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I spent most of May in Arena Torreón with Espejo, testing him, punishing him, throwing two, sometimes three sparring opponents at him to simulate La Plaga’s speed and range. I forced him to fight with weighted mitts and weighted boots. I stretched with him every night until he could twist into contortionist shapes without wincing. And I fed him. I fed him a lot.

The day before the fight, I woke Espejo up and asked him what we should go over, where he felt he was weakest.

“Truth be told,” he answered thoughtfully, “I think it’s time to make a new mask.”

With that, he left the arena to head home.

No one, not even I, saw him again until fight time. I was faithfully attending to my post in his corner of the ring, filling a bucket with water and soaking various rags, when he entered the arena. The crowd rose to greet him with cheers and applause, but faltered when they saw him. Espejo’s mask was different from any other he had fashioned before. It was entirely white, with only small holes for the eyes, nose and mouth. No other ornamentation was added to it, or to the rest of his outfit. I was disturbed to realize that what he most resembled, to my eyes, was one of the anonymous wrestlers that were occasionally chosen from the crowd when a luchador failed to appear for a match. Obviously, the impression was not particularly intimidating.

“Good to see you, El Papa (The Pope),” I quipped. Espejo didn’t say a word, taking his seat without glancing at me. I noticed he was already sweating. The bell rang out once. Espejo and Plaga stood and walked toward the official waiting in the center of the ring. After the customary pre-fight guidelines were spoken, the two fighters shook hands.

“Trying to look anonymous, Espejo?” Plaga asked. “That won’t get you off the hook when we’re finished. Everyone in this arena is going to get a good look at that face before the night is done, friend.”

“Don’t worry, friend,” Espejo retorted. “When I take your mask tonight, you can have this one. Maybe you can use it the next time a real luchador doesn’t show up.”

La Plaga lunged forward, smashing his forearm into Espejo’s face suddenly. Espejo crumpled in a dazed heap.

“WHEN WE’RE FINISHED HERE THAT MASK WILL BE IN FIFTY PIECES, ESPEJO! I WILL SCATTER IT TO THE CHICKENS!”

La Plaga fell onto Espejo, pummeling him with alternating fists. Furious, I nearly rushed into the ring then, a move that would have certainly disqualified Espejo, but he quickly raised his arms up in defense, shielding his face, and rolled off to his right, all the way to the edge of the ring, and then out of it completely. La Plaga stood up and struggled to regain some measure of control, while Espejo simply struggled to regain his senses. When the out-of-bounds count reached ten, Espejo quickly scooted back into the ring and stood up. He and Plaga approached each other warily this time. At grappling distance, Espejo dropped suddenly and lunged for Plaga’s knee. Plaga swiftly dodged the attack and promptly crushed Espejo with an elbow drop before turning him onto his back and applying a pin.

“1!” barked the referee. With a gasp, Espejo arched his back and lifted his shoulder off the mat, stopping the pin count. Instead of attempting to press the shoulder into the mat again, Plaga stood up, releasing Espejo from his hold. Confused, Espejo quickly got to his feet and glanced at Plaga, who stared back, smiling.

“Oh, I’m not going to make it that easy to lose, Espejo. I’ve got a lot more punishment to inflict yet.” Plaga punctuated the statement with a right jab. Espejo ducked under it, only to meet Plaga’s rising right knee. His vision exploded red, then black, and he fell to the mat like a dead man. La Plaga gazed out into the audience nearest to him, then knelt on one knee next to Espejo, rolling him again onto his back. With a playful slap, he jokingly tried to revive Espejo. After getting no response, he shrugged and placed his palm onto Espejo’s chest.

“1!” barked the referee. I held my breath.

“2!”

“3!” The bell rang out sharply. “Round one goes to La Plaga!”

After dragging Espejo back to his corner and propping him up on the stool, I began more serious attempts to revive him. A quick splash of cold water, followed by the smelling salts, followed by another splash, and he was awake.

“Getting some beauty sleep in, son?”

Espejo coughed, winced, then looked up with a haggard smile under his mask. “Yeah. How’s it working?”

“No offense, but I think you should thank God for that mask. I’d hate to think what would happen if you ever had to actually show your face around here.”

With a chuckle, Espejo leaned back, resting his head on the ropes, right as the bell rang out twice.

The second round was nothing short of torture. La Plaga, basically untouched, proceeded to toy with Espejo, slapping and chopping at him until he dropped to the floor. Once down, he would pin Espejo, who would then desperately yank his shoulder off the mat, disrupting the pin count before it ever reached three. Plaga would then release Espejo and start the cycle all over again. Espejo’s mask and shorts were utterly soaked with sweat and streaked with blood, and he staggered around the ring on autopilot, managing to avoid any big blows but unable to deflect most of Plaga’s quick moves. I sighed, glancing down at the soiled towels at my feet. Espejo was exhausted, and most likely couldn’t see past his own outstretched hand. The fight was out of reach, in every sense of the word. I looked up as Espejo again faltered and fell to the mat. La Plaga lowered his torso onto Espejo’s chest nonchalantly.

“1!” barked the referee.

“2!”

And then it happened.

As La Plaga perched above him, Espejo headbutted him squarely on the jaw. The collision made a sickening clacking sound; the audience gasped. Plaga reeled back as Espejo sat up and shoved him over, trapping Plaga’s shoulders under his armpits.

“1!” barked the referee. The blood from Plaga’s split lip began to form a small pool next to his head.

“2!” For the second time that night, I held my breath.

“3!” The bell, the glorious bell, rang out. “Round two goes to El Espejo!”

El Espejo and I spent the minutes between the second and third round in silence. Espejo was surely too exhausted to speak, and I simply had no idea what to say in this situation. I cleaned his eyes as best I could through the mask, wiping away blood while cutting away the swollen tissue above the eyelids. He simply stared ahead, across the ring, at the slumping La Plaga. The bell rang out once, then twice more in succession. The crowd buzzed. The wrestlers got to their feet, gathered themselves, and stepped forward.

My own career as a luchador was rather short and nondescript. I began auspiciously enough, four scheduled victories to get me up to speed, then some harder-fought wins as I got into the real competition. After two years, though, the wheels began to spin, and I stopped moving up. Hard-fought wins became hard-fought losses; I began to feel outmatched. Another year later, and it was time for my first lucha de apuesta. I wagered my mask against my opponent’s hair. A foolish wager from a foolish face, as the crowd learned that night.

Despite the lingering shame, I never cursed that decision, or that failure of a career, because it led me to the training profession, and it led me to the arena on May 23rd, 1954, the night I played my part in the finest lucha libre match the sport has ever seen.

The third round was unbearable. Plaga’s jaw was most certainly broken, and Espejo’s nose and two ribs were cracked as well. Every blow that landed sent shivers of pain through the spectators, and sent the unfortunate victim sprawling to the ropes in an effort to stay on their feet. As the minutes dragged on, the crowd began to sway and chant Espejo’s name, trying to will Espejo to victory.

“Just think, Plaga.” Espejo’s breath came in short gasps. “Soon you’ll be able to join these people in the stands, chanting my name adoringly. Soon you’ll be nothing but a spectator, a stand-in for greater men.” The taunt had its desired effect. La Plaga’s face twisted in fury, and he raised his clasped hands above his head, bringing them down like a hammer toward Espejo’s head. Espejo anticipated the attack and attempted to escape, but the rounds had slowed him. While he managed to slip his head out of the way, Plaga’s fists crashed into his right shoulder, driving his body to the ground with sudden force. The crowd fell silent.

Espejo tried to raise himself, and was rewarded with a searing pain down his right side. His arm had no strength left in it. Plaga leaned over him, grinning.

“The mysterious Espejo,” he hissed. “People love you because they know nothing about you. You give them nothing, and they love you. Well, I know a little more than they do. You see, I’ve watched you train. Yes, it’s true! I’ve watched you train, and I’ve watched you walk home, and I’ve watched you make your precious masks. I’ve watched you, and I’ve studied hard, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen everything you have to offer, friend. Everything but your face, of course.”

With that, Plaga turned to the corner turnbuckle and began to climb up it. I screamed at Espejo to move away quickly, to get out of the range of an aerial move, but my voice was lost in the sudden, desperate din of the crowd. Plaga reached the top of the turnbuckle and turned, showing off his exquisite balance. Espejo shifted his weight to his left side and dragged himself into a crouch. Plaga looked down at him, bent his knees and jumped.

In that split-second, Espejo sprang left, reaching the ropes, and leaped onto the second rope, twisting and using the rope’s tension to vault up and right, straight at La Plaga’s airborne form. Espejo’s lame shoulder caught Plaga in the midsection, and his momentum carried both fighters straight through the side ropes and into the first row of seats. Spectators and chairs were flung clear, and both wrestlers finally rolled to a stop in the second row, sprawled out like massive rag dolls. I stared, wide-eyed, at the carnage, as the rest of the stunned crowd stood to get a clearer look. All was still now. No one spoke. Well, almost no one.

“1!” barked the dutiful referee. The silence broke as everyone realized what was happening.

“2!” If the referee got to the count of 20, any fighter outside of the ring at that time would be disqualified. (“3!”) Everyone turned to look at the wrestlers again. (“4!”) Neither Espejo nor Plaga showed any signs of movement.

“5!”

“C’mon Espejo,” I whispered urgently. “Open your eyes.”

“6!” A deathly still fell over the arena.

“7!”

“8!”

“9!”

“10!”

“11!”

“12!”

And suddenly one of them coughed. The overturned chairs were blocking my view (“13!”), so I ran down the stairs and over to the right side of the ring, where the luchadores had landed. And then he sat up. It was La Plaga, looking more dead than alive, his mask turned almost comically toward his left side, eyeholes askew. (“14!”) He lifted himself up and stumbled back to the ring platform. (“15!”) Plaga rolled back into the ring and just lay there, breathing heavily. My heart sank. (“16!”)

And then someone tapped my shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir, could I get past?” (“17!”)

I turned, eyes wide in surprise, as Espejo edged around me toward the ring.

“Espejo!...”

His eyes darted over, met mine. “Back in a second, maestro.” (“18!”) He reached the ropes and rolled under, back into the ring, as La Plaga regained his feet. Before anyone was ready, before I even reached my spot back in the corner, Plaga aimed a vicious kick at Espejo’s kneeling form. In a flash Espejo dove left, dodging the kick and smashing into Plaga’s right knee. It locked up, bending at a grotesque angle, and Plaga collapsed with a squeal. Espejo instantly clasped the knee in his arms and twisted. La Plaga screamed, tapped out, and clutched the leg, sobbing, as Espejo released it and rolled away and onto his back, exhausted. The crowd erupted. I rushed up and into the ring, already laughing and weeping openly, and knelt at Espejo’s side.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked up at me, a wry smile already forming. “Hello, maestro. How are you this fine evening?”

“I’m gonna be all right, Espejo,” I replied, wiping my eyes. “It’s good to see you again, son.”

 

El Espejo spent the next six months recovering from the injuries he sustained in that match. When he was back to full strength, he received an invitation to fight the current national champion. Most fans remember that match, in January of 1955, as the only time they saw the legendary El Espejo fight. He dispatched the champion three minutes into the first round with an absolutely crippling knee hold. Most claim that match as one of the most impressive displays of power and technique ever witnessed in the sport. I know better. I know the man behind the mirror. El Espejo, born Jesús Morales, was the greatest luchador in the history of lucha libre, and I was ringside when he proved it one hot evening in May. If it takes a Sunday Mass to remind me of that fact, that’s fine by me.

Just don’t ask me why I’m smiling whenever someone mentions that Jesus actually healed the lame.