De La Hoya Proves a Certain Guy Wrong

By T.J. Simers

May 7, 2006 12 AM PT

LAS VEGAS — The things I do to motivate our local athletes.

LAS VEGAS -- Oscar De La Hoya, wearing one of his designer T-shirts with a picture of himself knocking out Macho Camacho on the front, is pounding the counter top in his MGM suite like it’s some kind of war drum.

In minutes, he’ll leave for the MGM Grand Garden Arena and his fight with Ricardo Mayorga. I let him know I’m relaxed. “Not more than me,” he says after saying goodbye to his wife and 4-month-old son.

“The baby just told me to kick his [behind],” Oscar tells trainer Floyd Mayweather.

“If you can’t do it for your baby, it’s over,” Mayweather tells him.

Mayweather is eating potato chips and notices the box of Krispy Kreme lemon doughnuts, Oscar’s favorites, which I brought him. He opens the box, smells them and sees there are four, and immediately understands the significance, reminded of Page 2’s prediction that Mayorga would dust him off in four rounds. He laughs.

Mayweather has no idea what’s going on, and just wants to eat, which prompts Oscar to reach across the counter to begin a Krispy Kreme tug-of-war with his trainer. If he runs out of energy in the late rounds, I’ll know why.

“All I’m going to tell you is to relax,” Mayweather says, his mouth full of doughnut. “Don’t get hyper.” At least that’s what I think he said.

ON THE long walk down the hotel hallway, it’s a scene out of “High Noon,” with Don King approaching from the other end. “Here comes the devil,” says Richard Schaefer, Oscar’s business manager.

“Get ready, get ready,” King says while passing Oscar, waving his American flag and laughing all the way to his room.

Later, Oscar leans over to me and says, “King has a new jacket. He always wore that one with the American flag, but I noticed the bright colors on this one.” I wouldn’t put it past King to try to blind Oscar before the big fight.

OSCAR ARRIVES at his dressing room, there’s a little skirmish at the door as an HBO cameraman gets in the way. Oscar pays no attention, and pulls up a chair in front of a TV and watches the HBO pay-per-view broadcast. If he intends to beat up Mayorga, I’m surprised he’s not watching the job the Suns are doing on the Lakers.

A boxing official hands Oscar a cup for his drug test and for the next 15 minutes he walks around nervously. “Sorry, can’t help you,” I tell him, because if The Times doesn’t allow us to help someone get into the Hall of Fame, I’m pretty sure this is off limits, too.

Someone from Mayorga’s camp arrives to watch Oscar’s hands being wrapped. It’s a 25-minute process, officials initialing the tape job with blue ink. After spending the last few days with Oscar, I wouldn’t be surprised if he requested the blue ink to match his blue trunks.

Max Kellerman and an HBO camera crew arrive. A very serious Kellerman sits next to Oscar and asks, “How do you feel?” And he wonders why he lost his TV show on Fox.

“You got to bring it up a notch,” Oscar shouts as Max finishes his subdued interview. Oscar’s unaware, of course, that someone has pushed Max’s mute button.

A music box is plugged in and Vicente Fernandez begins singing in Spanish about a poker player who lost his girl, tried to win her back and eventually she gets killed. I guess they misplaced the theme to “Rocky.”

IT’S 7:49, and Oscar is dancing around the room, and ignoring his brother, Joel, who is trying to show him what to do in the ring.

Three minutes later, the music is turned up and Oscar stops dancing to tell me it’s the CD he recorded, knowing how much I hate his singing. He’s joking, and I think I have my answer on how uptight he is.

Joel helps him put on his gloves, another Mayorga observer watching closely, and then Mayweather starts painting Oscar’s face with Vaseline. When Mayweather tells Oscar to hold his arms so he can plaster it under his armpits, too, Oscar makes a funny face. Tell me you wouldn’t.

Mayweather and Oscar begin sparring, the rest of his team clapping and telling him how good he looks. Just to make sure, the last thing he does before he leaves the room is look into the mirror, and with his boxing gloves, he combs his hair.

THE FIGHT starts at 8:33 -- 23 minutes later, it’s over. He pummels Mayorga, the referee tackling Oscar to keep him from throwing more punches. It’s clear he wouldn’t make a good running back, going down with the first hit.

A few minutes later, he arrives in his dressing room. “Thanks for the motivation, T.J.,” he says. “But it went past four rounds, and you’re going to get a lot of nasty e-mail.” I had no idea he liked to send e-mail.

Once again I catch him looking in the mirror, and he laughs. “I knew from the start when I stood in there I was going to win,” he says. “It took his heart away.”

After four months and six rounds, I ask what’s the first thing that comes to his mind now. “Krispy Kremes,” he says.

His wife, Millie, leans against a locker looking at her husband, who is being treated by a physician. “I was terrified. And now I’m relieved,” she says.

I mention the doctor has found a bump on his head, but more importantly a torn arm muscle, and he’ll have to wear a sling. He just might not be able to do middle-of-the-night baby duty as she has been waiting for now for some time.

“His right arm is still good,” she says, and I was right after all.

Oscar does lose in the end.

T.J. Simers can be reached at [email protected]. To read previous columns by Simers, go to latimes.com/simers.