When Joe Cortez stepped in to call the fight, even Greg Haugen probably realized that this was the way things were meant to unfold. Haugen had taken on the role of the antagonist against Julio Cesar Chavez long before their epic showdown, and for all the fighters and the enormous crowd in Mexico City, the stakes were certainly higher than just the WBC super lightweight title. Had Haugen managed to defeat Chavez, it would have only fueled the fire. The villain needs to face the music eventually, not just for our satisfaction, but perhaps also for his own—an opportunity to be humbled and seek redemption.
Greg Haugen’s journey began in Nevada, where he fought in bars and “Tough Man” competitions, often facing guys who outweighed him by as much as 70 pounds. He managed to knock them all down. In the barroom environment, his cocky attitude fit right in. Women were charmed, and it psyched out those big guys. They couldn’t quite understand why this smaller fighter was so cocky or why he didn’t seem afraid. But professional boxing is a whole different ball game, and unlike the Nevada brawlers, the opponents he faced in the ring were not ones to forgive and forget after a brutal match.
Fast forward to Las Vegas, around 1990. Haugen spots a proud Mexican boxer preparing for an upcoming match. Haugen, never one to shy away from bravado, taunts the fighter, saying the sparring partners were nothing more than “young little girls in dresses.” Haugen even volunteers to spar for free, claiming he could teach something. That fighter was none other than Julio Cesar Chavez, famously known as “The Lion of Culiacán,” “Mr. KO.” Undefeated and a world champ, Chavez didn’t take kindly to Haugen’s bravado. “I hated him from that moment,” Chavez later recalled.
A few years on, Haugen found himself as the WBC’s #2 contender, slated to face Chavez for the championship. When questioned about being intimidated by Chavez’s 82-0 record, Haugen flashed a cocky grin and quipped, “I figure sixty of those wins were against Tijuana cab drivers that even my mother could knock out… Not saying I’m underestimating him, but I don’t see him as unbeatable.” Haugen showed no concern about fighting in Mexico City before a crowd of 130,000 Chavez supporters. “There aren’t 130,000 Mexicans who can afford tickets,” Haugen joked.
Now, if there’s one thing Chavez is fiercely protective of, it’s his country. Back in ’87, Puerto Rico’s own champ, Edwin Rosario, had badmouthed the Mexican people and threatened to send Chavez back in a coffin. Chavez responded with a relentless assault, ending the bout with a TKO in the 11th round, and Rosario was never quite the same thereafter. Haugen’s comments stirred that same fiery spirit in Chavez. “I really hate him,” Chavez vented. “When I see him, it makes me want to puke. I’m going to give him the worst beating of his life and make him choke on his filthy words.”
February 20, 1993. The colossal Azteca Stadium, Mexico City. The crowd was a staggering 136,000—an all-time high for any fight. The stadium buzzed with energy, a sea of bodies moving as one. The police patrolled the grounds with uzis and dogs, with a wide moat, lined with barbed wire, separating the ring from the throng.
Haugen, draped in the American flag, entered the arena to Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.” The crowd simmered with tension. Referee Cortez summoned the fighters to the ring’s center. Chavez refused the customary glove touch, to which the packed stadium responded with a deafening roar of approval.
The opening bell sounded, and Chavez was off like a rocket. He let Haugen get a couple of jabs in before hammering him with a straight right, followed by two more rifle-like shots, sending Haugen to the canvas just 25 seconds in. The stadium echoed with chants of “Mexico! Mexico! Julio! Julio!” Haugen endured a few more brutal punches, returning to his corner with blood running from his nose.
The following two rounds saw Chavez targeting Haugen’s body, delivering blows with precision, even sneaking in some questionable shots for good measure. This was a lesson in humility. Whether the ref noticed or not, he didn’t intervene. The pattern persisted in the fourth round. Haugen simply couldn’t handle Chavez’s power, struggling to keep distance but suffering from a steady barrage of right hands.
The fifth round was intense. Another straight right put Haugen on the ropes. Did he sense it was inevitable? Did he, on some level, want to oblige the crowd’s demands? Chavez was toying with him, controlling the distance, landing rights with precision. Dazed and worn, Haugen took another combo, striking both head and body, causing him to slump to the mat again.
Haugen rose once more, but he had stopped throwing punches. Chavez continued the onslaught, communicating with every punch, making Haugen pay for his earlier words. Finally, Joe Cortez intervened, halting the match, and the crowd erupted in euphoria. It was poetic justice. Chavez, “El Gran Campeon de Mexico,” had defended his honor and his homeland against the brash American. It ended exactly as it should—there was no other way it could have gone down.
And those Tijuana taxi drivers that Haugen had mocked? After the fight, Haugen conceded, “They must have been some tough taxi drivers.” — David Como
