When Valerie phoned her husband on the Ides of March of 1982, the tone in her voice was… different. The subject matter hadn’t changed — she hated boxing and begged her husband, Bobby Chacon, to quit — and every single time, he ignored her. But when she said she was now pressing a gun to her scalp, Bobby knew she was no longer bluffing.
The former world champion fled from his training camp and raced to his wife. But he was already too late.
“She was a pretty woman,” Chacon sighed. “Even with half her face blown away, she was still a pretty woman.”
She was 31.
Valerie Chacon committed suicide the day before her husband’s comeback fight against Salvador Ugalde. All throughout training camp, she swore she’d kill herself if he ever fought again. But Bobby Chacon was a warrior — one of the best in the world — and he was absolutely convinced he’d regain the world title. Come hell or high water, he was determined to continue.
But now?
Most assumed the bout would be canceled, of course. Nobody would've blamed him. He couldn’t possibly be in the right headspace to enter the ring. Who could?
But he did fight. And it was a “ring” that broke him.
Bobby Chacon was a good-looking kid with a knack for mischief. Valerie was an Irish-Chinese girl from the neighborhood. They met as teenagers and were inseparable. It was love at first sight.
She was the reason he became a boxer: Bobby was a street fighter, always getting in and out of trouble. One day, when Bobby and Valerie were watching boxing on TV, she recommended he give it a shot.
So he did. And four years later, Bobby Chacon was the featherweight world champion.
It was the biggest regret of her life.
Bobby’s strengths were his God-given speed, power, accuracy, and tenacity. His weakness was a lack of discipline and an appetite for bright lights. Bobby just couldn’t say no to a party; it was what he lived for. After all, what good is being world champion if you can’t enjoy yourself?
He opened his career with a 25-1 record with 23 knockouts, but as he rose through the ranks, his weight began to fluctuate. “His greatest problem was his living habits,” said ex-trainer Frank Sarencho. “He couldn’t train. He was too lazy and wouldn’t sacrifice.”
After one successful title defense — a second round KO of Jesus Estrada — Chacon signed to fight Ruben Olivares. Two days before the fight, he was still 15+ pounds over the limit! After starving himself in a steam room for hours and hours, he finally made weight… and was knocked out in two rounds.
Undeterred, Chacon launched a comeback. But his training habits hadn’t improved, and he was getting pounded — knocked down — more than ever. After losing to Olivares, he went 0-1-1 in two fights against Rafael Limón, lost a 10-round decision to Arturo Leon, and was KO’d by Alexis Arguello and Cornelius Boza Edwards.
Valerie had seen enough.
“I never want you to fight again,” she cried.
He actually retired for eight months. But it didn’t stick; he was convinced there was another world title run within him. His belief in himself never wavered.
But Valerie was just as convinced that if he fought again, the man she loved would be brain-damaged, broken, or killed. She suffered vivid nightmares of her proud, handsome husband being pounded into a gruesome, bloody pulp and left as a paraplegic. It was something she just wasn’t strong enough to witness anymore.
He ignored her. Came in and out of retirement a few times. Won some, lost some, and suffered some spectacular knockouts.
Valerie tried everything. She landed a new job, so her husband wouldn’t have to work anymore. She bought a big, beautiful ranch for them to retire on — a ranch she bought with her own money, because she didn’t know what else to do.
Chacon’s manager, Jackie Barnett, was an aspiring screenwriter. He told Valerie that he wanted to write Bobby Chacon’s biopic. During training camp, Valerie told him about her idea for the final act: “I’ll give you an ending that will make you a million dollars. I’m going to kill myself.”
Her words went unheeded.
The day after her death, Bobby Chacon was bizarrely tranquil. It was almost as if his wife’s death hadn’t registered — like it didn’t even happen. Dr. P. B. Montemayor, the examining physician, gave Chacon the standard prefight medical checkup. All his readings were completely, totally normal. Dr. Montemayor tried to probe Chacon’s mental state by asking about Valerie. “During this time, his pulse and heartbeat didn’t go up a beat,” noted the doctor.
He entered the ring utterly devoid of emotion. Chacon was quiet and still; his expression a blank slate. Boxing is a barbaric, brutal sport that feeds on emotional intensity, but Chacon was as calm as a meandering stream. Eerily calm. Meanwhile, his opponent, Salvador Ugalde, stared menacingly from the corner.
Then the bell chimed. And something snapped.
Bobby Chacon exploded with such savagery — all the fury, rage, and psychosis burning within — that even veteran reporters covered their eyes. On that night, Tuesday, March 16, 1982, Bobby Chacon unleashed hell.
The same hell that would be his destiny, too.
Salvador Ugalde was battered, tortured, and abused for three solid rounds. Finally, at 1:52 in the third, the referee stopped the fight.
When it was all over, Chacon’s corner hung a necklace around his neck, a metal chain with his wedding ring dangling from it.
And then, at long last, Bobby Chacon finally broke down in tears.
He sobbed and screamed and raged and wept. He cried until he collapsed, clutching his wedding ring, refusing to release it from his grip.
Veteran boxing writers called it the saddest victory they’ve ever seen. Chacon prevailed in the ring he chose, but it wasn’t the ring he should’ve chosen.
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As it turns out, both Bobby and Valerie were exactly right. Bobby Chacon did have another world title run within him; nine months after Valerie died, he won the WBC super-featherweight title from Rafael Limón. He kept his vow and became a world champion again.
He successfully defended his title one time before being KO’d in three rounds by Ray Mancini. And that was it. Chacon fought seven times after that, but never again contended for a title.
And as Valerie had ominously predicted, his brain was dying. Bobby spent his final days in the throes of pugilistic dementia, incapable of caring for himself. His brain had devolved to that of a small child. By the year 2000, his money was gone. Fortunately, some fans gave him a pity job, working as the janitor of a rundown boxing gym. At night, he’d sleep in an empty room on the top floor.
The same man who was champion of the whole damn world — who could’ve retired to a vast, beautiful, spacious 20-acre ranch with his loving wife, Valerie — spent his final days mopping up spit, cleaning up garbage, and living by himself.
Bobby Chacon died in 2016. He was 64.
