couple of years later, however, I had lunch with Oscar in a little pancake house up in the snowy hills of Big Bear, where he and his professional handlers had made camp. The weather looked bleak and so, I must say, did Oscar.

He was a man now, not a boy, and a very successful man at that. A champion, worth millions.

Yet although there was nothing visibly the matter, I had the feeling Oscar wasn’t as contented as he had a right to be.

Practically from the start of his pro career, people had kept telling me that Oscar De La Hoya had changed. That he wasn’t the sweetheart that he seemed. That he had double-crossed the man who was originally supposed to handle him. That he was smug and cruising for a bruising.

Well, all I can say is, Oscar seemed fine to me.

I can’t say he was the most humble athlete I ever met, but boxing is a sport borne of self-confidence and self-promotion. And only the strong survive.

Going into his grudge fight Saturday night with Rafael Ruelas, more than once De La Hoya had insisted that this would be “my easiest fight.”

He didn’t flatter his opponent, but tell me: Which fighter does? When was the last time you heard a boxer do nothing but compliment his foe before a fight?

As things turned out, Oscar’s prediction was right on the button, same as his punches.

He one-two’d the popular Ruelas from the referee’s instructions to the moment the bout was stopped. De La Hoya was so dominant, even those fans in the stands of Caesars Palace who had come to bury Oscar, not praise him, could do little more than nod their heads in appreciation of his art.

That was another thing that struck me odd, that so many members of the Mexican-American community seemed to earmark Ruelas as the hero and De La Hoya as the villain. Was this only because Rafael had actually been born in Mexico, or had it been something in De La Hoya’s personality that alienated some of his people?

I have no idea. What I do know is that Oscar fought splendidly, skillfully, and established himself on the spot as contender for the West’s Best Boxer Ever.

Out here we really haven’t produced that many great ones, you know. Ali was from Kentucky. Marciano came from Massachusetts, same town as Hagler. Louis hailed from Michigan, by way of Alabama. Dempsey, Leonard, Frazier, Holmes, LaMotta. . . . all of these champions were Easterners.

I guess this is why I wouldn’t mind seeing more of us embrace Oscar De La Hoya now, once and for all. He is our fighter, our Olympian, our champion, and obviously has what it takes to become one of the great boxers.

After making quick work of Saturday’s fight, De La Hoya trumpeted his own talent.

“People don’t think these are dangerous,” he said, raising both fists. “But let me tell you, I’ve got thunder and lightning here.”

Bob Arum, the promoter who has a vested interest in Oscar, hailed him loudly as “the best fighter in the world.”

“Not quite, Bob,” De La Hoya corrected. “Maybe after 20-30 more fights.”

He has not been invincible, has even been knocked flat on his back. Oscar’s career is still in its infancy, just in case you think he’s ready for the likes of Pernell Whitaker and such.

“Whoa, not at all. He’s too tough for me,” Oscar freely admitted. “I’m still a little puppy against all those dogs in boxing. Those guys are all pit bulls and I’m just this little Chihuahua.

“People want to rush me, but I’m going to pick the right opponents that we feel we can beat. Of course they’ll be tough, but not as tough as Pernell Whitaker.”

This didn’t sound to me like someone who is obnoxious and overconfident. Oscar the Chihuahua sounded doggoned realistic.

He really is the Golden State’s golden boy, this kid.

You know that gold statue they give to actors and actresses? It sort of looks like him.