Aaron, known intimately by his close friends and family as Cheeks, is 5'7", 155 pounds, making regular cuts down to 65 kilos (145.5 pounds). The nickname stems from the plump cheeks he had as a child, now carved into high cheekbones, especially when he's down to weight. He's Hispanic, tan, and often there's a signature cut high across the bridge of his nose. Brown eyes, no facial hair. Not the clean shaven look, but of the age when you haven't truly begun to shave.
Aaron Pico trains with Jason WelchI'd roomed with Aaron in France a few weeks prior, watched him beat the 2013 World champ (David Safaryan of Armenia) 8-5 at the Henri Deglane in Nice. I planned to stay the week with his family to train and to figure out a little more about what Aaron is all about.
"What kind of latte is that?" Aaron asks me before we start warming up. He grabs towards it as if he already knows the answer.
"Vanilla," I say just before he picks it up. "It's always vanilla."
And then my latte is gone. It's not that Aaron is selfish or won't ask me if he can have a sip. He knows I'd offer some to him, as he would me. It's that once you've become close to him you're part of the family. It's intimate. You share everything.
Aaron Pico chats with his coach Valentin KalikaWe finish up with a round-robin of matches. I square off with Aaron and we ease into it. It's not until we get in a rhythm that Aaron starts hand fighting me and snapping me as hard as he can. He works on other techniques. He knows he can snap down some of the best guys in the world, so it's not his go-to in a practice match.
What makes his hand fighting unique is that they're more akin to strikes. They are more jabs or hooks than holds or slow pulls. When he gets going, either because he's especially happy or especially upset, I find myself thinking about blocking my head instead of holding position. I duck, weave, and take bad shots so that I don't get my head pummeled. That's where his strength lies. But he waits until he needs to use it.
Aaron is a lot of things to the public. He's an Olympic hopeful, a boxer, a future MMA fighter. But at home he's the Pico prodigal son. The Picos have been here a long time -- Aaron's seventh generation Whittier, California. It's said he's a descendant of Pio Pico, the last governor of California while under Mexican rule. When I see Aaron, I don't see the beaches and blondes LA that most people see, but rather its predecessor. Deserts, cowboys, dirt biking -- this is the wild, tough LA I associate with Aaron.
One night I catch up with the Pico family at Aaron's grandfather's house, about ten minutes from their own. I've spent the day surfing. Aaron's grandpa is hosting his great grandma's birthday, a pre-Christmas tradition. I catch the tail end and people are leaving, but the house is still full. There are maybe twenty of us who stay late.
Aaron's grandpa is as big of an influence on him as anyone. Inside there's an MMA fight on and the tamales are gone, but Aaron's mom, Gina, helps me find a plate of rice, beans, chips and salsa. I have a drink with Aaron's dad, Anthony, and his grandfather. We sit on the couch chatting about life and wrestling. A little while later Aaron's grandpa is walking around. He gives Aaron a giant hug and then stands in the living room in front of him. Aaron has been telling us that one day he wants to have a house on the hill in the distance.
"When Cheeks buys his house," he announces to everyone. "We can have the party at your place, right?" Aaron nods. "OK -- everyone heard that, right? We'll hold him to it." And then he adds again, "and it'll be in Whittier, right?"
Later we play LCR. There's a large awning covering the backyard. We stand around a long table. We never play with chairs, someone tells me. In LCR the die rotates clockwise and you roll one to three die depending on how many dollars you have. Everyone starts with three dollars. The die faces: L (pass left), R (pass right), C (dollar in the pot), dot (keep). Everyone yells, cheers, and heckles. All ages play. We scream louder as people are out and pass or are passed money. Gina will win the pot -- maybe 60 bucks. But the money isn't the point, of course.
One of Aaron's younger cousin's, a sixth-grader, hasn't been able to keep his rolls on the table. But, we've been playing it as it lies and giving him the benefit of the doubt. "Oooh," we start saying. "Just throw them on the ground. Dots every time!"
When one of his die rolls between Anthony and me, it's a close call. It's caught on edge in the grass.
"Center!" announces Anthony Pico.
"No way," the cousin says.
"Are you sure?"
"It's center," I say. People are still skeptical. The cousin's mom especially.
"Center!" Anthony yells, hanging on to the R with his voice. The young cousin is more upset. And then we are, that is most of the boys, yelling or laughing -- Center, Center! Anthony holds out a big C with his right hand over the table. Patrick says it right: he's like Brands calling two. The sound is contagious. We can't stop ourselves. Aaron is flexing both arms. All the boys yelling. The cousin storms away, knocking a plastic chair or two down. But someone, maybe Aaron or maybe Patrick, brings him back. We're sorry. We got a little excited. We extend the mercy of a dot, but the cousin strikes out the next roll anyway. When we go back inside Aaron is once again the center piece and he has a ton of energy still. We're all tired. I've never played such a fun, exhausting game of LCR. But Aaron is alive. He's home. This is where he's most comfortable and uninhibited.
Aaron grabs Jared, his older cousin, and they roll around. Jared wants little to do with it, but what else can you do when you're challenged? He fights back. They wrestle for ten minutes or so, and eventually he plays dead, and Arron gets off.
"Your hair," Aaron says, laughing.
"Well you had me eating carpet for ten minutes," Jared says. His hair, dense with gel, is sticking all over the place. The Picos are hair people, guys and girls.
The mornings are relaxed. Aaron has given me his bed, and sleeps in Patrick's, who has migrated over to his girlfriend's for the duration of my stay. Although we all have differing schedules, the house seems to awake around the same time. It's the way of tight-knit families and houses where you hear everyone wandering towards the coffee first thing. We're all calm in the mornings. Winter in LA is sunny and chilly in a refreshing sort of way. We drink coffee, chat, and Christmas music plays in the background. For a moment even the two dogs, Rudy and Davo, are relaxed. They're both small, high-energy terriers. They love petting and sprint to you when you walk outside the bedroom. They also refuse to do anything about a mouse that's been sneaking in through their doggie-door.
One of those mornings we eat breakfast burritos from the Douglas burger joint. It's been a staple in Whittier for a long time. Anthony reminisces how the town has changed since he was a boy, the old combo-deal at Douglas' ... and that him and Gina have known each other since they were kids, long before they were romantic and long before Aaron. Anthony can chat. He's a first-class storyteller, and he gives me a history of Whittier through his eyes. At the end of breakfast Aaron walks in and hugs his mom. We've been talking about scheduling and the lifestyle it takes to be an international wrestler: the constant training, and the traveling for training camps and competitions overseas. This year Aaron will be gone many more days than he'll be home.
"We travel so much," he says, still hugging Gina. "It's a gift just being home."
The last night I drive Aaron to the Ponce De Leon Boxing Gym. This is his third workout of the day. Inside: boys sparring in pairs, men shadow boxing against the mirror, a girl on a speed bag, an 8-year-old finishing his bag work with unlimited punches to the abs of his giant, Mexican coach. There are two stages and a bench where I sit with a few parents. There's plenty more Spanish spoken than English.
Aaron shakes hands with everyone and then sits in the corner of the room, wraps his own hands while talking to his longtime boxing coach Dominic Doloria. Aaron remembers Coach Doloria's two infants, now young boys sparring in front of the mirror.
Then Aaron warms up by shadow boxing. He's wearing sweats, Nike boxing shoes (one of his newest sponsors), and a USA Wrestling shirt with a light v-neck cut into it. His hands are fast, deliberate. He looks more boxer than wrestler. Aaron has put in years of hard work with Coach Valentin, but he spent his childhood in a boxing gym with Coach Doloria. He loved it first. "I love boxing more," he tells me later.
The club is crowded, but no one is asking for their own space, no one is territorial. They're punching and blocking and weaving and ducking in close proximity, like an over-crowded ballroom dance. It is a beautiful mix of chaos and order. There's an extreme sense of closeness and community here. In training so close and violently with one another there is a unique kind of trust that develops.
Aaron continues fast, precise punches through the air, feet synched with hands synched with body. Then he shadow boxes around the slip rope next to another boy. A red head guard and blue gloves come on for sparring. He drops one guy with a left hook to the body. Aaron stays in after round, and then sits after the second. The kids take time out of their own workouts to be water boys and watch.
While Aaron sits out he gets some pointers from Coach Doloria, and then is left alone. He's watching a boy, probably a fifth-grader, get some bag work in with another coach. Aaron's gaze relaxes, usually he is extremely focused and alert. But here he drifts out and he seems to be in deep thought, almost recalling a memory. I think about what Anthony told me, that Aaron always knew he was going to fight. That's the difference between him and people who decide to later on in life. But for now Aaron's mind is drifting elsewhere, perhaps thinking of his first days of bag work, then the bell rings, and he gets back in the fight.
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