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Why I left a promising boxing career behind after coming to Christ.
I was born on a Sunday morning in Milwaukee, a first-generation Puerto Rican American. My mother often told me I had received special graces because I was born on the Lord’s Day.
I was baptized and confirmed in the Catholic church and regularly attended Sunday Mass with my mother and sister until I was about nine years old. Eventually, they stopped going, but I continued this weekly ritual. I prayed to God for help, since I was growing up in a hostile environment.
Becoming a champion
Adam was my age, one of many Polish kids whose families had lived in the neighborhood for generations, and he took an unpleasant interest in me. One of his favorite pastimes was following me around and taunting me, drawing on a vast arsenal of racial slurs he had evidently picked up from his father.
One day I came home crying with a bloody nose, and my father demanded to know what had happened. With tears in my eyes, I repeated Adam’s words, including several epithets. “We don’t want you here,” he had warned me. “Leave our neighborhood now!”
I had seen my father angry before, but now I could also see the pain in his eyes. With a stony expression, he said, “The next time you see Adam, you will defend yourself. Then he’ll leave you alone.”
The very next day, my father marched me into the boxing gym. Instantly, I was intimidated by the other men there. They towered over me as they pummeled the heavy hanging bags, sweating and focused. I was pushed in front of a mirror and shown some basic combinations by my future coach and mentor, Israel “Shorty” Acosta. He turned to my father and said with conviction, “Héctor is a natural. He will become a champion.”
Shorty’s ...
from Christianity Today Magazine
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