FIGHTER BY NECESSITY, CHAMPION BY DESIRE
Not until I was 15 or 16 years old, when I already had more than 100 amateur fights. By then, boxing was no longer something optional. It had become part of my life. I see many young fighters now who approach it in a very structured way – “I have to prepare; I have to run; I have to do this and that.” I wasn’t like that. I simply enjoyed boxing. And little by little, I realized it was something I wasn’t going to leave behind. It came easily to me. I didn’t lose much; I didn’t get hurt much. I didn’t struggle terribly with weight; I never dieted back then. So in a way, it felt natural. I didn’t have many of the struggles I see in young fighters now. Some kids are already dieting hard at 15. Even if I took a couple of days off training, I could still compete and do well. Ring: When you were 14 or 15 and leaving San Juan Zitlaltepec for Mexico City, how much did that shape you? EN: A lot. My father wasn’t over-involved in boxing. He gave me freedom. He would go to the gym with my coach, Don Pedro [Moran], and ask how I was doing, but he wasn’t on top of every detail. The reason I started going to Mexico City was because, in my town, once I was 15 or 16 and beginning to think seriously about turning pro, the stronger guys weren’t always training on the same schedule at the local gym anymore. So we had to look elsewhere. I started looking for well-known gyms in Mexico City – places like the legendary Pancho Rosales Gym, the Jordan Gym – and I reached out to coaches I had known from earlier in my boxing life. And that’s how it started. With Don Pedro’s help, we organized those trips. It wasn’t every day, but it became part of my development. We’d travel by public transportation, by Metro. Usually I’d go with Miguel, a friend who is still always with me. We all chipped in. Don Pedro would help with Miguel’s fare. Sometimes Don Pedro
had to stay behind with the afternoon fighters, so I’d go in the morning. We would run at 5 or 6 a.m., then leave for Mexico City around 10 so we could get there close to noon. We’d finish training, then go to some convenience store and eat whatever we could afford. My father would help me with food money. Sometimes Don Pedro would help Miguel. It was a group effort. But it wasn’t daily, because 300 pesos (around $17) in one day was a lot for us back then. [Editor’s note: Navarrete turned pro at age 16.] And even when there was a fight, the purse usually didn’t cover preparation. So maybe we’d go once or twice a week. And going to Mexico City helped because the level there was high. You could find a tough fighter anywhere. That sparring sharpened us. That became our real hard preparation. Ring: How long did it take you to get from San Juan to Mexico City, say, to the gym? EN: On a good day, maybe an hour and twenty minutes. On a bad day, two hours, two and a half. And later on, when I already had a child and adult responsibilities, that became much harder. I had to work too. I worked construction with my father. I would get out in the afternoon, run early the next morning, work again, then train. It was hard. But to me, it never felt like something impossible. It just felt like what I had to do. The hardest part was that everything happened at once. You’d run, then go to work, then train. And there was no real nutrition plan – you ate whatever you could. Maybe Coke and cookies. Maybe something simple. Not what a professional athlete is supposed to eat, but whatever was available. Then you’d show up to train tired from work and from the ride, and once you got there, the coach wasn’t going to ask whether you had worked all day or whether you felt exhausted. You had to train anyway. That was the reality. I had my son very young, and after I separated from his mother, life became
even harder. I would get home at 10 at night, then the next morning be up again at 5 or 6 to run before going to work. It was difficult, but I always told myself, “Do it now, rest later.” That was my mentality. I wanted to be a boxer. I wanted to be a world champion. So I kept going. For me, boxing was my passion, yes, but it was also a necessity. Maybe even more necessity than passion. Ring: In your first fights, how much were you making? EN: I think they paid us 2,500 pesos ($140) for a four-round fight. Then I won a prize of around 40,000 pesos ($2,300) for winning a tournament. And honestly, when you come from so many needs, that money disappears very quickly. Later, as I moved up in rounds, the purses in central Mexico were still low, especially compared to places like Tijuana, where the money was better because of the border and the American influence. I remember the first [Isaac] Dogboe fight at Madison Square Garden [for Dogboe’s WBO 122-pound title]. I think after taxes and expenses, I made around $13,000 or $14,000. But then you have to pay your coach, cover other costs, and suddenly it’s not much at all. For a world title fight, what I actually kept was very little compared to what people imagine. In the end, I received 100,000 pesos ($5,800). But I say that with pride, not bitterness. I never asked how much I was going to make. I wanted the title. That was my focus. After I won, there were things that had to be fixed at home – the floor, the bathroom – so the money went into that. And it went fast. By the end of January, I had nothing left. So I called my manager, Alejandro Brito, and asked when I was fighting again. He told me maybe April, maybe May. That meant months without a fight. The rematch purse went up a lot, yes, but even then people still weren’t convinced. Many thought the first
Navarrete fought to a draw with Robson Conceicao in 2023.
featherweight and featherweight, has made 12 title defenses over three weight classes, prompting some fans and media to consider him among the best of the best. And, in fact, he debuted at No. 10 in The Ring’s pound-for-pound rankings in late April. A decision loss to Denys Berinchyk (in a bid for a world title in a fourth division) and struggles against Eduardo Baez, Liam Wilson, Robson Conceicao and Charley Suarez had previously kept Navarrete out of the mythical rankings. However, Navarrete, who rallied to stop Baez and Wilson, always rebounds from his setbacks. The Nunez stoppage and two impressive victories over Oscar Valdez (UD 12, KO 6) followed poor performances. To understand where “Vaquero” (The Cowboy) gets his resilience, one must know where he was born and raised – San Juan Zitlaltepec, a small town defined by hardship. It is a place where
most people work in construction or in the fields, doing whatever it takes to put food on the table. From that humble beginning emerged a skinny kid with long arms that would go on to be recognized as one of Mexico’s fiercest warriors. Navarrete spoke to The Ring about his journey, which is far from over. The Ring: What was your childhood like? Emanuel Navarrete: I would say it was a very happy childhood. It was a stage of my life that I truly enjoyed. I learned many things – above all, the love of family, how to stay grounded. Of course, hardships were there. At times they were more noticeable, but we didn’t always see them that way because, for us, it was normal. It was simply life. And not having everything doesn’t necessarily mean you have a bad childhood. My parents were always concerned about us, about my
brothers and me, and they always did what they could. If you want to call it hardship, then yes – maybe we didn’t have many clothes, many pairs of shoes or a lot of the things other people had. In that sense, it was difficult. There weren’t luxuries. But those were never the things that felt essential to me. San Juan Zitlaltepec was never a place with a lot of resources, but it gave me a lot in other ways. Ring: Despite a happy childhood, you ended up choosing a sport you can’t play with – boxing. EN: I think boxing chose me. When I started training, I didn’t really realize I was going to become a boxer.
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