He spent his final days in a Los Angeles hospital barely able to breathe. That's how it ended for Israel Vazquez. He'd been one of the best little men the boxing business has ever produced, a fighter whose work should be preserved in a vault on Mount Olympus. Now he was dead at 46, chewed up by an illness that left him struggling to walk and speak.
Boxing people mourned. They remembered Izzy as a warrior, an overused word but one that fits perfectly in his case. Indeed, there was something magnificent about him, the way he'd storm out of his corner for the late rounds of a close fight. In those moments, as he chopped away at opponents, it looked as if sparks flew from his gloves.
The last time most of us saw Vazquez was when he lost to Rafael Marquez 14 years ago. Vazquez had won two of their first three fights, all hair-raising classics, and proved that he was a sort of star. But in this fourth bout, the seemingly inexhaustible battery inside him had finally run out. He didn't make it out of the third round. That wasn't the way his career should've ended. He and Marquez should've kept fighting each other throughout eternity. But by 2010, he seemed done after 49 professional fights. There had already been talk of eye problems, and his endless reserve of energy seemed not so endless, after all. Just when we were falling in love with Izzy, he was out of boxing.
There are a lot of excellent names on his record, hard-hitting, aggressive 122-pounders, most of them Mexican, for his career coincided with arguably the heyday of Mexican boxing. Those of us who were smart enough to pay attention in that first decade of the new century saw Izzy use his quick hands and ring smarts against Oscar Larios, from whom he won two of three, Jhonny Gonzalez, Osvaldo Guerrero, Jorge Julio, Ivan Hernandez, Hector Velazquez, and the aforementioned Marquez. They were all smallish men, but in some ways, Izzy was the smallest. He was listed as 5' 5", but he appeared tiny, and always seemed to be punching up. Or maybe that's just how I remember him.
He was one of the great super bantams, winning portions of that title three times, but it was an era where belts were won and lost rapidly, with so many names and faces in those lighter divisions that keeping them in order was an impossible task. Who remembers that Izzy won the IBF super bantam belt by beating Jose Luis Valbuena in Los Angeles in 2004? Or that he did at it at the Olympic Auditorium, the dusky old place where Rocky and Raging Bull were filmed? Somehow, I remember isolated moments of his fights more than the actual fights - Izzy sitting in his corner between rounds, leaning forward like a bulldog straining at his leash, or smiling mischievously after throwing a perfect combination. He was such a gutsy little brawler that we forget how good he was as a craftsman.
He did most of his fighting in California, with occasional sorties into Las Vegas or Atlantic City. Izzy didn't seem right for those big gambling towns, as if he were too small for the bright lights and big spenders. After beginning his career in Mexico, he became a California fighter. His biggest wins and his biggest losses were there. But win or lose, big arena or small, Izzy was Izzy.
We didn't know anything about him. He didn't come from a famous fighting family, didn't mingle with celebrities, didn't brag about his expensive cars. He didn't record hip-hop tracks or have a YouTube channel, or talk trash on social media. He wasn't covered in tattoos and jewelry, and he didn't talk much about God, or how he was being screwed by the business. He didn't want to be a promoter or a mogul or a politician. He just came to fight. Lots of boxers say that about themselves, but with Izzy it sounded true.
It was easy to love him. Yet, and this is the troublesome part, we quickly forgot him once he was gone. Some fighters vanish in retirement, and that's how it was with Izzy. He was gone. He moved on. And we moved on.
The next we thing we heard was that doctors had removed his right eye. And we shook our heads, and talked about boxing being a brutal sport, and we wished him well. He was so tough that losing his eye didn't seem to bother him much. He shrugged it off the way most of us shrug off a parking ticket. It was an accident, he said.
Then we heard he was sick, and then we learned he died a few days ago. This wasn't the way his life should've ended, with his loved ones scrambling to raise money for his medical bills, and the internet buzzing briefly with hastily written tributes. But Izzy never asked for much, just a fair wage for his efforts, and he wouldn't have wanted us to say too much now that he's gone. Still, it's unsettling when fighters die young. Especially the ones who entertained us so much. We all start wondering, Who the hell can replace Izzy?
Izzy's passing puts a spotlight on how much boxing has changed in just the short time since he retired 14 years ago. Showtime, the network that showed most of Izzy's great fights, dropped boxing from its schedule. Most of the big fights take place in Saudi Arabia now. Very few of today's fighters walk with Izzy's quiet dignity. Now they're rude, cartoonish, desperate for attention. The most famous name in the business these days is Jake Paul, a YouTube celebrity. Of course, 14 years is a long time in boxing. Think of Muhammad Ali in 1966. Now think of him in 1980. Things can change a lot in 14 years.
Arenas around the world, and especially in California, should give him ten bells the next time they host boxing. People should stand and bow their heads. At the 10th bell they should all cheer wildly and rattle the roof. They should cheer as if the sound will bring us another Izzy Vazquez to light things up for a while. And this time we'd pay more attention, and he wouldn't have to fight Marquez four times before we showed him some respect. Now we'd let him ride out of the arena on our shoulders as we saluted "El Magnifico." Or maybe we'd just take him for granted all over again, the way we often do with fighters.
Izzy didn't accept many visitors in his final days. He knew how he looked and didn't want to be seen that way. Remember me as a champion, was his unspoken message, remember the way I moved you. Did
the medical staff realize a giant was in
their midst? Or was he just another sick little man? The hospital where Izzy died is only 13 minutes from the Olympic where he'd defeated Valbuena. Except it's not the Olympic, anymore. New owners bought it a year after Izzy won the title. Now it's a Korean church.
At a time when there were bigger stars than Israel Vazquez, he was a perfect garnishment for the business, the side dish that was often better than the main course. He was no-nonsense. He lived for boxing. When he died this week, he took a lot with him.
- Don Stradley
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