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His world is one in which status is measured by the duration of an introduction. They become lengthier and more elaborate as the achievements accumulate. At marquee level, they are long-winded testimonies to greatness.
In the 51/2 years since Andre Ward entered professional boxing, his intro has increased from maybe 15 seconds in his heralded debut to nearly a full minute once he earned a championship.
As the accolades stack up, two introductory lines have stayed the same: his name and his hometown.
He's still announced as Andre Ward, a result of birth, a circumstance beyond his control.
And he's still "from Oakland, California," the result of a conscious, deliberate decision.
Though Ward was born in San Francisco, spent most of his childhood in Hayward and Oakland and now lives in Dublin, he requests affiliation with Oakland. It's the city closest to his heart and, moreover, he discerns it could benefit from any association with highly visible young men of color who live as he does.
"I definitely represent Oakland — I represent the Bay Area as a whole, too — but I picked Oakland because I lived a good part of my life here," he says before a recent training session at King's Gym. "I did a lot of growing up in Hayward and was born in San Francisco, but a lot of my core development was in Oakland.
"It's a city that needs something positive. I'm not saying I'm the savior, but if I can do my part to
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bring some positive attention and be a positive example to adults and kids alike, that's what I want to do."
Ward owns a gold medal from the 2004 Olympics; he's the only American boxer to win gold since 1996. He's undefeated (21-0, 13 KOs) as a pro. Last November, he dethroned Denmark's Mikkel Kessler to capture the World Boxing Association super middleweight championship belt.
That belt will be at stake June 19, when Ward defends against Allan Green (29-1, 20 KOs) of Tulsa, Okla., in Stage 2 of the Super Six World Boxing Classic. Insofar as Ward-Green is scheduled for the same Oracle Arena ring where Ward claimed the title, he will fight again before a supportive, almost adoring, crowd.
Though Ward likely would get a similar response if he were announced as being from San Francisco or Hayward or Dublin, it is evident his two previous bouts at Oracle were displays of civic pride for Oakland.
As it should be, for Ward is unsurpassed among local — and maybe national — sports role models. He's untainted at a time when too many are noted for their character blemishes. He's a noble and devout black athlete at a time when too many are fascinated with weapons and strip clubs. He's a family man, devoted to his wife and three children, at a time when too many men are absent and too many families are fractured.
Ward is good for the East Bay, for Northern California, for boxing, for professional sports — and especially for Oakland, because he is a tale of what might have been.
It was less than a decade ago that he heard the call of the streets, straddled the line between productive and destructive, a vulnerable place familiar to Oakland's young.
"I understand what kind of pressure young men are facing," he says. "I understand what it's like trying to figure out if you're coming or going and, in the midst of that, making bad decisions. Some of these kids are making decisions that are life-threatening — either losing their life or taking a life or getting locked up for life."
Frank Ward, the father who raised, taught and coached Andre, had died and suddenly the boy on the verge of manhood was spinning in 10 directions. Bent on doing things as he pleased, he sniffed around enough thug life for misguided peers to see that he, like them, was "down." He wanted to project his heart as darker than it really was.
"At that age, you get upset sometimes, don't know why and you're just trying to find yourself," he recalls. "When my father passed, that was my excuse to go out there and mess up."
It didn't matter that the Olympic trials were a year away or that family members were offering guidance or that his godfather and trainer, Virgil Hunter, was constantly in his ear, whispering tips about boxing and, most often, about growing up in and around a city with the capacity to eat its young or destroy its gifted.
Andre was almost 19 when he fully understood what was significant.
"I got tired," he says. "My back was against the wall and I threw up my hands and said, 'Lord, I'm tired of this. Give me my life back.' It was like God took his hands off me for a minute, gave me the desires of my heart, allowed me to dabble in things I wanted so bad at the time.
"And I saw I wanted no part of it. I realized I wasn't really that kind of guy. I wasn't ready to go to jail, didn't want to be killed and I definitely wasn't going to kill anybody. I was just messing around in a world where something serious could have happened."
This is the message he's willing to deliver to kids who wander into King's, to young people during speaking engagements. Ward doesn't hard-sell his faith, but he credits it for giving his life positive direction.
Though his success has led to fame, with increasing wealth and visibility, Ward always has anchored himself to Oakland. HBO cameras have followed his jogs around picturesque Lake Merritt. He hears "Oakland" every time he enters the ring and likes what he hears.
"Oakland gets a lot of bad press, some of it warranted, some not," he says. "But I would like people to understand that bad happens everywhere, but good happens here as well."
In the 51/2 years since Andre Ward entered professional boxing, his intro has increased from maybe 15 seconds in his heralded debut to nearly a full minute once he earned a championship.
As the accolades stack up, two introductory lines have stayed the same: his name and his hometown.
He's still announced as Andre Ward, a result of birth, a circumstance beyond his control.
And he's still "from Oakland, California," the result of a conscious, deliberate decision.
Though Ward was born in San Francisco, spent most of his childhood in Hayward and Oakland and now lives in Dublin, he requests affiliation with Oakland. It's the city closest to his heart and, moreover, he discerns it could benefit from any association with highly visible young men of color who live as he does.
"I definitely represent Oakland — I represent the Bay Area as a whole, too — but I picked Oakland because I lived a good part of my life here," he says before a recent training session at King's Gym. "I did a lot of growing up in Hayward and was born in San Francisco, but a lot of my core development was in Oakland.
"It's a city that needs something positive. I'm not saying I'm the savior, but if I can do my part to
Advertisement
bring some positive attention and be a positive example to adults and kids alike, that's what I want to do."
Ward owns a gold medal from the 2004 Olympics; he's the only American boxer to win gold since 1996. He's undefeated (21-0, 13 KOs) as a pro. Last November, he dethroned Denmark's Mikkel Kessler to capture the World Boxing Association super middleweight championship belt.
That belt will be at stake June 19, when Ward defends against Allan Green (29-1, 20 KOs) of Tulsa, Okla., in Stage 2 of the Super Six World Boxing Classic. Insofar as Ward-Green is scheduled for the same Oracle Arena ring where Ward claimed the title, he will fight again before a supportive, almost adoring, crowd.
Though Ward likely would get a similar response if he were announced as being from San Francisco or Hayward or Dublin, it is evident his two previous bouts at Oracle were displays of civic pride for Oakland.
As it should be, for Ward is unsurpassed among local — and maybe national — sports role models. He's untainted at a time when too many are noted for their character blemishes. He's a noble and devout black athlete at a time when too many are fascinated with weapons and strip clubs. He's a family man, devoted to his wife and three children, at a time when too many men are absent and too many families are fractured.
Ward is good for the East Bay, for Northern California, for boxing, for professional sports — and especially for Oakland, because he is a tale of what might have been.
It was less than a decade ago that he heard the call of the streets, straddled the line between productive and destructive, a vulnerable place familiar to Oakland's young.
"I understand what kind of pressure young men are facing," he says. "I understand what it's like trying to figure out if you're coming or going and, in the midst of that, making bad decisions. Some of these kids are making decisions that are life-threatening — either losing their life or taking a life or getting locked up for life."
Frank Ward, the father who raised, taught and coached Andre, had died and suddenly the boy on the verge of manhood was spinning in 10 directions. Bent on doing things as he pleased, he sniffed around enough thug life for misguided peers to see that he, like them, was "down." He wanted to project his heart as darker than it really was.
"At that age, you get upset sometimes, don't know why and you're just trying to find yourself," he recalls. "When my father passed, that was my excuse to go out there and mess up."
It didn't matter that the Olympic trials were a year away or that family members were offering guidance or that his godfather and trainer, Virgil Hunter, was constantly in his ear, whispering tips about boxing and, most often, about growing up in and around a city with the capacity to eat its young or destroy its gifted.
Andre was almost 19 when he fully understood what was significant.
"I got tired," he says. "My back was against the wall and I threw up my hands and said, 'Lord, I'm tired of this. Give me my life back.' It was like God took his hands off me for a minute, gave me the desires of my heart, allowed me to dabble in things I wanted so bad at the time.
"And I saw I wanted no part of it. I realized I wasn't really that kind of guy. I wasn't ready to go to jail, didn't want to be killed and I definitely wasn't going to kill anybody. I was just messing around in a world where something serious could have happened."
This is the message he's willing to deliver to kids who wander into King's, to young people during speaking engagements. Ward doesn't hard-sell his faith, but he credits it for giving his life positive direction.
Though his success has led to fame, with increasing wealth and visibility, Ward always has anchored himself to Oakland. HBO cameras have followed his jogs around picturesque Lake Merritt. He hears "Oakland" every time he enters the ring and likes what he hears.
"Oakland gets a lot of bad press, some of it warranted, some not," he says. "But I would like people to understand that bad happens everywhere, but good happens here as well."