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outside of Latin America.

      Still, it appeared Valero was turning pro at a good time. Though heavyweights had always taken the spotlight, some of the most popular fighters in the business—Johnny Tapia, Marco Antonio Barrera, Erik Morales, and a new star, Manny Pacquiao—were in the featherweight range. They fought in Las Vegas and were featured on HBO. Valero and his team must have been encouraged by the growing prestige of the lighter fighters. With a style suited to the professional ranks, and a hunger for fame, Valero could invade these lower weight classes like the Visigoths sacking Rome. Perhaps, unlike most Venezuelan fighters, he'd leave his mark in America.

      But the story nearly ended before it began.

      On February 5, 2001, Valero was ripping down the street on a motorcycle. His father had been in a car accident, and he was on his way to help him. Stories varied. Either Valero slammed into a car and hit his head on the back windshield, or he flew over the car and landed headfirst on some asphalt. He wasn't wearing a helmet.

He spent thirteen days in a hospital. Doctors found a small blood clot between Valero's scalp and skull—not in his brain. They gave him a choice: he could wait six months to see if the clot would clear up on its own, or they could operate and remove it. Wanting to get out of the hospital and resume his boxing career, he opted for a relatively simple procedure where the clot was drained. It wasn't considered major surgery.

      He probably thought that was the end of the matter. He was nineteen years old, strong as an ox, and crafty as a rat. He had Jennifer at his side and a promising future as a boxer. A little knock on the head wouldn't stop him.

      • • •

      Seventeen months later, on July 9, 2002, Valero made his professional boxing debut at United Nations Park in Caracas. He needed just a bit over two minutes to knock out a fellow named Eduardo Hernandez.

      Hernandez never fought again.

      The months after Valero's surgery had been torturous. He wasn't allowed to fight right away. He took odd jobs to support himself and Jennifer but proved inept at everything. In March, Edwin Jr. was born, adding to Valero's pressures. Broke and desperate, Valero enlisted in the Venezuelan army. After two busts for fighting, he was dishonorably discharged.

      “I like to hit men,” Valero said years later. “It liberates me.”

      Valero finished out 2002 with first-round knockouts over Danny Sandoval, Alirio Rivero, Luis Soto, and Julio Pineda.

      Pineda never fought again.

      Sandoval tried Valero a second time in March 2003, but again, it was lights out in one round. In May, Edgar Mendoza fell to Valero in the first.

      Mendoza never fought again.

      The Valero of these early fights was calm, efficient. He had a picturesque right jab. He looked like an archer when he threw it. He threw his left cross with supreme confidence. His trainer at the time was Jorge Zerpa, an experienced hand.

In May 2003, Valero was matched against Colombian Dairo Julio. Though decidedly better than Valero's previous victims, Julio failed to get out of the first round.

      Valero was 8-0, with eight knockouts. A Valero representative contacted Joe Hernandez in California to assist with Valero's American debut. Remembering Valero from the 2000 Caracas tournament, Hernandez was eager to see how the kid had improved. He would soon hail Valero as the best prospect to come out of Venezuela in thirty years.

      • • •

      From the moment Valero entered the Maywood Boxing Gym in Los Angeles, Hernandez saw immediately that someone new and unusual had arrived.

      He had high cheekbones and piercing eyes. He looked regal, carrying himself like he'd already been a champion for years. The only thing that ruined the picture was an explosion of acne that covered much of his face, as if teen hormones still percolated inside him. Valero was fighting at super-featherweight, but his frame could easily carry another ten or fifteen pounds. He was raw, high spirited, with extraordinary power and speed. Hernandez tended to time rounds at four and a half minutes, and Valero would punch nonstop. Sometimes he seemed unpolished. Sometimes he looked like a veteran who knew every move in the book.

      Hernandez noticed the effect Valero had on sparring partners: No one could last two rounds with him. Hernandez paid fighters extra to work with Valero, but they wouldn't do it. Mike Anchondo, a future titleholder and a Maywood gym regular, asked Hernandez, “What do you feed this guy? Nails?”

It was decided to bring in Juan Lazcano, “The Hispanic Causing Panic.” Lazcano was bigger than Valero and a veteran of nearly forty fights. Preparing for a bout in Las Vegas and on the brink of major recognition, Lazcano agreed to spar with the young Venezuelan. Lazcano, who had defeated some quality fighters, must have hated the experience. Though stories differ as to how many rounds he actually sparred with Valero, the one thing all agree on is that Lazcano never came back. He left his gloves and other boxing gear behind, never to claim them.

      There were times in Maywood when Valero seemed to defy logic. Many southpaws look awkward in the ring, but Valero was fluid, graceful, athletic. There was such precision in his work that he seemed less like a boxer and more like a fencing master. He was cocky, too. He would tell Hernandez that he was going to hurt his sparring partner with a particular punch, and then he'd do it. Hernandez would tell him to take it easy on his poor sparring partners, but Valero was impulsive. Hernandez once compared Valero to Michael Jordan. “It was that kind of ability,” the trainer said.

      Urbano Antillon was a sturdy Mexican-American super-featherweight from Maywood. He sparred a few times with Valero, but he wasn't impressed. The next time they sparred, Valero hit him so hard that Antillon's head swiveled and his legs shuddered. The session was stopped.

      Brian Harty was on hand to record some of Valero's workouts for Maxboxing.com. He recalls Valero as tireless, almost robotic. Valero might have cracked a joke in between workouts, but once he was focused, his concentration was unbreakable. “It's impossible to know if the way I describe him now is affected by what ultimately happened,” Harty said, “but there was just a constant buzz around him—and I mean like an electric buzz, like one of those bug zappers. I can't imagine him sleeping.”

      Valero buzzed his way through a number of LA gyms, from the fancy ones with modern equipment to the ones where salsa music blared from the house speakers and old fight posters seemed stuck to the walls through sheer humidity. He was like a gunslinger walking into a new town. Nobody knew who he was. There were only whispers and rumors about this gym gypsy who knocked people around. He'd smash them on the arms, in the ribs. Sometimes he'd hit a guy a few times and the guy would simply quit. If someone stayed with him for a few rounds, Valero would playfully pat him on the shoulder at the end of the session.

“He obviously enjoyed being in the gym,” Harty said. “I don't know how a person is able to summon punch after punch with such aggression like he did, though. Whatever was driving him, it was always right there below the surface for him to tap into.”

      Hernandez invited members of the local media to watch Valero spar. Among the first to see him was Doug Fischer of Maxboxing.com. In a 2004 column for ESPN.com, Fischer described what had seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime thrill.

      “Only two fighters that I have witnessed train in the past ten years come close to Valero's athletic perfection, Shane Mosley and Floyd Mayweather Jr.—and I'm talking about these two multi-champs when they were at their physical peaks,” Fischer wrote. “Valero's aggression, bursting speed, brute strength, and intensity reminded me of the lightweight version of Mosley. His poise, technique, balance, and craftiness reminded me of the ‘97–’99 version of Mayweather.”

      Though Valero and Jennifer had an apartment, he spent much of his time in tiny quarters he shared with Hernandez, Anchondo, and Daniel Ponce de Leon, a strong Mexican southpaw who would soon become quite successful. Fischer

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