Blood

Blood — by Juan Pablo Gargiulo

DJ's heart exploded when he was seventeen years old. He was six feet tall, one hundred twenty-two pounds with a seventy-inch reach. Six years later, he stood in the center of the ring, thirty pounds heavier, his fist raised aloft, as the Austin Golden Gloves champion.

David Dominguez, Jr. is the least violent person you will ever meet: the unlikeliest of boxers. A quiet, mild-mannered man in his mid-twenties, he is almost apologetically respectful. He looks at everyone with the same warm, kind eyes. When speaking to Richard or Don — or any of the trainers from the Lord's gym — it's Mr. Lord or Mr. Spencer: he would never dare put himself on the same level as one of his coaches. DJ has confessed to me, through our many conversations, that he doesn't drink, smoke, or do drugs. He prefers to remain "clear-headed." When he isn't studying for his financial securities license or working as a floor salesman at Sleep Experts, DJ watches anime and reads Batman comic books. He regularly attends First Baptist Church with his parents, whom he still lives with on a farm forty-five minutes north of Austin. It's a two-hour drive, round-trip, to Lord's Gym when the traffic is good but DJ has gladly made the drive for seven years.

DJ's boxing journey began in Minnesota, where boys were taught to clean their plates. By the age of fifteen, DJ had ballooned to two hundred fifty pounds. When he moved to Texas during his sophomore year of high school, bullies made him their target. One bully in particular was relentless, threatening to kick DJ's ass after school every day. It was because of him that DJ ultimately took to the phone book and dialed martial arts gyms — every one in the city of Austin.

It wasn't simply boxing gyms. He called Taekwondo gyms, Karate dojos, Wing Chun academies, and — his personal favorite — gyms that offered Jeet Kune Do: the hybrid martial art pioneered by his hero: Bruce Lee. He called every gym in the phone book. None answered. He left messages for all of them, inquiring about rates and location.

Most of the gyms were too expensive. Almost all of them were too far away. But what really bothered him was that, a week after reaching out to two dozen gyms, none of them returned his messages — except Richard Lord.

DJ never forgot that phone call. He never forgot that conversation. The little boxing gym on North Lamar Street called him back — he never forgot that. He repeated the name to himself so he wouldn't forget it: "Mr. Lord."

Six months before that phone call, doctors told DJ that he was lucky to be alive. The left ventricle of his heart had burst from overexertion. In the months leading up to his hospitalization, DJ had been on a manic exercise regimen to lose weight — and it worked. Obsessed with Rocky, and with the idea of becoming a boxer, he drank raw eggs for breakfast. He chopped firewood in his backyard. He did a daily thousand push-ups and two thousand sit-ups. He listened to Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger" as he swung away awkwardly at a punching bag in his garage. His exercise routine and diet were almost painfully, laughably cliché and old school.

One hot summer afternoon when DJ's gloves were laced up, and Bruce Faulconer's Dragonball Z soundtrack blared while he threw out a one-two combination, his heart began to ache. The jolt of pain made him choke and he suddenly found himself on one knee, one glove pressed against the concrete floor, the other pressed instinctively against his heart. He dragged himself out of the garage and across the half-acre lot into the house.

He noticed that several trees from earlier in the day had been chopped down. It made him angry because he knew that his dad, David Dominguez, Sr., a former Rodeo cowboy, had four herniated discs in his back and shouldn't have been exerting himself — he should have left the firewood to him. He needed to work on his back muscles. It was still early summer, so they didn't need firewood by any means, but it was good to get a jump on it; and DJ knew this was the time to get the work done — before the heat crept into the triple digits by ten o'clock.

He could barely walk as he slid open the glass door and plopped himself prone onto the couch. He groaned loudly until he heard footsteps approach.

"What's wrong, son?" his mother asked.

He groaned. It felt like the world's most agonizing stomach ache had taken a wrong turn and found its way into his chest. Sweating, he gasped: "I think I'm having a heart attack."

His mother screamed. A minute later DJ was in the back of the Ford F-250, hurtling at ninety miles per hour down I-35 toward St. Joseph's hospital. Neither of DJ's parents were strangers to injury — in fact, the night Donnas and David met he was in a hospital bed himself: a cowboy recovering from a broken collarbone. Donnas had held her husband's hand in a hospital bed more times than she could count. But this was different. DJ wasn't even eighteen years old yet — he had too much life ahead of him.

"No more than a minute of physical exertion a day," the doctor warned, "or you might not live to see another year." He was told to sit whenever possible. "Avoid standing when you can — sit down or lie down if at all possible." He was given a special pass to take the elevator at school: stairs were too risky. And, of course, there was to be absolutely no physical exercise of any sort. Boxing was out of the question.

DJ followed his doctor's orders for almost a month. It took him less than thirty days to realize that a life without boxing wasn't a life worth living. He decided that he would exercise anyway — even if it killed him. Whenever his parents turned their backs, he went back to push-ups, two or three repetitions at a time. As his stamina came back, he began to increase his numbers. His strength returned to him with alarming speed. His doctor, baffled by his unprecedented recovery, warned him to take things easy — but grudgingly admitted that the exercise didn't seem to be causing any more damage.

"We're not sure how this happened," DJ remembers the doctor telling him. "We understand what is happening, but we don't understand how it's happening." DJ didn't bother questioning how or why — all he knew was that he had been given a second chance. And he was going to box.

The first time DJ visited Lord's was on a Saturday. He was eighteen years old, one hundred twenty-two pounds. Though he didn't feel his best as he stepped through the door to the gym, he knew it was time to start training.

Richard remembered him from their earlier phone conversation. He explained that, because it was Saturday, it was sparring day. "You can observe or you can jump in and spar. Up to you."

DJ insisted that he wanted to get in the ring.

Richard shrugged. "Ok, let's see how you do."

His first opponent was a twenty-four year old named Aldo. Weighing one hundred twenty-two pounds himself, but standing at five foot two, the bald Remis seemed like a good match for the tall but impossibly frail-looking DJ.

"I got valiantly destroyed," DJ said, chuckling. "I had no idea what I was doing. I just tried to get in there and throw punches, but the guy just kicked my ass."

After a four-minute break he stepped back into the ring for a second dose of punishment, this time from a new opponent: a slightly taller Mexican named Chuy.

"It was more of the same," DJ said, "I still got my ass kicked. But, I bloodied his nose. I saw when the round ended that he kept pressing his glove to his nose to wipe."

When the second round ended, DJ stepped out of the ring and was met with Richard Lord.

"You certainly do like to throw punches, don't you?"

Another man approached him, an older, large black man who looked to be in his early sixties. He introduced himself as Don Spencer.

"Kid, you have no idea what you're doing. But if you come on Tuesdays and Thursdays at three I'll teach you to box."

One year later, in San Marcos, Don stood in DJ's corner at his amateur boxing debut. DJ's legs shook with anxiety as the announcer called his name for wrapping and gloving. His opponent was a six-foot, one hundred thirty-four pound nineteen year old with a couple of fights under his belt. When the bell sounded the two fighters stepped into the middle of the ring to meet each other. His opponent threw a stiff jab and DJ countered with a straight right, eating his opponent's leather glove in the process. He followed up with a second right, connecting hard with his opponent's chin.

It happened so quickly that he didn't realize what happened until the referee stepped between them. His opponent was down on the ground.

"Come back!" Don shouted, waving toward the corner. DJ did.

In the second round he rushed his opponent with a barrage of punches. He knocked him down again with thirty seconds left in the round. In that moment he knew his opponent was done. And that he wanted to win more than anything else in the world. Losing was no longer an option.

In the third round he charged his opponent again. For a full minute he unleashed as many punches as he could possibly throw. When the bell sounded, the judges awarded him a victory by unanimous decision.

DJ's first loss came in the following fight, a few months later, at his first Austin Golden Gloves. In a controversial decision, victory was awarded to his opponent. DJ felt certain he had won, and the decision by the judges left a bitter taste in his mouth. His passbook would have an L now — he was no longer undefeated. When the winner was announced, his opponent walked over and shook his hand.

"I'm sorry, man. You won the fight."

It was a disappointing way to close out his first years as an amateur boxer. But then something curious happened as they were awarding the winners their trophies and jackets.

"Can DJ Dominguez please step up?" the voice on the microphone said. It was unmistakable. "DJ Dominguez?" the voice repeated.

He stepped up to the ring and Art Cardenas, the organizer of the event and owner of Fit Pit Boxing Club, a rival gym, awarded him a jacket for the 178-pound weight class: a weight class that had gone unfilled that year.

"I know you fought at a buck-thirty today, but I figured we should give this to you," Cardenas said. "You earned it. I don't think anyone saw you lose that fight."

From that moment on DJ had one goal: win the Golden Gloves. It would take him two more tries. He would be twenty-three when he would finally win the Golden Gloves. I was at the Fit Pit that night in January, so I witnessed the spectacle firsthand.

DJ's opponent was a stocky thirty-year old with plenty of amateur experience. He had strong, short arms, a wide chest, and a military-style buzz cut. From the opening bell he was ready for a brawl. In the first exchange, the two boxers collided. His opponent came out of the tangle with a bloody nose. DJ pushed him into the corner and tried to work a series of combinations. He refused to stop throwing punches. He kept repeating Richard Lord's words to himself: "punches in bunches" as he swung for his life. His shoulders burned, his back ached, his legs screamed in agony, but he kept swinging. For three, three-minute rounds I witnessed a man test himself to his physical limits. Through faith in himself he found the superhuman stamina to throw more than six hundred punches in nine minutes. The decision was a no-brainer.

"I couldn't have done it alone," DJ said. "I had to have faith after failing twice. Glory to God. That was the greatest moment of my life. In that moment everything just felt right."

When I first heard about DJ's story it seemed too good to be true — a bonafide miracle. And when I first spoke to DJ, and he was thrilled to help me tell his story, it also felt too good to be true. Everything was falling into place so easily. And then, when I drove to DJ's house to meet for our interview, he suddenly became inaccessible. His parents were sick, he said, we needed to reschedule. I had moved to Chicago and couldn't afford to fly back for another interview. He couldn't provide me with a copy of his medical records. Like DJ's belief in himself — and in God — we may have to take the story of his exploding heart on faith.

In Spanish, athletes are often praised or damned for their corazón. Literally their "heart." But corazón is more than that — it's about perseverance; it's about finding the strength to soldier on when every fiber of your being screams, "stop." To this day, after every fight, win or lose, DJ pounds a glove to his heart to remember why he does this.

"I box to become my best self. I am my best self when I box, because I'm testing myself to my limits. That's how I get better." DJ laughs and shadowboxes a combination into the air. Like every boxer his fists are at the ready, always primed for the next invisible opponent.