Fighting for Recovery
Andres Fernandez Has Battled Death & Won
But His Biggest Fight is Now . . . . 

 photos and story by chris cozzone  

Q: How much longer do you want to fight?
A: Well, I take care of myself. I have my son Andy who’s 7, and Andrea, who’s 5, so I want to help take care of my family. As long as I don’t get hurt, I can fight as long as I can . . .  —interview with Andres before his last fight

Andres Fernandez at home

What happens when a boxer almost dies from injuries sustained in the ring?

Usually, the fighter stops boxing. And when that happens, boxing fans cease to hear of him.

The fighter fades away.

But after that last fight, while the pugilist battles death and before his condition can stabilize, there’s a buzz for a day or two with the media. While friends, family and fight fans are concerned over the fighter’s life and the extent of his or her injuries, we start hearing the critics call attention to the many evils of boxing . . . how it should be banned. Or regulated. Or something . . . .

That’s what happened this summer when Beethavean Scottland died from ring injuries. Televised by ESPN for Friday Night Fights, millions watched Scottland receive the blows that would later kill him.

But before the Scottland tragedy, there was Andres Fernandez who, on June 15^th of this year, fought twelve hard untelevised rounds in front of a crowd that couldn’t have topped 400, in a casino 55 miles west of Albuquerque.

Not too many people outside the state of New Mexico paid much heed to what happened to Andres Fernandez, though; his story was overlooked in the wake of Scottland’s death, perhaps because it was a story less dramatic, perhaps because Andres Fernandez did not die from injuries suffered in the ring.

No doubt about it, Andres Fernandez is alive . . . and his condition and life after boxing is a story we should be well aware of.

For those who might not be familiar with Andres Fernandez:

Andres was born in Chihuahua, Mexico and as an amateur, was a 5-time national Mexican champ. He won a medal in the Pan-American Games as well as a Silver and Bronze medal fighting for Mexico in Europe and France. As an amateur, he was 81-14.

Fernandez was able to relocate to Albuquerque in 1995, where he turned pro. He fought most of his fights as a junior featherweight and although he lost his only shot at a world title (against Bones Adams in August, 2000,) he did win the NABA super bantamweight title—his last fight would be a defense of that belt. As a pro, he was 16-6-1, with 13 KO’s.

Boxing critics would call him a fringe contender—but his record was misleading, as most of his losses were due to cuts. Andres never lacked heart in the ring, but he could’ve used thicker skin.

The pinnacle of his career was his fight against Bones Adams for the WBA superbantamweight title. Before the fight was stopped in the 6^th (due to two cuts around Andres’ eye,) Fernandez, clearly the aggressor in the fight, had given Adams trouble early on.

Fernandez’s aim was clearly to get another world title shot.

“I’ll fight anyone they put in front of me,” he said to me after the Adams fight. “The name doesn’t matter. I want to go for the belt—and whoever’s in the way.”

Fernandez fought two more times after Adams: a hellish battle with Rodrigo Facio that resulted in a draw; and his last fight, that fateful title defense against Jorge Reyes . . . .

Fernandez vs. Reyes II

It’s that 20/20 hindsight, of course, but Fernandez vs. Reyes II would prove one fight too many . . . or one punch too many, one ounce of ambition too much.

Andres Fernandez nearly died.

There are rumors circulating that Andres Fernandez is a comatose vegetable. Well, you can disregard the rumors, although you would not be mistaken in saying that Fernandez is not the same man he was.

Let me back up to June 15^th of this year . . .

Defending his NABA title in a card billed as “Venganza!”, Fernandez went 12 hard rounds with Jorge Reyes. The two had fought before; in Ruidoso, NM, back in January of ’99, Reyes had beaten Fernandez by a 4^th Round TKO—a fight that had been stopped on cuts.

This time, though, the fight went the distance. Fernandez controlled most of the fight, winning most rounds and punishing Reyes with hard, hard shots—the kind of shots that had many of us ringside wishing the ref would stop the fight and limit the punishment Reyes was suffering.

But despite a knockdown and all the hurt he was enduring, Reyes would not quit, and in the later rounds, he turned the table on Fernandez, and started hammering him with body shots that had Andres wincing and covering up . . . then it was a battle to tie up and stay upright. It was a fight reminiscent of Fernandez’s previous fight—another war, against Juarez’s “body snatcher,” Rodrigo Facio—from which he was knocked down and nearly KO’d, again from body shots.

Body shots!

Not head shots. Ironically, the damage that would nearly kill Andres would not come from the all-too-visible, all-too-hard-to-watch body shots, but by blows to the head—of which there were maybe three solid connects—three too many.  

It also ironic that Jorge Reyes was the one who received the repeated blows to the head; and he was fine after the fight.

After being declared the winner by unanimous decision, Andres wasn’t looking or feeling too good. He told his trainer, Luis Chavez, that he was feeling dizzy and tired. Chavez drove him to the Acoma-Canoncito-Laguna Hospital near the casino, and after a few tests, he was airlifted to the University Hospital in Albuquerque.

“There was no warning at all,” says Andres’ wife, Veronica. “After the fight, there was sleepiness. Within an hour, he was complaining of being sleepy. And he said he did not feel normal, although he was still joking . . .”

Fernandez suffered what’s called a subcutaneous hemotoma. In layman’s terms: the bleeding under the skull and over the brain put too much pressure on the brain. By the time pressure was relieved, there had been too much damage.

As soon as he got to the University Hospital, surgery was performed on Andres to relieve the pressure. Fernandez would be kept in an induced coma for several weeks, until his condition could be downgraded from critical. It would take weeks for his condition to stabilize.

It’s only been four weeks now that Andres has been home. After four months of hospitalization and constant monitoring, Fernandez was diagnosed as “medically sound and stable,” and sent home.

Home

It has been Andres’ dream to buy a house for his family—which includes wife Veronica and two children, Andy, 8, and Andreas, 6. Fernandez worked construction 40 hours a week, but the money he made from fighting he saved. His biggest payday—his fight against Bones Adams—earned him 25K, before his trainers, manager and promoter took a cut. Roughly half of that (before taxes) was put aside as a down payment for a house.

The week of his last fight, Andres had closed on his house. Unfortunately, he would not be spending any time there until he was released from the hospital in October.

Andres has been home four weeks now.

Although his condition may or may not improve, there was nothing else that could be done for him at the University Hospital—the brain injuries he sustained caused damage and changed his life forever.

True, he lives—he thinks, he feels, he responds, he is no less human than those of us more functional—but don’t expect to drop by to chat with Andres. Don’t expect to see him watering his lawn or going to work—at least not at this point.

Speech, swallowing and movement have all been effected.

Andres is confined to a wheelchair, and spends his time between the wheelchair and a Lazy Boy. He cannot feed himself, or go to the bathroom. He cannot walk; he does not move much—there is no movement in the legs, but a little in his left arm.

He drifts in and out of sleep.

He communicates by slight nods and blinks.

A few weeks ago, a miracle: Andres said his first word: “Mas”—“More.” It occurred when the physical therapist, Olga Sacasa, was exercising Andres, manipulating the joints and working his muscles. She is brought in twice a week.

“Andres understands yes and no questions,” says Sacasa. “He tries to move but he can’t get the message to his body. The extent of damage is unknown.”

Andres does understand what has happened to him, says his wife, Veronica. She’s also talked to the children about what’s happened to their dad; she says that they, too, understand.

“It’s been easier with Andres at home,” says Veronica. “Before I had to spend all day at the hospital. He is calmer here at home, and he relaxes more when the kids are home.”

Despite his condition, Veronica says that she sees slight improvements. There was that first word—“mas”—plus, a few weeks ago Veronica says she saw her husband begin to smile. He also starts to purse his lips when she leans over to kiss him.

Taking care of Andres, who is aggravated when Veronica is not around, is a full-time job now for her. Just when she needs to work the most, she cannot. An unfortunate circumstance as the Fernandez household now has zero income—and they’ve exhausted nearly every penny they had in the bank paying the bills and mortgage.

Fortunately, Andres had health insurance from his construction job. When the insurance expires in December (six months from his last day of work), Andres’ manager and promoter, Lenny Fresquez, will be picking up the monthly payments.

Boxers: What’s Covered, What’s Not

“In America, they treat whores better than boxers—at least they pay the whores.” —Andres Fernandez in an interview, 2000

As in all states with athletic commissions, promoters are required to have insurance before they can put on a fight card. In the state of Nevada, promoters are required to have $50,000 medical insurance. In New Mexico, the minimum requirement is $10,000 for medical, $25,000 for death.

In the case of Andres’ promoter, Fresquez Productions, fighters were insured for $25,000 for medical care—a figure two-and-a-half times the minimum, but a minimum that did not take long to max out.

New Mexico-based promoter Lenny Fresquez says he came to close to retiring from the sport after the Fernandez incident. But he’s decided to continue putting on the 7-8 fight cards a year, although he’s changed a couple things.

Since Andres’ incident, Fresquez has upped his insurance to cover $100,000 medical and $25,000 in the event of death. Fresquez also requires every fighter to sign an Injury and Death Release, stating that they understand and acknowledge these conditions; and also acknowledging “that the sport of Boxing is inherently dangerous with potential for serious injury or death.”

“The point of the release is to educate our fighters more,” says Fresquez. “If they don’t sign it, they don’t fight.”

Veronica says the insurance received has not been enough.

“Commissions, promoters, managers, they should be supportive of their fighters,” she says. “And fighters should be attentive—what has happened to Andres can happen to any fighter. Take care of your fighters.”

Veronica also says that fighters should protect their heads more.

“The blows to Andres’ head that night were not many. Three hard blows is all it took.

“I never liked him fighting, but I supported my husband. I watched him fight and yes, it was always hard . . . .”

If watching a husband or a father fight in the ring is hard, imagine the difficulty in watching that fighter battle death—and the long, uncertain road back of recovery.

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