Sports Illustrated - USA (2022-04)

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only to come back the next day. More crying followed, as

did more sparring. Eventually, Amanda wore down her

trainer and future brother-in-law, who decided to test her

against a much larger opponent with 15 amateur fights.

When Amanda held her own, everything changed.

SERRANO’S NO-FRIENDS, no-phones approach

worked until “Operation Dumbbell” threatened to unravel

the family’s plans. The nickname stemmed from an

18-month undercover investigation by the NYPD into two

Brooklyn gyms—one operated and the other frequented by

Maldonado. Detectives called the spaces “drug supermar-

kets” that peddled steroids, cocaine, ecstasy and OxyContin.

Maldonado and both Serrano sisters were among

the two dozen people arrested and charged with crimi-

nal sale of a controlled substance in September 2007.

Maldonado pleaded guilty in exchange for a reduced

sentence and served a year in jail. Cindy faced nine years

but avoided prison. Amanda’s case never went to court.

The family tries to avoid discussing the investigation.

But any hope that they could simply put Operation

Dumbbell behind them has proved false. Even in the lead-

up to headlining at the Garden, Taylor’s team insisted on

rigorous drug testing before agreeing to terms.

Amanda describes Maldonado, 56, who still trains her,

by what he has done for her career. She made as little as

$500 for one “prize” fight early on. Cindy had bouts where

she made $50. Amanda says Maldonado—who declined

to be interviewed for this story—sometimes paid their

opponents out of his own pocket, or covered their travel

expenses; anything to land another fight. “We’re going

through the ups and downs together,” she says, vaguely.

Her focus has remained the same since 2009: her

career. Serrano won the vacant IBF super featherweight

title in ’11. Still, she didn’t know whether she could box

and earn a living wage. So she also tried jujitsu and mixed

martial arts and even brief ly dabbled in pro wrestling. But

she never stopped boxing, and the belt barrage began in

earnest. She went up in weight. She went down in weight.

She kept fighting. Kept winning. In ’19 she nabbed her

seventh title, this one at 115 pounds.

Eventually, the boxing diehards noticed what the larger

public never seemed to see. Like Rosie Perez, the actress

who follows the sport obsessively. “Blown away,” Perez

told her fight friends they needed to check Serrano out.

As the years f lew by and Serrano accumulated belts,

Perez wondered: Why hadn’t Serrano been given more

respect, more resources, more of everything she had

clearly earned? “It’s shameful for the industry to have

disrespected a person who’s in the Guinness book of world

records,” Perez says. “It really is a commentary on how

women’s boxing has had to struggle to get to this place.

I’m so freakin’ happy for her. It’s long overdue.”

In the history of boxing, only Manny Pacquiao could

compare résumés in terms of weight classes conquered.

And while it’s not an exact comparison, it’s still significant.

Both Serrano and Pacquiao embraced a come-forward,

action-packed, fists-of-fury style. Both are southpaws

with high knockout rates. And both took on all manner

SPORTS

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TAYLOR VS. SERRANO

“I can’t believe people want to see me,”

says the reclusive Serrano. “I’m always

like, ‘Why? I’m a normal person.’ ”