When It Comes to TV, He’s Just a Kid at Heart

One more diary day with Oscar until he gets his butt kicked.

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LAS VEGAS -- I’m sitting in Oscar De La Hoya’s suite watching cartoons, leaving the boxer for a few minutes with the little green frog that he particularly likes, while I tell the head of his security detail he’s putting his life on the line to make sure Oscar doesn’t miss tomorrow’s episode.

The security guard, the former Navy SEAL is very nice, suggesting we take a trip to one of the local Nevada mines outside of town, although I get the impression only one of us is going to return -- and then who would protect Oscar?

“I’m an expert on Baby Einstein,” Oscar says when I rejoin him, and while he mentions his baby, I’m beginning to wonder if the kid is his cover. “It’s A Big World,” is over, and now he’s watching, “Dragon Tales,” and informs me he’s not a big Barney fan.

When boxers tell you they’ve been watching tape to prepare themselves for the big fight, now you know what they’re talking about.

“Has the baseball season started?” Oscar asks during a commercial, and I assure him, “not for the Dodgers,” and he says he heard “Orel Hershiser had passed away,” which is going to come as a shock to Orel Hershiser when he hears that.

“Steve Howe,” I say, and I guess we’re to assume Oscar is really focused on Saturday’s fight at the MGM with Ricardo Mayorga, or he’s been busier than anyone knows watching “Sesame Street.”

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WE’RE NOW about 50-some hours away from the fight, and I feel fine.

Oscar appears relaxed, too, and I guess that’s important, cutting back from a seven-mile run Monday to one Thursday. He works four rounds in the MGM ring without gloves, and jump ropes two more rounds. By his standards, it’s a brief workout.

“Just to work up a sweat,” he says, and I notice the same thing happened when his wife, Millie, called to tell him she had bought the top-of-the-line baby stroller, the one the celebrities use with all the bells and whistles.

The weigh-in is today on ESPN. He’s had a glass of water mixed with wild blue green algae, and now is limited to an avocado and split pea soup for dinner. He drops half the avocado on the floor and appears heartbroken. I know he’s being paid $8 million, but I’m beginning to feel sorry for him. But I’ll get over it.

He has to check in at 154 pounds, and knowing his love for Krispy Kreme lemon-filled doughnuts, I’ll be arriving at his room this morning with a full bag of them to see just how tough he is.

He says he’ll probably be 157 or 158 pounds when he steps into the ring Saturday, while Mayorga says he intends to add 18 pounds after the weigh-in -- for one day getting a feel what it must be like to eat like Tom Lasorda.

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WE TALK about what the final moments in his dressing room will be like before the fight, and he says everyone will be shouting, “You’re the best Oscar.” His brother, Joel, will be the most intense and screaming the loudest. I wonder how that will go over -- standing next to him and booing. Oscar laughs. He thinks I’m kidding.

I’m curious about the goop they put on a fighter’s face. Oscar will enter the ring looking hideous, and I can just imagine Millie looking at her husband and wondering what did she ever see in the guy.

“They smear it everywhere,” says Oscar, and it takes forever, he adds, because trainer Floyd Mayweather paints his face like a portrait. “The punches are supposed to slip off the grease so you don’t take the full impact. If they put too much on, the ref makes you go to the corner and wipe it off.

“My guy, the expert that he is, will pretend like he’s wiping it off.” But that’s a secret, of course.

I wonder if Mayorga knows how messy it’s going to get trying to wipe that cheesy smile off Oscar’s face. I wish him the best, of course.

“I know he’s going to come right at me,” Oscar says, “because he can take a punch. He literally put his head out for Trinidad to hit twice, and Trinidad did, and Mayorga didn’t budge. He does that for me, and I’ll go straight for the body.”

That’s enough boxing talk for me, we certainly can’t talk baseball, and when I mention the Mighty Ducks, Oscar says, “I saw the movie.” So we sit down to watch the Lakers.

Oscar watching Kobe is interesting. “Nice, nice,” he says, and I keep waiting for him to say, “jab, jab,” but then I realize he’s not from Phoenix or related to Raja Bell.

It’s halftime and Oscar takes the remote control and starts channel surfing. He’s looking for “Contenders,” which I quickly gather is boxing, and so it looks like we’re going to have to fight.

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BETWEEN THE short morning run and abbreviated night-time work, he spends much of the day doing interviews. It sounds like he thinks he can win.

On the way to the service elevator to meet with the media he pulls a makeup brush and a Giorgio Armani compact from his pocket and asks someone to keep it for him. I think about reminding the former Navy SEAL it’s his job to guard the door while Oscar puts on his makeup for TV appearances, but decide it’s probably not a good idea.

Oscar is led outside for a short drive to meet with the media and notices Debbie Caplan-Paz. “Great, I get Debbie and her cigarettes,” he says, working as hard to get his publicist to stop smoking as he is on Mayorga.

Of course, if Mayorga wins, he’ll be blaming his defeat on Debbie’s second-hand smoke.

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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.