De La Hoya Has Fighting Chance as a Matchmaker

Sat down for dinner with Oscar De La Hoya on Friday night. Right away he’s a punk. He says he not only knows Salma Hayek, but has been to her house for her birthday, and she never mentioned me.

Those are fighting words, of course, but coming from a washed-up boxer, I go easy on him.

We still spar some, though. De La Hoya says, “I have one more fight in me,” and I tell him again that he’s finished. I’ve been to four of his fights, and he’s lost three of them. Kaz Ishii has a better record than that.

“Please don’t come to any more of my fights,” he says, so I tell him to stay away from Salma.

The waiter starts serving food, and De La Hoya is talking to the others at the table about Mike Tyson. “When he spit out that ear,” he says, and talk about your appetizers.

De La Hoya stops eating. No one else does, but apparently the washed-up boxer has a weak stomach. He mentions some guy named Zab Judah and makes it sound as if that would be the perfect guy to take on in a farewell fight. I misunderstand, and think he said Dab Judah, and agree: “A little Dab will do ya in,” all right, if you try entering the ring again.

He says, “I can’t leave boxing the way I did, pounding my fist into the canvas after losing to Bernard Hopkins. I want one more chance to say goodbye.” I guess he’s not familiar with e-mail yet.

I remind him he said he’d quit if Shane Mosley beat him a second time, which Mosley did, and then he said he’d hang up the gloves if he lost to Hopkins. He’s sounding more and more like Don King these days.

He says, “You’re right, I did say that twice,” and I notice when he stands up, he’s dancing from foot to foot as we talk, as if he’s afraid I’m going to rock him. After all, everyone else has, so why not me?

I continue poking to see what he’s made of, and he’s laughing and carrying on as if he’s having a good time, so I learn one thing, he’d never fit into the Dodger clubhouse.

He mentions his Fox TV show, “The Next Great Champ,” and I’m impressed. He has guts to bring up that bomb. He says the show might have been taken off network TV, but it was a success, “because every night it was on about 6 million viewers were watching boxing.”

I explain to him that for humanitarian reasons I don’t want to see him fight again or resume his singing career. He thinks that’s funny. I’m serious. He excuses himself from the table, and I take another look around the restaurant to make sure this isn’t karaoke night.

He returns, which tells you something about the guy, and explains that it’s his son’s eighth birthday.

“I called him and sang ‘Happy Birthday,’ and he didn’t like the way I sang either,” De La Hoya says with that charismatic grin, and what did you expect from a guy who knows how to roll with the punches?

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YOU DON’T have to be a fan of boxing to admire the Golden Boy; I know, because I can’t stand the sport. Take Saturday night. Staples Center. Every one wants to be around the Golden Boy. A fan hands him a phone, asks if he’d speak to his mother. De La Hoya obliges, and after a lengthy chat, he tells the fan’s mom: “It was really nice talking to you.”

That’s class. Throw in that certain pizazz, the Olympic-sized touching story about his mom, L.A. icon status and when he says, “I want to bring respectability back to boxing,” the answer is still the same: “Are you nuts?”

Boxing is a big bore right now. There are no household names to generate a buzz, as even De La Hoya acknowledges, unless you consider Tyson more a boxing star than a freak show.

“We’ve got poker players now signing autographs,” De La Hoya says. “That hurts me. At one time boxing was one of the most recognizable and popular sports out there. I want to see that happen again. I want to be the person who changes boxing.”

It begins with Golden Boy Promotions, which has had three years to get ready for De La Hoya’s first major solo promotion: Hopkins versus some other guy.

It’s three hours before the main event and Tim Leiweke, the guy who makes Staples Center go, is smiling. I’m thrilled to report it has nothing to do with the return of hockey. He has seen the numbers for tickets sold and believes boxing has a new superstar promoter.

“We’ve already gotten as good a financial result with this fight than any of the [previous six staged in Staples],” Leiweke says. “Oscar has worked it this week. He’s very different in the way he promotes a fight; he’s the new breed, all business and no hype. And let me tell you, based on experience, you can completely trust him.”

This might be the time to mention Bob Arum and King, which draws a quick response from De La Hoya.

“Our mission is to change boxing for the better,” he says. “Organize it and clean it up. Arum and King had a heck of a run, but that was a whole different era. It’s my goal to revolutionize the sport.”

I’m here in Staples and I hate the sport, but I want to see if the Golden Boy has the promoter’s touch. Didn’t even have to stay for the fight to see that.

On a very rainy night in L.A., De La Hoya got the paying customers to turn out in big numbers. For boxing. For Hopkins, an East Coast boring fighter. For a fight that was on HBO, which was good reason to stay home.

De La Hoya pulls it off. The fight drags on, and De La Hoya is still the biggest draw in the house, but this time it’s because he’s the promoter. Fine by me.

“This is a big moment. Everyone’s watching to see how we do, and it’s nerve-racking. But I believe if you bring good fights to L.A., the fans will come,” De La Hoya says, and while Kevin Costner wasn’t one of the celebrities here, De La Hoya says he pulled money out of his own pocket to treat actor John Cusack to the fight.

Obviously, Salma turned him down.

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T.J. Simers can be reached at t.j.simers@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Simers, go to latimes.com/simers.