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This piece was first written years ago and originally published in a Caracas newspaper. With some notable edits, we bring it back now for the fans of yesterday, but especially for the new followers of the sweet science—many of whom know little or nothing about that memorable fight, one that carved its place not only in boxing history, but in the very soul of Venezuelan boxing. On September 2, it will mark 54 years since that unforgettable night.
Let’s take a trip down memory lane to Tokyo’s Korakuen Gymnasium—also known as the Metropolitan Gym—the mecca of Japanese boxing during the 1970s and 80s. The arena was packed with eager Japanese fans and a small band of Venezuelans, maybe a dozen at most. Among them were Delio Amado León, Carlitos González, Oswaldo “Gato” Sánchez, and Sixto Dorta—the only names I still recall. The first three are no longer with us.
As the opening bell rang, we saw in our mind’s eye the Venezuelan challenger from Cumaná, Antonio Gómez, crouched and firing his very first punch: a long, explosive, pinpoint jab to the chin of the reigning featherweight world champion of the WBA, 24-year-old Shozo Saijo. The champion’s head snapped back from the impact.
It was just past 7:00 p.m. on a Thursday night in Tokyo, and back home in Venezuela, it was barely sunrise.
After that stiff left hand, Gómez stepped to the side while Saijo stretched his arms and rolled his neck as if trying to shake off the shock. From both corners came the usual shouts of warning and encouragement. In Gómez’s corner, trainer Hely Montes and manager Ramiro Machado urged calm, while the American technician Willie Ketchum—brought in by Machado for the occasion—watched stone-faced. Seconds into the round, Gómez fired off his quick jab three, four, five more times. Then, after one of those punches landed, the defending champion unexpectedly staggered and went down, boots pointing skyward.
The dozen Venezuelans in the crowd leapt with joy, though referee Alfredo Garzo—a Spaniard who had become a Japanese national—ruled it a slip. The bell rang soon after, ending a round that already felt like an omen. To the Japanese crowd, those opening moments surely hinted at an unwanted and violent ending in favor of the visitor from afar.
As for us, from the very first moments, there was not a single doubt that Gómez would realize his dream—and the dream of thousands of Venezuelan fans following from a distance of thousands of miles.
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A Long Road to Glory
For Saijo, this was his sixth defense of the belt he had won from Mexican-American Raúl Rojas three years earlier. One of those defenses came against Pedro Gómez—Antonio’s older brother—whom Saijo had outpointed in his very first title defense.
For Antonio Gómez, this was his first crack at a world title in a division that Venezuelan boxing had chased in vain for years. Great names had pursued the featherweight crown, most without ever getting the chance. Among them: Simón Chávez, the beloved “Pollo de la Palmita,” a conqueror of champions and Venezuela’s first undisputed boxing idol in the 1930s and 40s; Oscar “Torpedo” Calles, a lost promise murdered in a senseless street fight near the Palo Grande church in Caracas; and Víctor Adams, “Sonny León,” both loved and hated in the 50s and 60s, who years later died forgotten in the streets of Caracas, penniless and broken.
Guided wisely by Machado, Gómez had left Venezuela a couple of years earlier, basing himself in Los Angeles and Tijuana as a launchpad for his career. To earn his ticket to Tokyo, Gómez dismantled a lineup of tough Mexicans: Fernando Sotelo in nine rounds, Julio Segura in five, Ray Vega in seven, and Vicente García in just one. Only “Centavito” Hernández and Puerto Rican Juan Collado lasted the distance against him.
Knowing the danger Gómez posed, Saijo avoided him for as long as possible with excuse after excuse, until the WBA finally ordered the defense. The date was set: September 2, 1971. Fifteen rounds for the world featherweight crown.
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The Right Hand of Destiny
(Back to the Korakuen)
It would be dishonest to claim I remember every detail of that fight. Time clouds memory. For the rest of the story, I turn to an old AFP report that read:
“Antonio Gómez’s thunderous right hand brought Venezuela a new world championship today—the WBA featherweight crown—after nearly five rounds of one of the most thrilling fights ever seen in Tokyo. The decisive blow came in the fifth round, as the champion Shozo Saijo was relentlessly punished by the Venezuelan’s right. The first knockdown came just 30 seconds into the final round. Saijo rose at the count of eight, but Gómez swarmed him, chasing him around the ring and landing three more crushing rights to end it.”
What the AFP did not mention—but I do remember—is that before the referee could step in, Saijo’s corner threw in the towel. The Japanese warrior, just 24 years old, had fought like a wounded lion, but the night belonged to Gómez.
Antonio Gómez, a modest 26-year-old from Cumaná, trained by the legendary “maestro” Hely Montes, had reached the summit every fighter dreams of. He was the best 126-pounder on the planet, the undisputed No. 1 featherweight. Even with Vicente Saldivar still holding the WBC version of the belt, experts knew the Mexican was no match for the Venezuelan.
That night, Gómez joined Vicente Paúl Rondón (light heavyweight) and fellow Cumanese Alfredo Marcano (super featherweight) as Venezuelan world champions. A fourth, Betulio González, would join the list just months later.
For us who were there, covering the fight for El Nacional, there was absolute certainty: just as Hemingway once wrote of Paris, on September 2, 1971, Venezuela was a party.
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