My love affair with boxing came as a surprise to my parents, who saw me as a sheltered child seeking to avoid confrontation at any cost. I’ll never forget the puzzled look on my dad’s face when I asked him to attend my first amateur bout. Fighting was fine for Roger and Kenny, but not for his youngest boy.
“You can’t fight,” he said.
“Just come and watch me, Daddy,” I said.
Well, after seeing me prevail handily, he never had trouble picturing me as a fighter again. I made him quite proud, though there was, of course, another boxer who received his highest praise.
“Nobody today would beat Joe Louis,” he often said. My brothers and I shook our heads in disbelief but we didn’t try to change his mind. There was no point. Besides, talking about his beloved childhood hero made him feel young again.
Within months, I started to bulk up. Speed provided a valuable advantage, but if I ever hoped to outduel the premier sluggers, I could not simply run around the ring for the whole time. As Joe Louis said about his rival Billy Conn: “He can run but he cannot hide.” Sooner or later I would have to stand toe-to-toe, giving them everything they could handle and absorbing their best in return. Only then could I be considered a real fighter.
Bobby Magruder was one, the toughest in the D.C. region, and in the spring of ’71, after his scheduled opponent dropped out a day or two before their fight, I was picked to take his place.
Bobby, a white guy of Irish and Scottish descent, was a featherweight with the power of a middleweight. Even his name was intimidating—Bobby Magrrrrrruuuder—and considering what he went through, no wonder he was fearless.
His father deserted him and his mom when he was only ten years old. By the time he was eleven or twelve, he was fighting once a month in illegal bouts in a strip club called The Cave in Waldorf, Maryland. As Bobby duked it out against the sons of farmers and truck drivers from outside the state, girls wearing only bikinis performed on swings overhead, serving up their own form of entertainment. Bobby earned fifty cents for every victory, along with any nickels and dimes tossed on the floor by the satisfied customers. Each cent went a long way, as Bobby’s financial situation made the Leonards seem like the Rockefellers. To buy a ten-cent can of soup, he rounded up five Coke bottles a day, collecting two cents per deposit.
Bobby did not fight just in the bars. He fought in the streets, and in 1966, at the age of fifteen, he was preparing for another one of those battles when he nearly lost everything. A car belonging to a member of the gang he and his buddies were about to rumble with purposely ran into him, pinning Bobby against another vehicle. Both legs were crushed, the left leg so badly that doctors were planning to amputate—until they met a Magruder who made Bobby seem meek in comparison.
“You’re not taking my son’s leg,” his mother insisted. “I want a specialist.”
Bobby spent more than three months in the hospital, and the leg was saved.
His recovery was only beginning. For about a year, because his family did not own a car, he walked the entire six miles back and forth every day to receive physical therapy. The walk did him enormous good, building up the strength in his body. When he felt powerful enough, he went back to the sport he loved, helping to start the Hillcrest Heights Boys Club boxing team. During those bleak moments in the hospital, he made a deal with the Lord: Let me walk again and I will stay out of trouble.
During the late 1960s, Bobby fought in sanctioned AAU matches, knocking out everyone he faced, and made it to the 1968 Olympic Trials. It was quite a comeback.
Now it was my turn to see the legend up close. Was I concerned? You bet I was, especially after finding out that Dave Jacobs would not be in my corner because his wife was ill, leaving me in the hands of Janks Morton. I felt abandoned. Jake was my primary trainer, and nothing against Janks, but this was not the time to make such a significant change. A boxer’s connection with his trainer is almost too complicated and intense for words.
Bobby was the defending Golden Gloves champion, and if that were not challenging enough, the fight was to be staged on his turf. Hillcrest Heights, or Little Italy, as it was known, was affluent, safe, and primarily white. While I do not recall any specific racist slurs, let’s just say I was not greeted with the warmest reception in the world. The place was jammed, roughly 500 people squeezing into a gym fit for maybe 250, many sitting on top of one another on the windowsills, fire codes broken everywhere.
I was wrong to worry about Janks. He made me believe in myself that night as no one ever did. “We’re going to do it,” he said over and over.
Janks encouraged me to box, box, box, and . . . box. One glance at the confusion on Bobby Magruder’s face and I could tell he never saw anyone that fast in the ring. I danced in circles, pausing for a moment to fire a jab and then darting away from his right hand. I stayed in the middle of the ring. When he got me into the corner, I spun out of his reach. He connected with several decent shots, but I was never close to being knocked down. After I was awarded a split decision, the fans could not believe it. Their hero was not invincible, losing to, of all people, a black kid from Palmer Park!
In later years, there would be famous tussles against such legends as Duran and Hearns and Hagler, with much larger stakes, but no fight ever meant more to me than the triumph over Bobby Magruder. By defeating the man in D.C., I became the man, and if I could beat Bobby, I could beat anybody. We fought twice more, for the Golden Gloves title, and in the finals of the AAU tournament. I won both times, but it was our first duel that propelled me to the next level.
Week after week, the fights came, as did the victims, in D.C. and around the country. Some were harder than others.
One of the most memorable was an encounter with Larry Hinnant, a black fighter who was also from the D.C. region. I didn’t prepare too thoroughly, as I had knocked him out before and assumed I’d have no trouble again. I soon learned never to assume anything in the ring. In the second round, Hinnant landed a shot out of nowhere, which almost put me on the canvas. I woke up in time to capture the decision, yet while I won over the judges, I didn’t win over the spectators, who booed the verdict. I couldn’t blame them. Hinnant, the underdog, fought with courage. I didn’t. I was fortunate that my superior talents bailed me out.
Shortly after Hinnant came Dale Staley. Staley resembled the late actor/teen idol James Dean. Every strand of his hair was in place. When the bell rang, however, Staley turned into a savage and he made no apologies. Rules? Dale Staley did not believe in rules. He believed in using his head, elbow, knee, or any other body part to hit his opponent, and most of the time he got away with it. The fight was held at Prince George’s Community College, and the gym was packed. It was like facing Bobby Magruder all over again. After my subpar showing against Hinnant, some folks figured there was a chance Staley would take me down. There was no possibility in my mind of that happening and I wasted no time proving it. I gave him a crash course in Boxing 101, connecting with one jab after another to his increasingly puffy jaw. He stayed aggressive, anxious to employ every trick he knew, but I never allowed him to get too close. The fans cheered the decision. I showed courage this time.
In 1972, as a lightweight, I made it to the quarterfinals of the National AAU Tournament. Traveling became quite an adventure, although I must admit I was very naïve back then. During my first trip on a plane, which was bound for Las Vegas, Janks Morton joked that the bottom of the aircraft was beginning to come apart. Derrik and I believed him and were scared to death. Good thing Janks didn’t keep the gag going for much longer or we might have looked for the nearest parachute.
Vegas was frightening, especially at night with the lights flashing, though it didn’t stop us from ignoring our curfew and walking the streets on the Strip, drinking sodas, spellbound by the strange universe we’d entered. I lost to a guy named Jerome Artis, who was superfast and talked a lot of trash, and it was, in fact, my first setback as an amateur. I wasn’t too devastated. I knew I’d have to lose somet
ime.
The wins kept coming, along with the rewards. Despite being only sixteen, a year under the minimum age requirement, I was picked to be on the national team to oppose boxers from other countries. I lied to the people in charge, and they knew I was lying but did not care because they wanted to lead a U.S. revival in international boxing events. In Vegas, I was doing fairly well against Russia’s Valery Lov, until he landed a hard right I never saw. I found myself in a place that wasn’t familiar: the canvas. While I was lying there, I saw Joe Louis and the comedian Redd Foxx laughing. The Russian didn’t stand a chance. Nobody laughed at me. I got up and won the fight.
Soon came the toughest test to date, the 1972 U.S. Olympic Trials in Cincinnati. At this point, capturing the gold medal was not the all-consuming goal it would become, though I was extremely disappointed when I lost a decision in the semifinals to a local kid, Greg Whaley, whom I clearly whipped. As it turned out, Whaley was hurt too severely to fight in the finals and never fought again. Did I feel sympathy for him? Not really. Everyone who signs up for this cruel sport is aware of the risks each time we climb underneath the ropes. Greg Whaley was no exception.
After the fight, Tom “Sarge” Johnson, one of the Olympic coaches, approached me in the dressing room.
“Don’t worry, Sugar Man,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll make the team in’76. You’ll be more experienced. The lessons you take home from here will make you a much better fighter.”
Sarge had been telling people around me that I was “sweeter than sugar.” For decades, as a result of his comment, Sarge has received credit for my nickname, and I have never bothered to correct this version. I even spread it myself. It made for good copy, as they like to say.
There’s just one problem. Sarge Johnson did not come up with the nickname “Sugar Ray.” I did.
I did it out of respect for the incomparable Sugar Ray Robinson, whose fights I knew almost punch by punch. Robinson, the welterweight and middleweight champion in the forties and fifties, was the most complete prizefighter in history. He could attack. He could counter. He could dance. He could do everything. Some boxing writers later took me to task, arguing that there can be only one Sugar Ray. But Robinson, in his fifties, told me he considered it an honor that I adopted his nickname, and his opinion was the one that counted.
My chance to make the 1972 Olympic team was not over just yet. It was arranged for me to join the squad representing the U.S. Army in a qualifying event in Texas, though whatever possible connection I might have had with the brave men and women who put themselves in harm’s way is beyond me. My father served his country, not me.
I trained hard in Texas, too hard. I practically starved myself. For three days, I didn’t consume anything but water and the juice I squeezed out of lemons. It obviously wasn’t the smartest thing to do in one-hundred-degree heat. Despite my last-minute efforts, it dawned on me that, at roughly 135 pounds, I wasn’t going to make weight (125 pounds) in time for my qualifying bout. Instead, I made a scene. I have never admitted this, but I faked a blackout, and, frankly, it ranks as one of my best performances—and lowest moments. I fooled everyone, including Dave Jacobs, the other coaches, and my mother, who did what I knew she’d do, pleading with the staff not to let “[her] baby fight.” I was thus spared the embarrassment of not making weight. Looking back, I wish I had been honest about the weight problem from the outset. At sixteen, there was much to learn.
Especially when it came to the opposite sex.
The person I was around girls was entirely different from who I was in the ring. In the ring, I identified with the comic book heroes I read about. My favorite was Superman, who was speedier and more powerful than any force, except kryptonite. Everyone knew my name, and that I was headed to bigger things. With girls, I could not put together a coherent sentence, let alone ask them out for a date. They knew about my boxing exploits, but that didn’t impress them. Winning a bunch of amateur fights was not the same as being the star quarterback on the football team or the highest scorer on the basketball team. I wondered if there would ever be a girl for me.
Then she came into my life. Her name was Juanita Wilkinson, and, like my father when he met his future bride in South Carolina, I knew right away that she was the one.
However, unlike the more assertive Cicero Leonard, I waited and waited and . . . waited. Day after day passed as I stared at Juanita from around the corner while she boarded the bus for school. Whenever I got anywhere near her, I began to shiver. Her face was that of an angel, and she sported a cute, curly Afro, and there was no way to diminish another part of her appeal, the size of her breasts. They were enormous, beautiful. I got the break I needed when her girlfriend Bobbi Massey gave me her picture and number. Of course, I waited several more weeks to get up the nerve. What could this goddess possibly see in me? She could have had any guy in school. Finally, one afternoon, I made the call. I was more apprehensive than I’d been before any fight. I was relieved when one of her sisters said Juanita wasn’t home.
A few hours later, she called back. I must have become more comfortable than I realized because after I asked her if she had a boyfriend and she said she’d had a few, I told her: “You met your match this time.” I called back later that evening, and we were on the phone for ten straight hours, except for short bathroom or food breaks, till about six in the morning, often whispering to make sure our parents didn’t catch on. Juanita fell asleep at one point and started snoring softly, yet I stayed on the line until her father came on and hung up the phone. With the light of dawn peeking through the window, I lay awake, still not quite believing that I’d talked to the girl I’d admired from afar for months. We’d brought up every subject two teenagers could possibly think of—music, school, friends, parents. The next night, exhausted, we did it again, starting a romance over the phone. Toward the end of one of those early calls, I boldly asked Juanita if the long chats meant we were officially boyfriend and girlfriend. She paused. I wished I hadn’t asked.
“I suppose we are,” Juanita said.
“Okay, then, you’re my girlfriend,” I said. I was in heaven.
Three days later, we met in person. It happened by accident the first time as I ran into her on the street when she was hanging out with a niece and cousin. I asked if I could walk her home and she said yes. I was anxious again, to say the least. What if I wasn’t as smooth as I was on the phone? The chemistry between a girl and a boy can’t be faked. If I screwed this up, I would never get to first base with her, and it might go down as the shortest love affair in the history of Palmer Park.
There was nothing to be anxious about. Juanita and I walked down the street hand in hand. For the record, I did make it to first base that night, and it was fantastic. From then on, we saw each other almost every day. I would arrive around eleven thirty at night to greet her in the street when she returned from working at the gas station her father and cousins owned. After hours of pumping gas and changing oil and tires, Juanita’s face was smudged with black smut and she smelled like grease. I didn’t care. All I saw was the girl I loved and I could not wait to hold her in my arms. I often stayed until the sun came up. We kissed and talked and kissed some more.
One night in late August, it happened.
With my house to ourselves, she stopped by to hang out. We were sitting on the couch watching TV when, with her typical bluntness, she blurted out: “You know, I did not come over here to sit!”
It took me a few seconds to understand what she was hinting at, but once I did, I was terrified. I don’t recall exactly what I said. I am certain it was something stupid. I thought I was going to hyperventilate.
I was no virgin, mind you, having done the deed sometime earlier at the local drive-in on the dusty backseat of Coach Pepe’s station wagon with a girl whose name I’ve never been able to remember. It didn’t matter. As far as real sex was concerned, I was very inexperienced.
A birds-and-the-bees talk from Cicero and Getha Leonard? You’ve got to be kidd
ing. The only advice on the matter came from my brother Kenny, and, believe me, he was no Dr. Ruth. He made one point, and one point only: “Ray, whatever else you do, make sure you get out quickly,” and then he cracked up. Well, when the time for me to perform arrived that evening, my whole body shrunk. Everything shrunk, if you know what I mean. The important thing was that I did my manly duty, although I ignored my brother’s advice and the subject of protection was never discussed.
In no time, Juanita and I were having sex on a regular basis, and we never used a rubber or any other method of birth control. We did it everywhere. In the car. In my house. In the woods lying down on my jacket. Everywhere.
The inevitable came next: Juanita was pregnant. When she told me the news, one might assume that my first reaction had something to do with her physical well-being or what decisions we needed to make, as a couple, about our new, important responsibility.
Not me, not the selfish, insensitive Ray Leonard. My juvenile mind raced to my accomplishment, the pride I felt: Damn, I’m a fucking man! I thought.
It was not until my ego was sufficiently massaged that I focused on our next move. Because Juanita didn’t show for four of five months, we kept her pregnancy a secret from everyone, including our parents. I was no Rhodes Scholar, but I knew Cicero and Getha Leonard would not exactly be thrilled with the idea of a surprise grandchild. At no point did Juanita and I seriously contemplate getting married, as that would have derailed my path to the 1976 Olympics. Nor did we investigate how much it would cost for Juanita to have an abortion. In any event, it soon became too late for that option, and, as I suspected, my mom and dad weren’t pleased to hear the news. Incensed was more like it. They should have blamed me, but they didn’t. They blamed Juanita.
The most painful example of their disapproval came on the day of November 22, 1973, when my son, Ray Jr., entered the world. After driving around eighty miles per hour to the hospital, I hung out in the waiting room with the other nervous fathers-to-be. While they smoked cigarettes, I chewed gum, a baby myself at seventeen. For several hours I watched as one new dad after another received the official word and rushed to the phone to call his loved ones. They were all crying and screaming. I never saw grown men act like that before. I would probably do the same, it occurred to me, when my turn came. It soon did, and once the nurse told me that both mother and baby were doing fine, I phoned my parents. Regardless of their initial reactions to Juanita’s pregnancy, I assumed they would be excited to hear from me.
The Big Fight Page 4