American Son: My Story by Oscar De La Hoya, Steve Springer

By Oscar De La Hoya, Steve Springer

Born right into a boxing relatives, the son of Mexican-born mom and dad, Oscar "the Golden Boy" De los angeles Hoya has lived the yank Dream—achieving exceptional luck in every little thing from athletics to enterprise, from the recording to various charitable ventures. The winner of six global titles and an Olympic gold medal, he has defeated greater than a dozen global champions and has left a favorable mark at the game of boxing, inspiring many that had all yet given up wish. American Son is his story—a quintessentially American story—a frank, touching, and revealing memoir from the most celebrated opponents within the background of boxing. it's the exciting story of an immigrant's son—the chronicle of an awesome life's trip that provides new perception into the personal global and memorable occupation of a gentleman, an athlete, and a real nationwide icon.

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Wearing a leather jacket and carrying a camera, I had gotten within a few houses of my destination when this truck came roaring up. With squealing brakes, it came to an abrupt halt and about eight guys wearing ski masks jumped out. There were guns everywhere. They put one to my head and I thought I was going to die right there at the age of fifteen. “Give me your jacket,” one demanded. ” said another muffled voice. “Yeah, take it,” I said. It all happened in a blur. Next thing I knew, the truck was racing down the street and I was alone again on a peaceful night.

Sure enough, when I glanced over at that table, several guys were staring at me. They wanted to continue the conversation. I didn’t. A part of me thought it was exciting, an adventure. But I knew it was an adventure that had to be cut off immediately if it was to have a happy ending. Time to make a run for it. Raul and I decided my friends would surround me and we would march out of the club in that formation, a twenty-man battering ram. I counted to three and we stood up and headed for the door like a wild herd.

To a sevenyear-old, I was just an annoying little punk, someone he didn’t like buzzing around him, so there was no way he was going to willingly take me with him. Understood, but I wasn’t going to be denied. ” And that’s just what I was going to do. I would wait until my brother left, and then I would slink out of the house behind him, staying ten to fifteen yards back, hiding behind a tree or darting into a driveway, doing whatever was necessary to stay out of sight. Once I got there, my brother saw me, but he was so involved in what he was doing that he didn’t really think much about how I had gotten there.

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