Journeyman in a Fight for His Life

There were no autograph seekers when Ruben Contreras landed at LAX the night of May 25 for a fight three days later at Staples Center -- no media mob to hound him, no cameras or tape recorders.

Scant attention was paid when Contreras weighed in two days later outside Staples Center in the shadow of Julio Cesar Chavez, who was the main attraction in the fight show the night of May 28.

They share a homeland and profession, but little else. Chavez is generally regarded as Mexico’s greatest boxer, still able, at 42, to headline a major pay-per-view event. Contreras is a 32-year-old journeyman from Ciudad Juarez who would soon lose for the 17th time in 29 fights in the flyweight division, where 112-pounders toil in relative anonymity.

Contreras arrived at Staples Center early that afternoon, before many of the vendors, ushers and parking lot attendants.

His fight against undefeated Brian Viloria was the second match on a 10-fight card, staged around 4:30 before mostly empty seats.

The fight was largely uneventful, ringsiders recalled, lacking the type of savage pummeling that might presage what came next:

Fifty-five seconds into the sixth of eight scheduled rounds, Contreras turned his back on Viloria and said he could fight no more. After returning to his corner, he complained of a headache. Wobbly, he made his way out of the ring, then collapsed after a few steps and suffered a seizure.

He left on a stretcher, taken by ambulance to California Hospital Medical Center, where he underwent 2 1/2 hours of surgery to remove a blood clot surrounding his brain, and remains unconscious.

Suddenly, people began paying attention to Ruben Contreras.

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Contreras, who began his pro career in 1993 in Juarez, was someone promoters would call at the last minute to fill a hole in the card, knowing that he would be in good shape, but pose no serious threat to a bigger-name opponent.

Beginning in 1996, Contreras lost four consecutive fights and six out of eight. Twice during that run, he was stopped in the first round. From 1998 to 2003, Contreras lost five in a row. In all, he has lost eight times by knockout or technical knockout, half of those occurring in the first round.

He never made much money in the ring, typically receiving $2,000 a fight minus 15% for his trainer.

To boost his earnings, Contreras moved with his wife, 11-year-old son and 4-year-old daughter across the border six years ago to El Paso, where he moonlighted as a carpenter specializing in kitchen cabinetry.

Recently, Contreras’ telephone had been cut off.

“I’d call him to tell him he had an offer to fight,” Edgar Sanchez Aguirre, his Juarez trainer, said Friday, “but the call wouldn’t go through.”

Contreras rode his bike from El Paso across the border to Aguirre’s Manuel Auza Prieto gym in Juarez to save the bus or taxi fare.

Contreras didn’t have a formal manager, often arranging fights and travel plans himself.

“He didn’t want to pay the percentage to a manager,” Aguirre said. “I always accompanied him when the fight was close by, but not when it was far away because he didn’t want to buy the extra ticket.”

In the last year and a half, Contreras’ fortunes in the ring seemed to turn, beginning with a split-decision victory in El Paso over Carlos Madrigal in November 2003. Madrigal was 20-4 heading into that match.

A year ago, Contreras beat Tony Valdez (5-1) on a third-round TKO; lost a decision to Hugo Ramirez (19-2); fought to a draw with David Martinez (12-0); and lost by decision to Will Grigsby (16-2-1), who would go on to win the International Boxing Federation light-flyweight title.

So when Top Rank Inc. matchmaker Brad Goodman was looking for someone to face Austreberto Juarez on a card held Friday night in Oxnard, he thought of Contreras, who had become a credible opponent.

Contreras agreed to the match but never made it to Oxnard.

Viloria, 24, a Hawaiian with a 16-0 record, was set to fight for the World Boxing Council’s flyweight title in July and needed a tuneup bout. “We were looking for rounds,” said Ruben Gomez, Viloria’s trainer.

A Staples Center match was made with Alejandro Moreno, but Viloria had beaten him easily two years ago and “Brian needed to face a tough fighter,” said Gary Gittelsohn, Viloria’s manager.

Finding credible opponents in a sparsely populated division near the bottom of the weight scale can be difficult. Goodman pointed out that Contreras (9-17-3) was already training for the Oxnard fight, was maintaining his weight and had improved as a fighter.

Viloria’s side agreed.

Contreras would be paid $4,000, double his normal purse, plus travel expenses.

The fight required approval by the California State Athletic Commission.

Dean Lohuis, acting executive director of the commission, took a look at his fighter data base -- a collection of three-by-five index cards stored in shoeboxes -- and figured Viloria vs. Contreras was a fair match.

Lohuis has been rating fighters for more than two decades, before computers were readily available. He developed his own rating system, assigning a letter grade to each fighter.

“In coming up with my grade, I don’t just look at the record,” Lohuis said. “I look at how many times a fighter has knocked opponents out or been knocked out himself, whether he has had any serious cuts, any other serious injuries.”

Lohuis rates his fighters on a scale from A to E. And he has a strict rule: A fighter may not fight an opponent who is more than two letters ahead of him in Lohuis’ rating system.

“An A can’t fight a D,” he said. “To me, that means the fighter has no chance of winning, but is just being used.”

In Lohuis’ system, Viloria was a B, Contreras a C.

“Approving that match was something I didn’t even have to think twice about,” Lohuis said.

Two steps remained before Contreras could qualify for the match: a physical and neurological exam and a weigh-in. Neither proved an impediment.

The neurological exam involves a half-hour session in which fighters are asked simple questions (Who are you? Where are you? How old are you?) and given a test of basic arithmetic. The neurologist listens to the fighter’s speech patterns and tests short-term memory by showing the boxer three items and then asking the fighter to recall them several minutes later. The fighter’s eye movements, arm and leg strength and reflexes are tested.

“The purpose of the tests is to look for cumulative damage that has come over time because of multiple blows to the boxer’s head,” said neurologist Richard Gluckman, who has been involved in the program since it was instituted by the California commission in the mid-’80s. “But you are not going to be able to spot somebody’s potential for suffering a subdural or epidural hemorrhage with these tests. No test can do that.

“Boxing is inherently a dangerous sport. You’ve got a fighter trying to give another fighter a concussion, trying to hit him in the head.”

Another neurologist, who asked that his name not be used because he had no first-hand knowledge of Contreras’ condition, said, “If [Contreras] suffered a traumatic hemorrhage caused by a blow in the fight, having him pass our neurological exam one minute before he stepped in the ring would not have mattered. The whole idea is to make sure the fighter is capable of defending himself.”

That Friday afternoon, Contreras weighed in at 108 3/4 pounds.

Contreras appeared effective enough to pose problems for Viloria.

“The truth is, I did not think Viloria looked very good,” said promoter Bob Arum, head of Top Rank, who was sitting ringside. “It was a relatively dull fight. I was very disappointed in Viloria’s performance.”

Lohuis, also watching from ringside, wrote one word on a notepad to describe the fight: “competitive.”

That changed in the fifth round, when Viloria landed several stiff uppercuts. As the bout continued into the sixth round, few fans were concentrating on the two men exchanging blows. Ringside, television personnel checked headphones and camera positions, the boxers serving as stand-ins for the pay-per-view telecast, which would not begin for 90 minutes.

Fifty-five seconds into that round, with blood coming from his nose and a laceration in his mouth, Contreras suddenly stopped fighting and turned his back on Viloria.

The Hawaiian fighter, stunned by Contreras’ sudden capitulation, backed off.

“I hit him with a couple of uppercuts in the fifth round and the guy was bleeding out of his nose,” Viloria said. “I think I broke his nose and he couldn’t breathe after that.”

Said Arum: “I couldn’t figure out why the guy was quitting.”

Gittelsohn, Viloria’s manager, was initially unhappy with his fighter’s reaction. He had told the fighter previously that, although he possessed terrific skills, he lacked a killer instinct.

As ringside physician Paul Wallace came over to examine Contreras, Gittelsohn talked to Viloria in his corner.

“Next time, you’ve got to be throwing punches until the ref steps in,” Gittelsohn told him. “You have to nail [Contreras], even if he turns his back on you.”

Later, Gittelsohn told a reporter, “I don’t disavow what I said. But, of course, I had no idea what was happening to Contreras. Sometimes people forget these fighters are putting their lives on the line every time they step in there.”

It soon became obvious that Contreras was in trouble. When Gomez, Viloria’s trainer, came over to see how Contreras was feeling, the fighter complained of a headache in the rear of his skull. Gomez raced over to his own corner, grabbed an ice bag and brought it back as Contreras was helped to a stool.

After he sat for a few minutes, with Viloria receiving congratulations from his handlers and scattered applause from the crowd, Contreras was helped up.

“Hold on to him,” Gomez yelled to Contreras’ corner. “He looks a little wobbly.”

Contreras gingerly made it through the ropes and down the few steps leading to the floor. “I feel like I’m going to pass out,” he told his handlers.

Then Contreras lost consciousness, suffering a seizure, said Wallace, the ring physician, who later added, “Nothing significant happened in the fight -- nothing you would think would cause an injury like that.”

Paramedics, on hand at Staples Center as required by the California commission, rushed Contreras to the trauma center at California Hospital Medical Center several blocks away.

The crowd was unaware of what had happened. All fans knew was that all action inside the ring had come to a halt. Under commission rules, a fight cannot take place without the presence of an ambulance and its crew. Because both had departed with Contreras, the next fight could not begin until another medical crew arrived. When ring announcer Barry LeBrock informed the crowd, some booed.

En route in the ambulance, paramedics alerted the hospital. The prompt action was crucial, said David Duarte, a trauma physician who attended to the fighter.

“That saved his life,” he said. “If he had gone more than another 30 minutes, he would have had irreversible brain damage.”

An examination revealed that a blood clot was forming. After surgery, Contreras was put into a medically induced coma to reduce his body movement and allow the swelling in his brain to subside.

As Contreras lay in critical condition, word spread. For Viloria, the elation of the victory was soon dampened. He made several calls to the hospital to find out Contreras’ condition.

“My whole family is praying for Ruben Contreras,” Viloria said.

An aunt and uncle of Contreras’ living in Los Angeles were unaware their nephew was even in town until seeing news reports. Contreras’ wife, Nancy, and other relatives in El Paso were notified. Since the family arrived, all have refused to speak to the media.

Under commission rules, a fighter’s purse is held if the fighter himself is unable to receive it. But while the $4,000 earned by Contreras remains in the commission’s hands, Arum has given Nancy Contreras $2,500 with the promise of more if necessary. All medical bills will be paid by Top Rank’s insurance, and Arum has kept rooms at the Wilshire Grand indefinitely for use by the Contreras family.

“Obviously, we feel very bad,” Arum said. “Unfortunately, this is not the first time this has happened in boxing. And in most cases, it ends badly.”

Contreras remained in critical but stable condition Friday night, said hospital spokeswoman Katreena Salgado, adding, “When you’re dealing with a brain injury, it’s unpredictable.”

The hospital has received widespread expressions of concern, including a message from Mexican President Vicente Fox.

Like others in Juarez, Aguirre, the trainer, was hoping for the best for his friend.

“His wasn’t a career of triumphs, truthfully. He was basically a fighter who drew or lost,” Aguirre said. “But he is a good boy, responsible and disciplined. He never got crossways with anyone. Here’s hoping he recovers. He is a good person.”

Times staff writers Chris Kraul and Cecilia Sanchez in Mexico City and Paul Gutierrez in Los Angeles contributed to this report.