The Big Fight

by Sugar Ray Leonard

  More than anything else, I wanted to be remembered as one of the immortals in boxing history, not just among my generation. I knew that defeating Benitez was not going to put me in that category. That goal is what inspired me to go running at five o’clock each morning, and to hit the bags until my hands could take no more. The fans had barely finished filing out of Caesars when the speculation began over who would be my next big opponent. The most likely candidates were Roberto Duran and Pipino Cuevas.

  That day would arrive soon enough, but on this day, I paused to reflect on what I had just accomplished. I was now the champ, and no two words mean more to a fighter. For the rest of my life, no matter how I would fare in future contests as my skills deteriorated, I’d be called “the champ.” Not “the champion,” mind you—“the champ.” It had to do with respect, as my father preached. “If a man doesn’t have respect,” he said, “he doesn’t have his soul.”

  Benitez and I never met again in the ring. I would see him at other fights throughout the 1980s, but it wasn’t until about a decade ago, when I paid him a visit in Puerto Rico while I was promoting an ESPN boxing show, that the two of us got a chance to spend some quality time together. It was a day I will never forget.

  I picked up his mother first in San Juan, and we drove for more than an hour before arriving at a convalescent home in the suburbs. The facility resembled many of these places, the odor of sickness and death in every corridor. We reached a room that was almost dark, its lone inhabitant sitting in a rocking chair, his face and stomach bloated, his eyes staring blankly into space.

  “Wilfred,” his mother, Clara, said, “do you know who this is?”

  “No,” he said, examining me from head to toe, “but I know he beat me.”

  I forced a smile. I was devastated. It was one thing to meet fighters from earlier eras and see the harm our sport can inflict. It was quite another to witness the effects on someone from my era. In his early forties, his mind was essentially gone, the heavy price for sixty-two fights in a career that lasted way too long, until 1990. The official diagnosis was traumatic encephalopathy, a disease caused by a series of concussions. I couldn’t help but think it could have been me in that rocking chair. Benitez squandered his entire fortune, and that could have happened to me, too, as it did to many fighters who made sketchy investments or were ripped off by those they should never have trusted. He didn’t have a Mike Trainer to protect him. Few did.

  Benitez and I were brought to another room, where, to my surprise, a screen had been set up to show our 1979 fight to about two dozen people. I was ambivalent about the idea, to say the least. Benitez would not remember the night, and if he did, why, in his helpless state, should he be subjected again to his most famous defeat?

  The room got dark and, together again, we went back in time. I sat on a sofa, Benitez in his chair next to me, his eyes glued to the screen.

  Nothing was said by either of us during the first fourteen rounds. I had not seen the footage in years, but I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I started to fantasize about an alternative outcome, for this day only, in which Benitez would retain his title and everyone in the room would toast their native son.

  It then hit me: Showing the fight was, on the contrary, an excellent idea. I could spot a spark in his eyes. He was back where he belonged, in the ring instead of in a chair. He was young and healthy again.

  After we watched Padilla stop the fight in the fifteenth round, Benitez finally opened his mouth. He remembered.

  “Su . . . gar, Su . . . gar,” he said slowly, almost in a whisper. “I want . . . you to know . . . that I no train for that fight.”

  “Good,” I said. “Thank you.”

  We laughed and hugged again.

  Soon I was gone, grateful to be in one piece.

  5

  Manos de Piedra

  With the belt in my possession, the time had come to claim another title: husband.

  For years, it was the one title I did not actively pursue, and, if anything, I did my best—and behaved my worst—to avoid. After becoming a father in late 1973 at the age of seventeen, the last thing I craved was more responsibility, especially with all the freedoms I earned with my fists. Juanita, to her credit, was incredibly patient, never once in the six years since Ray Jr. was born pressuring me to get married. Because she believed in the special bond between us, Juanita was certain the day would come eventually, which it did, on January 19, 1980, her twentythird birthday, in front of a packed crowd (typical me, always thinking of the gate) of about seven hundred guests at the First Baptist Church of Highland Park in Landover. Later, at the reception, there was an even bigger gathering, including a fair number who were not invited but were allowed in by one of my brothers or my close friend Joe Broddie. Things got so out of control, people banging on the doors, that Juanita stood up on a table to act as the traffic cop, motioning who could stay and who had to leave. I tried to talk her down, but it did no good. Nothing, though, could spoil the festive mood. With Ray Jr. as the ring bearer and Juanita as gorgeous as a bride could possibly be, we made for quite a threesome.

  So what made me tie the knot? The simple answer is, I thought marriage was the right thing to do, which doesn’t make me sound like the most romantic guy in the world, does it? Looking back, that was one of the many warning signs I missed. I first mentioned the idea to her before the Benitez fight and suggested we have the ceremony in Vegas. Not surprisingly, she felt getting married in a Vegas chapel was pretty cheesy, and I couldn’t blame her, which led to the date in January.

  Another sign I missed was how I chose to spend my last evening as a single man: with another woman, naturally, at a bachelor party the boys put together. I didn’t know the girl and I never saw her again, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that marriage, no matter how sacred a commitment, was not about to change my life. I promised myself I would still go to the coolest clubs and sleep with the hottest girls. I was Sugar Ray Leonard.

  I probably got an hour or two of sleep at most before the big day—Juanita’s big day, that is—and had a horrible hangover throughout the entire ceremony. Even so, I was convinced we would be together forever, which was why I rejected the suggestion when Mike Trainer first brought up the P word—prenup.

  “It will protect your assets,” he said, “if, God forbid, you two ever divorce.”

  “Mike,” I interrupted, “Juanita and I will never divorce.”

  Mike would not let the issue die, however, and in the end, Juanita agreed to sign the prenup. She believed that no matter what happened between us, I would take care of her for the rest of her life.

  After the ceremony, we flew to L.A. for our honeymoon—if you can call it that. I spent more time on the set than I did in our suite, leaving about seven A.M. each day to film a commercial and not returning until around nine at night. Juanita did not complain. It wasn’t the honeymoon she was hoping for, but she had, at last, landed her man. She was Mrs. Ray Leonard.

  In the weeks that followed I kept my vows—the ones to myself, not Juanita. Believe me, I wasn’t proud of my actions. Every time I walked through the front door, almost like an enlisted serviceman home for a short leave, I was overcome with guilt about being absent so often. As usual, I did the only thing I knew how to do when I hurt the people I loved: I tried to buy their love back. Toys for Ray Jr., more expensive toys (cars, jewelry) for Juanita—whatever was necessary to compensate for my neglect and create a peaceful home. I engaged in my typical self-deception. Since I took care of their every need, I told myself, Juanita should be happy regardless of how much time we spent apart. She was richer than a black girl from Palmer Park could ever expect to be. The days of working at a gas station were long gone. If Juanita complained, she wasn’t vocal enough to make me want to change my ways. Until it was too late.

  Little Ray didn’t complain, either, though our relationship was affected forever, and no amount of bribery could make up for my failings as a father. The gift he wanted most,
my time, was the one gift I didn’t give him. I rarely attended any of his sporting events, and if he needed something, I handed a few bucks to Craig Jones, my personal assistant, to pick it up. Craig was around the house more than I was. Years later, when Ray was in his early teens, he asked Craig for a ride to the park.

  “Why don’t you ask your father for a ride?” I said.

  “I just did,” Ray Jr. responded.

  I felt like bursting into tears, but I didn’t. I buried the pain with all the rest.

  I loved my wife and son, but when I returned after an extended absence, I still had my Superman cape on. I was Sugar Ray and they wanted to be with Ray. After being told day after day on the road that I could do no wrong, it took a while to let go of that adulation. When Juanita and I went on a “date” to dinner or the movies, four or five of my boys routinely tagged along. It was never just the two of us.

  Meanwhile, to my siblings and friends, I was still Ray the bank. If anything, with the $1 million I collected from the Benitez fight, and the guarantee of larger paydays—the dollar figures regularly appeared in the papers—I was approached more than ever to bail them out of their latest crises. I wrote the checks and didn’t ask questions. Saying no was not an option.

  In late March, after four months off, the longest break since my pro debut in 1977, I returned to the ring to face England’s Davey Boy Green at the Capital Centre in Landover.

  Green was not a complete fighter by any means. His “conquests” included victories over household names George McGurk and Giuseppe Minotti, and that was fine with me. After the battle with Benitez, there was nothing wrong with accepting an easy payday of approximately $1.5 million. Nonetheless, I never took an opponent lightly, and that included Davey Boy Green. In 1977, Green had been in position to pull the upset over Palomino and capture the WBC crown, until he walked into a left hook in the eleventh round. I could easily make the same mistake.

  I could not have been too preoccupied with Green. Because if I had been preparing for Benitez or Duran or Hearns or Hagler, I would never have sat in the arena less than two hours before my own fight to watch one of the preliminaries, even if it did feature my brother Roger against my old rival Johnny Gant. The boys would have barricaded the dressing room door to make sure I stayed in the zone.

  Nearly fifteen months since losing to me, Gant, thirty-one, was, for that era, ancient in boxing years. His chance at glory gone for good, he was simply trying to pick up a few bucks and avoid any lasting damage before he put away his gloves forever. So it goes for almost every prizefighter once the inevitable decline begins, typically in his early thirties. It rarely ends well.

  Only, Gant wasn’t ready to exit the stage just yet. Over the first three rounds, he pushed Roger around. I couldn’t believe it.

  I got out of my seat and headed for the corner.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I told Roger. “You can beat this guy. Now get off your ass and get it done! You’re losing the fight. Throw your right hand.”

  Roger didn’t listen.

  In the fifth, Johnny landed a solid right cross to the chin. Roger was soon on the canvas. My brother and I got into our share of scrapes, but seeing him in trouble and being unable to do a damn thing about it was the most helpless feeling in the world. I screamed and punched the air as I stood on top of my chair, which made a few members of my team quite nervous. I could have fallen and gotten hurt, though there were two large men whose job was to make certain that didn’t happen. Fortunately, Roger gained control of the fight in time to escape with the decision. For Johnny, at least he was out of Leonards.

  Next came my chance to cap off the evening. Given the level of competition, I wasn’t as motivated as usual as I listened to the referee’s instructions. I got pumped up in a hurry, though, thanks to Green’s worst move of the night. He got right in my face and bumped me.

  “Davey, what was that all about?” I asked him a few years later.

  “I was trying to intimidate you,” he said.

  “Intimidate me? All you did, Davey, was piss me off.”

  I didn’t want to just beat Davey Boy Green. I wanted to teach him a lesson.

  I did just that, controlling the tempo over the first three rounds while he barely touched me. Yet I, too, learned a lesson and still tremble when I think about it.

  During my previous twenty-six professional bouts, I was lucky. My opponents hit me and I hit them back, and when our business was done, we hugged, spoke to the press, got our money, and moved on to train for the next encounter. We endured our share of aches and pains, some worse than others, but they would always heal within a few days. Not once was anyone seriously injured. Not once did I see what the sport could do to a man.

  Until Green fell to the floor in the fourth round. It was one punch that did it and it was perhaps the most beautiful punch I ever threw, a short left hook coming from the body and rising to strike him flush in the right temple. Whenever I connected with such power and precision, a tingling sensation similar to an electric shock traveled directly from my hand to my shoulder. It was a tremendous feeling, and one every fighter experiences when he lands the perfect shot. The world has no choice but to stop and acknowledge his work. I raised my hands and stood in admiration, as any artist would. Davey Boy Green was not going to get up before the count reached ten. No one would.

  Referee Arthur Mercante got it started.

  “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .” He abruptly stopped, signaling that the bout was over. Green was out cold.

  I went immediately from admiration to fear. Get up, Davey Boy, I kept telling myself. Get up! Get up! Get up now! Seconds went by that felt like hours, my thoughts racing to the worst of possibilities.

  Green slowly came to and was placed delicately on a stool near the corner. I felt a huge sense of relief, and all I could think about as I walked down the aisle was how close I had come to killing another human being. Retaining the welterweight crown was the furthest thing from my mind.

  Little did I know that as I approached the dressing room, another man had gone down, and it was Angelo Dundee. Thirty years later, the details remain sketchy, but this much is clear: The blow was delivered by my longtime trainer from Palmer Park, Pepe Correa.

  Pepe claims he was walking away from the ring when Angelo told him to get out of the way and used the N word. Pepe, younger and in better shape than Angelo, popped him with a left hook. Angelo’s eyes rolled back, his head hitting the floor. He was out. Fortunately, he regained consciousness before too long. When I heard the news, I got worried that one of Angelo’s friends might try to seek revenge against Pepe.

  “Angie, don’t let anything happen to him,” I pleaded.

  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who was worried. Pepe told me that another member of my team called him to suggest he get out of town. He didn’t take his advice. Instead, he said he contacted a friend in the Mob and the matter was resolved. In any case, Pepe was wrong to hit Angelo no matter what Angelo might have said to him.

  After defeating Davey Boy Green, it became more apparent that my next fight would be against Roberto Duran.

  If a deal could get done, that is, and that was no guarantee. Which was why we floated the idea of taking on Pipino Cuevas, who held the WBA welterweight crown, with the survivor becoming the division’s undisputed champion. We saw it as a chance to gain leverage in any talks with Duran’s people.

  The problem for Cuevas was that he was not the draw Duran was, and if there is one rule in the sport that trumps the others it is this: Follow the money. Another factor was the pressure placed on the boxing authorities by officials representing the government in Panama. As a result, Cuevas was soon out of the discussion.

  As usual, I stayed away from the negotiations, leaving them in the capable hands of Mike Trainer. Mike had come a long way since the fall of 1976, when he was the first to admit he knew little about the boxing world. Four years later, there was very little Mike did not k
now. The move to sign with him was proving more beneficial as the stakes continued to rise. I was not beholden to Don King or any other big-time promoter.

  It made no difference that Mike and I rarely talked about our wives or our parents or our children. Or that we didn’t share our deepest fears. Every so often, usually over a beer or two, the conversation might start to veer in the direction of greater intimacy until one or both of us, sensing the dangerous ground we were entering, would quickly guide it back toward less revealing topics. It was the only way our arrangement could work. Getting closer on a personal level would have risked consequences to our professional relationship that we could not afford. What if I had let him down as a friend, or vice versa? More important than friendship was the respect I received from Mike, and it went back to when he launched Sugar Ray Leonard, Inc. Mike invited me to his home in suburban Bethesda for dinner. I had never been to dinner at a white person’s house and couldn’t figure out why I was there. It did not hit me until much later: Mike wanted me to understand that his wife and children were behind us 100 percent.

  The most telling moment of the evening came after the soup was served. I took one spoonful and that was enough.

  “Ray, is something wrong with the soup?” Mike asked.

  “It’s cold,” I replied.

  Mike explained that it was gazpacho, and that it was supposed to be cold, but he spoke to me without any hint of condescension. Not for one moment did I feel I was an uncivilized black man ignorant in the customs of a superior class.