In the name of beer sales and taco Tuesday nights, Cinco de Mayo has morphed from a symbol of anti-imperialist struggle into a lucrative marketing opportunity for corporate America. Cinco de Mayo’s fight night—a stage for high-profile fights and staggering paydays, with renowned headliners like Oscar De La Hoya and Floyd Mayweather Jr., generating millions in revenue—has, too, become a cash grab for the boxing industry.

This Cinco de Mayo weekend, Saúl “Canelo” Álvarez, this era’s top earner, is scheduled to take on Jaime Munguía and defend his super middleweight world titles. Canelo, who is heavily favored to win, will earn a guaranteed purse of an estimated $35 million. Munguía will come away with a pretty payday, too.

But another class of boxers goes unnoticed: opponents, the unsung heroes of the boxing world whose job it is to battle it out to prop up superstar fighters.

Boxing employs opponents to build up the winning records of the fighters known as prospects, who sit below contenders and world champions within the hierarchy of the sport. The industry considers prospects, who have promising futures, investments to protect. Prospects often enjoy support from major promoters, including safeguards such as careful placement in matches meant to assure their success.

Opponents, in contrast, are used as fodder, expected to lose while receiving very little pay—all to facilitate the ascent of the very tiny sliver of fighters who hit it big. There are 24,612 male and 2,192 female registered professional boxers worldwide. With 17 weight classes, each with four world championship titles, there are only 136 world championship slots. Less than 1% of males and only about 3% of females reach these lofty heights.

People toil for little pay with success unlikely in many pursuits: acting, music, electoral politics. But the sting is especially harsh for boxers, who face constant physical peril in a business uniquely primed to exploit. In this winner-take-all industry, fighters lose through literal defeats in the ring and through material setbacks in the economy. As one boxer described it to me, opponents are workhorses sent to the slaughterhouse.

Weigh-in for a 2023 Osaka event, at the offices of the Japan Boxing Commission. Courtesy of author.

California usually regulates the most boxing matches of any U.S. state and has made strides to protect fighters, but pay disparity for opponents persists. In a forthcoming report from UCLA’s Latino Policy and Politics Institute, Abel Valenzuela Jr., José Hernández, and I analyzed compensation data from the California State Athletic Commission.

In 2021, over half of the 526 regulated boxing matches in California were four- and six-rounders, the prospect-developing bouts in which opponents are most likely to fight. The California State Athletic Commission requires a minimum compensation of $100 per round for professional boxers, who might train four to eight weeks for a bout. A minimum wage worker in California, earning $16 per hour, grosses around $2,773 for a month of work. But in 2021, the median compensation for a four-round fight was just $1,500.

Opponents face further precarity due to their classification as independent contractors, which makes them ineligible for work benefits, and the protections of federal, state, and local labor standards. What’s more, fighters are expected to pay their managers between a tenth and a third of their gross earnings, and their trainers a tenth as well. A four- to eight-week training camp can cost fighters anywhere from $200 to $2,000. Some opponents actually lose money on a fight.

Though they are expected to lose, boxing opponents have their reasons for fighting. Some are driven by a passion and love for the sport, and their sense of belonging within the boxing community. For others, being a boxer brings them status, visibility, and recognition. Opponents supplement their income with other jobs. One boxer told me it’s better to be a McDonald’s worker and be a boxer than to just work at McDonald’s. The status of being a prizefighter, regardless of their success in the ring, affords opponents with dignity, pride, and purpose.

In 2022, I interviewed Derrick*, an opponent from northern California with a winning percentage of 19%, in 26 fights. Derrick recounted fighting three times in a single year, earning just under $5,000. In the third of those bouts, he fought with an injured eye, resulting in a detached retina that sidelined him for over a year.

Despite the limitations of his peripheral vision after eye surgery, Derrick continues to fight. Knowing that he’s expected to lose only fuels his determination to fight harder, and aim for unexpected victories. “I’m not just going to stand there and just get hit,” he told me. “I’m someone who will go out there and give it to you. Someone who will go out there and fight you and not just take an easy loss.” This mindset embodies resilience and a refusal to be defeated easily.

The pursuit of dignity, pride, and purpose is inspirational. But it should not get in the way of recognizing the exploitation that persists in the brutal world of boxing.

This weekend’s cash cow, Canelo, became a world champion by beating underpaid opponents in his early career—foes carefully chosen because they were fighters he could easily beat, and thus build up his experience and record. In his first eight fights, Canelo won seven matches and tied another; collectively, the eight fighters he faced had a losing record of nine wins, 16 losses, and one draw. (Miguel Vazquez, whom Canelo defeated twice, is the exception; he eventually became a world champion.) Canelo’s career was built on their labor.

I don’t single out Canelo to place blame, but rather to illuminate systemic issues within boxing. Most boxing fans are content with knowing only a handful of celebrity boxers like Canelo, Tyson Fury, Anthony Joshua, and Ryan Garcia. But it takes tens of thousands of underpaid fighters to maintain the ecosystem that allows the stars to thrive, and the rest of us to enjoy mega-fight spectacles. As consumers of the sport, we must remember them on big match weekends and work to improve their working conditions.  

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It’s Zócalo’s 20th birthday, and we hit the two decade milestone running—we hosted 21 events in 2023 to fulfill our mission of connecting people to ideas and to each other.

At our homebase at the ASU California Center in downtown Los Angeles, we discussed some of the biggest issues of the day—from artificial intelligence to surveillance. We enjoyed a special homecoming, hosting our first-ever event steps away from our namesake: Mexico City’s Plaza de la Constitución, otherwise known as the Zócalo, one of the largest public squares in the world. We traversed California, from Sacramento to Riverside, to discuss the needs of workers in low-wage sectors of the state’s economy. We traveled to Jackson, Mississippi, and to Memphis, Tennessee, to consider how sins of the past shape the present, and what might move us forward. We even threw a dance party—shout out to all 700 of you who boogied with us at the Port of L.A. on a Sunday afternoon!

Picking our favorite public programs each year is never easy, but these seven events reflect the variety of our work—and most importantly, kept us talking long after the discussions wrapped. Whether you came in person or watched virtually, you’re what makes our public square so robust. Thanks for being part of Zócalo, and we look forward to continuing the conversation next year.

Do We Need More Food Fights?

This emotional conversation and cooking demonstration brought together photographer Zahara Gómez Lucini, who compiled a cookbook that collects recipes from the families of desaparecidos—the tens of thousands of people who have gone missing in Mexico—and Maite Gomez-Rejón, a culinary historian and co-host of the “Hungry for History” podcast. Livestreamed and in person from LA Cocina de Gloria Molina’s demonstration kitchen in downtown L.A., the women prepared special guest Blanca Soto’s pozole from the cookbook and spoke about the power of a meal. Cooking does not just satisfy our hunger, they noted, but can also unite us, and in this case reunite us, with those who are no longer here. The special event, presented in partnership with LA Cocina de Gloria Molina and California Humanities, was part of our birthday series “What Connects Us?”

The 2023 Zócalo Book Prize: How Does a Community Save Itself? With Michelle Wilde Anderson

For 13 years, Zócalo has honored the author of the best nonfiction book that explores community and social connection, inviting them to visit us to collect their prize—$10,000 and a nifty Zócalo Rubik’s Cube—and deliver a lecture. In June, this year’s honoree Michelle Wilde Anderson arrived at a packed house at the ASU California Center and shared stories of hope from The Fight to Save the Town: Reimagining Discarded America, her book looking at the communities of Stockton, California; Josephine County, Oregon; Detroit, Michigan; and Lawrence, Massachusetts. “We have to invest in people where they live,” she told the evening’s moderator, Alberto Retana, president and CEO of South L.A.’s Community Coalition. The program also featured poet Paige Buffington, who joined us virtually to read her 2023 Zócalo Poetry Prize-winning submission, “From 20 Miles Outside of Gallup, Holbrook, Winslow, Farmington, or Albuquerque.” And, because this kicked off Zócalo’s 20th birthday celebration, the night ended with cake.

What Does Boxing Owe Its Champions?

The gloves were off at the ring (okay, the ASU California Center) as panelists—professional boxer and actress Kali “KO” Mequinonoag Reis, former middleweight champ Sergio “the Latin Snake” Mora, California State Athletic Commission executive director Andy Foster, and sport and ethnic studies scholar Rudy Mondragón—shared candid perspectives on the state of their sport. The discussion, presented in partnership with UCLA College, Division of Social Sciences and ASU Global Sport Institute, called for more protections for athletes and left the audience with a major question: What will be left of professional boxing if it does not do more to protect its athletes’ physical and financial well-being?

What Is a Good Job Now? For Fairness in the Workplace

What better way to get the attention of California politicians than by convening a conversation right on the Capitol steps in Sacramento? As part of the Zócalo Public Square series supported by The James Irvine Foundation, “What Is a Good Job Now?,” we brought together California State Senator Maria Elena Durazo, founding member of Inland Empire Amazon Workers United Sara Fee, and California Labor Commissioner assistant chief Daniel Yu for a memorable conversation on wage theft, unpaid overtime, dangerous working conditions, discrimination, and rising employer retaliation, moderated by our own Joe Mathews.

What Is the Value of Art?

Nobody called the fire department on us, but so many people showed up for this powerhouse night of arts and culture that we had to open a separate screening room. In anticipation of the international art fair Frieze Los Angeles, we curated a conversation on the state of the art world, inviting LAXART director Hamza Walker, artist and activist Andrea Bowers, writer and curator Helen Molesworth, and artist, cultural organizer, and co-founder of Meztli Projects Joel Garcia to break down some of artists’ greatest aesthetic, moral, and financial challenges, as well as their biggest opportunities for social change and community building.

How Does a Community Move With Music? A Diaspora Dance Party

We came. We shared our songs and stories of L.A. And we danced. We danced a lot. Zócalo’s first-ever dance party (another birthday series event), held at the Wilmington Waterfront Park at the Port of Los Angeles, was a smashing success. Los Angeles Times columnist Gustavo Arellano, the inaugural contributor to our ongoing “Diaspora Jukebox” playlist series, emceed. KCRW DJ Raul Campos and local Wilmington DJ Mario “Dred” Lopez kept the music flowing. Curation from Levitt Pavilion and performances by Pacifico Dance Company and Korean Classical Music and Dance Company wowed the crowd. If you needed a break from the dancing, we had food vendors, an art activation by LA Commons, and a pop-up Wilmington Art Walk at the ready. And glow sticks. So many glow sticks.

How Do We Hear America? A Special Evening of Music by Pulitzer Prize-Winning Composer Raven Chacon

We thought our final program of 2023 was pretty special, and you did, too: Zócalo’s audience voted “How Do We Hear America?” as the fan favorite event of the year. This night of music, co-presented with L.A.-based music collective wasteLAnd, ASU Gammage, and GRoW Annenberg, brought us together at the ASU California Center to watch and listen as the ensemble brought a selection of composer and musician Raven Chacon’s works to life. With our senses activated by the music and our bellies warm with tamales from Mama’s Tamales, and Tacos, Too, we think we ended the year on a high note.

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South Africans got it right when they made “kuning,” the isiZulu word that roughly translates to “it’s a lot,” one of the defining words of 2023.

It was a lot this year.

2023 seemed an epoch of crises: the highest number of global conflicts in three decades, myriad climate disasters that claimed more than 12,000 lives, and the erosion of democracies worldwide.

Amid all of it, Zócalo was here—sifting through the pressing stories and providing context, perspective, and humanity.

Our favorite 15 essays of the year, selected by the Zócalo staff and you, our readers, remind us that even in overwhelming times, people forge ahead. They think deeply. They ask questions. They create. They build community. And they even have some fun.

May you enjoy revisiting these writings as much as we did, as we ready to ring in a new year.

Boxers Know the Power of an Entrance

By Rudy Mondragón

Can anyone make an entrance like a boxer? Before moderating the Zócalo panel “What Does Boxing Owe Its Champions?,” scholar Rudy Mondragón made the case that the boxing ring entrance is the most important ritual in sport. More than a mere act of bravado, he writes, a ring entrance communicates everything from pride to dignity to political protest—in just a few ephemeral, glittering, bombastic moments.

A boxer’s entrance is more than just flash. It’s how they make their mark in the sport and the world, scholar Rudy Mondragón writes. Above, William “El Gallo Negro” King wears a Mexican sarape with a rooster and a sombrero de charro, embracing his Afro-Mexican roots. Photo by Rudy Mondragón.

How Is a Poem Like a Political Campaign?

By Derek Mong

Most of us haven’t given much thought to how poetry and political campaigning might be alike. But Zócalo contributing editor Derek Mong, who won a National Arts and Entertainment Journalism award for this essay, has given it serious thought. Aside from the obvious—that “both benefit from a clipboard”—he unearths deeper threads tying the pursuits together.

My Work as an In-Home Caregiver Shouldn’t Be This Hard

By Alva Rodriguez

Alva Rodriguez is one of more than 550,000 caregivers in California’s In-Home Supportive Services (IHSS) program—workers who help an estimated 650,000 disabled, blind, or elderly Californians continue living in their own homes. Writing from Fresno for our The James Irvine Foundation-funded series “What Is a Good Job Now?,” Rodriguez describes the deep precarity of the job—“one of the toughest and worst-paying you will find”— and reflects on ways to improve this essential line of work.

What Mourning Looks Like in Monterey Park

By Wendy Cheng

On January 21, 2023, a gunman opened fire and killed 11 people at Star Ballroom Dance Studio in Monterey Park, resulting in the deadliest mass shooting in Los Angeles County history. Wendy Cheng writes about the outpouring of community support and solidarity in the wake of the attack, and the ways a public memorial for the victims reflected the city’s unique multiethnic and multiracial history as a home for “immigrants and lost ones.”

Whose Sedona Is It, Anyway?

By Tom Zoellner

During the pandemic, Sedona, Arizona, temporarily stopped advertising in high-end travel magazines. In the place of well-heeled visitors have come day travelers and overnighters from nearby cities that some residents say are destroying “Slo-dona”—and the town finds itself stuck in a fierce debate about whether it should “yank back the welcome mat to the middle class,” writes Tom Zoellner. Published in the fall, the piece generated enough chatter that just recently the city and the chamber of commerce put out a joint statement in response.

Intellectual Snobbery is for the Birds

By Tim Birkhead

Ornithologist Tim Birkhead shares how an encounter with a hobbyist birdkeeper who breeds bullfinches (who are, if you aren’t aware, “humbly endowed”) led him down a new line of research into the phenomenon known as sperm competition, and a better understanding of reproduction in birds. While the subject of Birkhead’s essay might make a middle schooler giggle, the story itself makes a powerful point: Researchers need to listen to people outside academia’s ivory tower.

Tim Birkhead, one of the world’s leading bird biologists, shares why being open to learning from people outside of academia’s ivory tower—in this case hobbyist birdkeepers—can lead to “unexpected and exciting results.” Photo by T.R. Birkhead.

Dianne Feinstein’s Most Important Job Was an Unofficial One

By Joe Mathews

Zócalo columnist and democracy editor Joe Mathews has made some big proclamations this year. That San Diego is California’s “finest college town.” That we should call it the California, not the Colorado, River. That the Santa Cruz otter absolutely should have bitten back. But one of his most memorable takes came in the wake of Dianne Feinstein’s death. Reflecting on her long tenure in U.S. political life, Mathews makes a case that her greatest role in office was as California’s “last ambassador to the American government.”

Reckoning With Racist ‘Lynch Law’ and Rape Charges, a Century Later

By Margaret Burnham

For two years, Zócalo has worked on a project supported by the Mellon Foundation that asks: “How Should Societies Remember Their Sins?” This essay by Margaret Burnham, director of the Civil Rights and Restorative Justice Project at Northeastern University, shows how such reckonings can lead to action and change through the story of John Henry James. In 1898, James, a Black man in Virginia, was accused of raping a white woman, murdered by a lynch mob, and posthumously indicted for assault. Burnham details how, 125 years later, a judge dismissed the indictment thanks to a campaign by historians, lawyers, and community members. The decision opens a “path forward for a crucial American reckoning with a thousand-plus state executions of Black males accused of assaulting white females,” Burnham writes.

The Struggle for a Latino Place in Chicago

By Mike Amezcua

Historian Mike Amezcua explores the parallel struggles of mid-20th century Black and Latino Chicagoans overcoming segregation and making space for their communities. “This history of Latino placemaking is far less known than the civil rights struggle led by King,” Amezcua writes. “But it remains an important context for later developments in Chicago’s urban and political history.” Readers were passionate about Amezcua’s piece, writing it in as a favorite in our audience survey.

My Mom is Out of Prison, But I’m Still Not Free

By Angel Gilbert

Most young people look forward to college as a time of independence, but when Columbia University student Angel Gilbert started school, she had already been on her own “for far too long.” In her Zócalo essay, Gilbert, one of millions of young people who have had an incarcerated parent, shares what it was like to grow up with a mother behind bars. “My emotional pain will never truly heal,” she writes. However, she adds that once she reaches her goal of becoming a lawyer, all of her experiences ensure that she will fight harder for her future marginalized clients.

Destined to Be Trans, Muslim, and Indonesian

By Amar Alfikar

Growing up in a traditional Muslim neighborhood in Java, Indonesia in the 1990s, Amar Alfikar, a trans man and activist, shares how he leaned into family and faith to understand—and embrace—his true identity. “If it was not for my family’s acceptance, I would have left my religion,” he writes. “Instead, I am pursuing an academic career in theology and religious studies and have become firm in my faith and thinking about gender diversity in Islam.”

Can Two Friends Agree to Disagree on Abortion in Post-Roe America?

By Joanne Samuel Goldblum and Colleen Shaddox

Joanne Samuel Goldblum and Colleen Shaddox found sisterhood raging about injustice—but they disagree about abortion. Read how they’ve worked to maintain their bond in post-Roe America. “Being truly pro-life or pro-choice requires us to knock down rhetorical barriers and focus on the areas where we wholeheartedly agree,” they write, “that every child has a right to be placed on a path to success and that no mother should have to sacrifice her own success to make that happen.”

Where I Go: The Candy Wrapper Museum

By Darlene Lacey

Darlene Lacey was 15 when she started collecting old candy wrappers. Eventually, she turned her hobby into an online museum. For our series “Where I Go,” she gives truth to the adage that one person’s trash is another person’s treasure, and shows the power of appointing ourselves as the curators of the things that matter to us the most.

Candy Wrapper Museum curator Darlene Lacey was 15 when she started collecting for her “roadside attraction.” Building the online museum has led to all kinds of surprises—including being sent a Necco scrapbook saved from a dumpster (pictured above). Courtesy of author.

Zócalo’s Diaspora Jukebox

As part of Zócalo Public Square’s 20th birthday celebration, we’ve been sharing the sounds of the Southland with “Diaspora Jukebox,” a series of playlists that celebrate the unique communities and musical traditions that represent greater Los Angeles. Our first “drop”—which had us moving to the rhythm of the city, dancing like it was 1982, and partying like a Zacatecano—culminated in an IRL dance party we threw at the Port of L.A. 

The Human Costs of Building a World-Class City

By Ankush Pal and Anubhav Kashyap

And, drumroll please: Our first-ever audience choice award goes to authors Ankush Pal and Anubhav Kashyap! They take a clear-eyed look at New Delhi’s effort to “polish” the city ahead of this year’s G20 summit, at the expense of poor and working-class people. “Rather than improving life in the city for everyone,” they write, “the beautification projects funnel public resources into creating a cosmopolitan bubble for a few.”

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Boxing has big pictures (Raging Bull, Creed), big personalities (Muhammad Ali, the original G.O.A.T.), and big spectacles (pay-per-view fights adorned with flashing lights, raucous crowds, and stylized ring entrances). You might be forgiven for thinking that being a professional fighter translates into making big money.

But the challenges contemporary boxers face are not only physical and mental, but overwhelmingly financial. This begs the question: What does boxing owe its champions? This was the title of last night’s Zócalo program, presented in partnership with UCLA College, Division of Social Sciences and ASU Global Sport Institute. It all came down to, as moderator Rudy Mondragón put it, “centering the boxer as the worker.”

Mondragón, a scholar of ethnic and sports studies at UCLA, was joined on stage at the ASU California Center in downtown Los Angeles by California State Athletic Commission executive director Andy Foster, former middleweight champ and DAZN host Sergio “the Latin Snake” Mora, and professional boxer and actress Kali “KO” Mequinonoag Reis.

Before diving in, Mondragón noted that boxers are independent contractors with no employee-employer relationships, as in other professional sports leagues. This usually means no collective healthcare, minimum salary, workers compensation, or pension. The lack of security hits harder because boxing is such “high risk work”: many professional boxers wind up physically unwell and penniless in their later lives. Any story of progress for boxing will require “igniting conversations and potential future action that will require collective effort among all boxing stakeholders,” Mondragón added later. 

“I believe that fighters have distinct stories,” he said. Turning first to Reis, he asked her to tell hers.

Raised in East Providence, Rhode Island, Reis is a member of the Seaconke Wampanoag Tribe and is the first Indigenous woman to become a World Champion fighter. She is the baby in a family of five and described her upbringing as artistic, musically-inclined, and focused on playing sports.

“The solo aspect of boxing was intriguing,” she said. “In boxing, you have to be self-accountable.” When she asked people to help her learn the sport, they repeatedly told her that she should probably “do girl things” instead. But Reis persisted, eventually convinced a fighter in her community to teach her, and joined a gym at the age of 14. “It was love at first punch.”

Mora, who was born and raised in East Los Angeles, shared three influences that led him down the boxing-as-a-career trajectory. The first was knocking out his friends when they sparred at community BBQs—what he calls the East L.A. version of The Little Rascals—through which he learned that he was a good fighter. Second was needing high school credit and, thus, enrolling in a program that included boxing as a sport credit. And third, a police officer mentor reassured Mora that no matter what happened with fighting, he would always have other career options, including becoming a police officer himself. This mentor encouraged him to at least give the sport a real shot.

Illustration by Soobin Kim.

But it was being selected for the reality television show The Contender that launched Mora’s financial success. The show featured professional boxers as contestants and, in true reality TV fashion, they lived under one roof and they sparred. Mora won the first season. The prize: a million dollars.

When he joined The Contender, Mora was in the red (“I had minus $150,” he said) and his highest paycheck from a fight had been $11,000 (“I thought I was rich!”). But that was by no means good enough to carve out and sustain a living. “A reality show saved me,” Mora later stated, more pointedly.

Mora’s and Reis’s stories, though distinct, coalesced and intersected throughout the evening’s conversation. They described hustling, moving in and out of various gigs and jobs, and struggling through poverty. “I just did whatever I could do,” Reis said. She braided hair, fixed motorcycles, was a waitress, personal trainer, club security guard, and a residential counselor at a group home for girls. It got so bad, she said, that she had to file as homeless to receive an Electronic Benefits Transfer (EBT) card.

Mora cut his friends’ hair for $3 a pop. “I never really had a job. I never applied for a job,” he said.

Both fighters described moving up from the “B side.” Foster jumped in to explain.

“I’m concerned with the B side. Those people don’t have anybody,” he said. Promoters who have signed boxers typically set up matches that allow their boxers to win. The B side boxer is the other guy: the “underdog” or “underside” of the match ticket—somebody with no manager and no promoter, the person they “bring in to lose.” The B side boxer has to be competitive enough for the Commission to approve the fight, but shouldn’t be good enough to win, Foster said. In the past, B siders often received just $1 to fight.

Mondragón highlighted some progress on this front: Under Foster’s leadership, in 2016, a regulation passed that outlawed the $1 contract.

The panelists discussed other promising solutions to make the industry of boxing more fair and stable, especially in California. Since there is no centralized governance of boxing, states regulate boxing differently. California regulates the most boxing events in the country and is home to the largest share of the over 23,000 registered professional boxers (3,300 males, 150 females). In 1982, Foster said, the state launched a pension program for boxers funded by ticket sales (not taxes).

When a boxer turns 50 they can access those funds, but many boxers don’t know about this. Mora himself has a pension, having fought in California, and found out about it only three weeks ago after talking to Mondragón about this event. As a remedy, Foster’s commission has hired investigators to look for these fighters, and has worked with the Mexican Consulate since many fighters with “lost” pensions are Mexican nationals.

Beside getting access to the pension, Foster, Reis, and Mora all advocated securing health insurance for fighters—perhaps through unionization—and acknowledged a need for better financial literacy. “Financial education is the main thing I would want fighters to be a part of,” Mora said.

As Mondragón wrapped up the discussion, online audience questions poured in. One asked the boxers: What is one thing you’d want to tell your younger self as a key piece of advice for those that look up to you now?

Mora didn’t hesitate: “There’s a great lesson in getting your butt kicked. Every kid needs to get their butt kicked. It teaches you humility, it teaches you respect for another person, it teaches you that you’re fallible, it teaches you that you need to work hard.”

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The first time I really paid attention to boxing ring entrances—the long, celebratory walks fighters take from their dressing rooms to the ring before a bout—was in 1992, when I watched the classic match between Julio César Chávez and Hector Camacho that symbolically pitted Mexico against Puerto Rico. I was a 7-year-old U.S.-born Mexican, yet it was Camacho’s entrance that drew me in: the blaring strains of McFadden and Whitehead’s “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now”; the flashy Captain Puerto Rico outfit; the way Camacho danced his way to the ring.

Camacho lost the fight, but he won the narrative—at least, as far as I was concerned. His ring entrance was a bravado performance of political and cultural resistance. It made such a strong impression on me that it launched me into my career researching the political economy of boxing. Today, I excavate ring entrances to understand the ways boxers make their mark on their sport—and the world.

The ring entrance allows boxers to reach new markets and increase their earning potential. It also provides a way for them to express themselves, and to communicate messages of political and cultural dissent. For this reason, the boxing ring entrance is the most important ritual in sport. It forces the world to witness boxers in all their performative glory.

Every single boxer in the history of the sport, dating back to the establishment of the 1867 Marquess of Queensberry rules, has made that long walk. Jack Johnson blew kisses at racist fans who razzed him in Sydney in 1908, and enjoyed adulation during ring entrances in later decades. In 1989, Sugar Ray Leonard entered the ring to fight Thomas “Hitman” Hearn wearing a white and red-striped robe with the word “Amandla” stitched on the back. Amandla is the isiNguni word for power, and was used by the African National Congress as a rallying cry in efforts against apartheid in South Africa. Ring entrances are spaces where boxers exercise agency and express their cultures, lived experiences, and social identities.

An effective political ring entrance has three crucial components. The first is music, which helps boxers communicate pointed messages. In the 1990s, when Mike Tyson entered the ring to Public Enemy’s “Welcome to the Terrordome,” it amplified Black hip-hop culture, and Chuck D’s powerful message. When I spoke with Chuck D and asked him what it meant to him when Tyson entered the ring to Public Enemy’s song, he replied, “Well, Tyson never lost when he did.” By linking his athletic prowess to a soundtrack that spoke truth to power, Tyson legitimated and boosted calls against racial violence.

The second is fashion and style. Boxers get to select their own uniforms and ring outfits, and their fashion choices are often connected to their lived experience and culture. World champion Kali Reis describes her purple-and-white, wampum-festooned trunks as “boxing regalia”—and they are a direct manifestation of her experiences as a multiracial Black Indigenous woman, hearkening to the tradition of fancy dancing, a type of dance performed at powwows that was reserved for men until Indigenous women challenged that societal norm. Kali is part of this rich rebellious history. By wearing garments that express her identity, she rebels against dominant structures and ideologies.

The final crucial component is an entourage. Popularized by Sugar Ray Robinson, the entourage is a traveling team, rooted in a boxer’s obligation to bring along the people who have contributed toward their success. Entourages are also a way to show the world who you are and what you stand for. In 2002, world champion boxer Fernando Vargas was scheduled to fight against Oscar De La Hoya. Vargas entered the ring with his boxing hero Julio César Chávez, a Mexican boxing icon who represented a Mexican working-class ethos, to express his pride in being Brown and Mexican. This ring entrance was particularly powerful given its timing: In post 9/11 America, the population of immigration detention centers was rising, along with anti-immigrant sentiment.

On September 13, 2018, after a successful weigh-in at Save Mart Arena in Fresno, California, fighter José Ramirez wears his “Pro-Immigrant and Proud” t-shirt. Its message is a response to President Donald Trump’s anti-immigration administration. Photo by Rudy Mondragón.

Kali "KO Mequinonoag" Reis enters the ring with her entourage, the Ashaa Takook Bird Group of the Kumeyaay/Diegueno Nation, at Sichuan Casino in El Cajon, California on August 20, 2021. Photo by Rudy Mondragón.

Deseree "Shines" Jamison enters the ring wearing a boxing robe that reads "Queen of the Ring" at Commerce Casino in Commerce, California on July 30, 2022. Photo by Rudy Mondragón.

Today, fighters such as José Ramirez continue to use ring entrances for collective empowerment. Ramirez’s parents were Mexican immigrants to California’s Central Valley, and he grew up witnessing the harsh work conditions they endured doing agricultural work. Ramirez started boxing at seven; at 14, he began working the bell pepper fields to help his family. Somehow, he kept up his training. In 2012, he represented the U.S. at the London Olympics, and soon after, he made his professional debut.

In the first years of Ramirez’s career, he partnered with the California Latino Water Coalition to raise awareness about funding for water infrastructure. When Donald Trump became president, and delivered his now-infamous speech calling Mexican immigrants murderers and rapists, Ramirez leaped to action again. At his first world title fight, against Amir Imam in March 2018, he used his ring entrance to unveil a pro-immigrant, anti-Trump message. He wore a white and red Fresno baseball jersey and a red cap, similar to Trump’s MAGA hats, but refashioned with the message “Pro-Immigrant and Proud.” His trainer at the time, the famed Freddie Roach, accompanied him to the ring, wearing the same hat. Ramirez won the fight, earning the World Boxing Council World Super Lightweight championship.

I made it my priority to attend his next fight, in Fresno, and to sit ringside, so I could see what he would do next.

Seconds before Ramirez’s descent to the ring, fans yelled, “You can do this s–t!” and “Avenal homie!,” referencing his Central Valley hometown. Ramirez and his entourage stood at the edge of the tunnel, wearing their “Pro-Immigrant and Proud” hats and t-shirts and waiting for their cue. The sounds of his theme song, “Yo Soy José De Avenal” started playing, and they began their walk.

The song was performed live by Chuy Jr. (son of Jesus “Chuy” Chavez of the well-known norteño group Los Originales de San Juan), who composed the song for Ramirez in 2017. A corrido, or traditional Mexican narrative song, it is about Ramirez’s roots in Avenal, his perfectionism in and out of the ring, his courageous no-quit spirit, his family, and his mother’s hometown of La Piedad, Michoacán. Its lyrics frame a compelling counternarrative to Trump’s racist rhetoric. For the 80 seconds of Ramirez’s ring entrance, the fight centered Mexican culture, unity, and the visibility of undocumented immigrants.

I sat down with Ramirez a few weeks after this fight and asked him what “pro-immigrant and proud” meant to him. Whether it was our president or our neighbors, he explained, “the reason they like to divide people is to make them weak. The message is for me to remind everyone that they should be proud that they’re immigrants and they come here and are doing something positive.”

Ring entrances are ephemeral, only lasting a few minutes. But through music, fashion and style, and entourages, these shows subtly and overtly communicate pride, dignity, and at times political protest. Beyond the pyrotechnics and pageantry, there is a story in every ring entrance.

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As a young man in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, without a college degree, he didn’t have much of a choice. So he did what countless black men have done for more than a century to support their families: He turned to prizefighting. As Wilder said of his daughter during his Olympic debut in 2008, “I want to make sure she’s financially stable. I want to make sure she doesn’t have to struggle. I want to make sure I can support her through college.” In other words, Wilder told the world that he was a man, joining a long line of fighters who have taken the same stance as a way of defining themselves in the perilous world outside the ring.

For more than a century, black prizefighters have fought to shift the public narrative on their sport towards a patriarchal view of manhood. While most conversations about a boxer’s worth revolve around wins and losses and aggression in the ring, black boxers have expressed their ideals by intertwining their physicality, financial success, and the ability to take care of their families.

The first black fighter to publicly connect his success boxing with supporting his family was George Godfrey, Colored Heavyweight Champion from 1883 to 1888. When the press interviewed him, Godfrey rarely missed a moment to highlight his patriarchy. As Godfrey told the San Francisco Chronicle in 1888, “I’ve got a wife and six children, and I follow fighting as people follow any other calling.” In an interview three years later, he said, “I have a family to look out for and I must get something for them to live on should any accident take me from them.” He told a reporter that an upcoming $5,000 fight would help him support his kids’ college education.

Historian Kevin Gaines suggests that at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, “elite blacks celebrated the home and patriarchal family as institutions that symbolized the freedom, power, and security they aspired to.” According to Gaines, “African Americans laid claim to the respectability and stability withheld by the state and by minstrelsy’s slanders.” Celebration of the black family, then, represented victory over the worst effects of slavery, Jim Crow, and structural racism. Being a black man in America has often meant proving oneself to a society that has tried to deny one’s manhood, and the legacy of prizefighters shows how this worked.

At a time when the popular press dehumanized black citizens and mocked black fighters as childlike Sambos, Godfrey’s public persona countered those depictions. In the 1880s, newspapers filled their pages with advertisements for black-face minstrel shows, cartoons depicting black people as Sambo caricatures, and articles mocking black Americans. This racism flooded the sports section, too. White writers commonly referred to black fighters as “darkey,” “coon,” “sambo,” and “nigger.” They called Godfrey “Old Chocolate.”

White fighters didn’t treat their black counterparts any better. Heavyweight champion John L. Sullivan told Godfrey, “George, when I get ready to fight rats, dogs, pigs and niggers, I’ll give you the first chance.”

Godfrey understood these attempts to treat him as less than a man. Inside the ring, he tried to take his anger out on his opponents—he bragged he liked to fight white fighters because they were easier to beat.

Outside the ring, he paraded his patriarchy for the public to see. He talked about spending time with his family, and whenever Godfrey could avoid the hyper-masculine world of the boxing gym, he did. He owned his own gymnasium in Boston, where he taught lessons to a mainly white clientele looking to build their bodies, but he also had his house outfitted with sparring and exercise equipment, so he could train with his family. As one paper noted, “Godfrey would rather train at his home than elsewhere, for he is more contented and does not have to worry about his family.” He defined being a man not just as being a top fighter; he saw himself as a man because he took care of his family.

Godfrey was not alone. Hank Griffin, one of the top black heavyweights in the early 1900s, regularly brought his wife and kids with him while training, and could be spotted in Los Angeles rowing a boat with his family as he conditioned for upcoming fights. Heavyweight Joe Jeannette brought his wife and kids with him when he fought overseas, and could be seen touring museums with them. After he retired he bought a piece of land in New Jersey and built a gas station and a boxing gym so he could keep his family close.

In 1938, the greatest fighter of them all, Joe Louis, authored an essay titled, “Why Married Men Become Champions,” where he extolled the virtues of family life. In fact, very few fighters failed to perform a public persona of the manly patriarch.

Of course, there are exceptions. Floyd “Money” Mayweather, the most famous fighter today, who has earned nearly a half billion dollars in the ring, plays up his misogyny instead. The flashy clothes, cars, and jewelry we often see fighters wearing are another way to publicly display manhood—aimed as a show of bravado towards other men.

The bling of financial success, however, is not insurance against society’s judgments. In fact, it only invites closer inspection—particularly when a fighter goes broke. Many great black fighters have become penniless, including George Dixon, Joe Walcott, Sam Langford, Joe Louis, Ezzard Charles, Jimmy Bivins, Beau Jack, Aaron Pryor, and Rocky Lockridge. Many were meal ticket men, who fought in low-paying fights, but their financial losses were celebrated as much as if they had lost in the ring.

100 years ago, one white writer observed, “It seems to be an unfortunate trait with the colored fighters that they have not sense enough to lay up a little of worldly goods against the coming of old age. Practically every one of them has been an object of charity at some time or other. Contrast these negro boxers with the average white scrapper of the same skill and prominence. While the colored man grovels in poverty the white chap toils in the lap of luxury.” This feeling that the press will soon remind him that he lacks the manly discipline required to succeed looms over the black fighter, waiting to count him out. Embracing the role of the patriarch is one way to fight back against that narrative.

Deontay Wilder, WBC heavyweight title holder. Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

130 years after Godfrey’s reign, Deontay Wilder, the heavyweight champion of the world, has positioned himself as so many before him have. Since 2008, he has consistently linked his manhood to his desire to support his family. In a 2017 interview, he noted “I keep boxing for my children, for all of them. I’m building a legacy for my children. I’m making wealthbread for them. Not only what they eat but for their families, too … their kids and their kids’ kids. There’s going to be a long history line of Wilders eating.” Like Godfrey, Wilder trains with his kids around the gym. They are with him stretching, watching him spar, and they join him on fight night, too.

Wilder presents himself as a father—the ultimate dad—to an American society that routinely, and publicly, depicts black men as deadbeat dads. In 1998, Sports Illustrated infamously placed a young black boy on their cover holding a basketball, with the caption “Where’s Daddy?” The accompanying story was an expose of athletes, mainly black men, and their inability to consistently be in their kids’ lives. Sports Illustrated, like other media outlets, traded on a tired trope. Wilder knows this. In fact, every black man knows this.

In his latest fight, on March 3, 2018, Wilder faced Afro-Cuban Luis “King Kong” Ortiz, another gladiator heavyweight with a daughter who has special needs. At the end of the fight, a 10th-round knockout win by Wilder, a beautiful thing happened. After slugging each other across nearly 30 minutes, the two battlers hugged each other, acknowledging the sacrifice both men made for their families. A few minutes later, in his post-fight interview, Wilder told the world the fight represented “two fathers fighting in the ring for their daughters.”

When Wilder keeps his family in the public eye as he did at the end of that fight, he is saying “I am a man” on terms other than those offered by the world. And as long as society keeps denying black men an unabridged path to manhood, black men will turn to boxing to announce it.

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