I watched none of the undercard, even though Roger was fighting. Fortunately, he managed to record a split ten-round decision over Clyde Gray. In another prelim, Gaetan Hart, a lightweight, took on Cleveland Denny, which would have received no attention except for the fact that Denny went into convulsions from the shots he took. Weeks later, Cleveland Denny was dead.
At around 10:45 P.M., while the boys escorted me toward the ring, it was clear that my eyes had told the truth again. All I could think about was how I wished that I were anywhere else in the world other than Olympic Stadium. I felt like grabbing the microphone and saying to the 46,000-plus spectators:
“Listen, would you all terribly mind if you went home and we tried this thing tomorrow or maybe next week—same time, same place?”
It was not as if I didn’t want to teach this son of a bitch a lesson for how he treated me and my wife. It was just that, at that very moment, everything felt wrong, and I knew I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I believe in biorhythms, and mine were extremely low that night. Some days, you get up on the wrong side of the bed and don’t feel sharp. The difference between other jobs and what I did for a living is that if a fighter is off his game, even by a slight margin, he will lose and probably get hurt. If the fight had been the next night, or any other night, I would have kicked Duran’s butt. But it wasn’t.
When I climbed under the ropes, the sense of impending doom became stronger. I heard a strange sound from the crowd that I hadn’t heard in my entire career, except from a group of racists at the Eklund fight in Boston. I heard boos.
How could the fans be booing me, Sugar Ray Leonard, in of all places, Montreal, where I won the gold? Was it something I said, or didn’t say? Not knowing how to respond, I extended my hands, as if to assure them, Hey, I’m right here. I’m ready to fight.
The boos did not stop.
I wish I could say that I was unfazed by the cold reception, that I was so focused on beating Duran I could block out everything else, as the truly disciplined athletes are able to do. I couldn’t. I was disturbed, confused, the fans getting inside my head just as Duran did, the fight no doubt lost before it had started. It was written that Duran had become a fan favorite for speaking a sentence or two of French whenever he appeared in public. He also wore “Bonjour, Montreal” on a T-shirt during workouts and kept up the PR campaign till the end, his supporters unfurling a flag of Quebec as Duran entered the ring. That explanation has never made sense to me, though it wouldn’t have hurt if I had spoken a few words of French.
So why did they boo? I’m not sure. Perhaps some of the Canadian fans, echoing my detractors in the States, felt I had become rich and famous too soon. Or perhaps there was a tendency to cheer for the underdog, which Duran was despite his résumé and reputation. The official line in Vegas was 3-2. Whatever the motivation, it added an obstacle I didn’t need to deal with in these tense moments. I had enough to deal with already.
I gazed at Duran in his corner. He was glaring at me as if he were ready to bite my head off the way he bit into the steaks he enjoyed so much. Joe Frazier said it best when he was asked who Duran reminded him of.
“Charles Manson,” he said.
What was Duran’s problem? Here we were, the eyes of the world upon us, raking in millions for one night of work, and he was . . . glaring?
Duran should be smiling, I thought, at how fate can turn dramatically for two poor kids, one from Palmer Park, the other from Panama, who both worked hard at their trade and would never have to work again if they so desired. Only later did it occur to me that Duran knew exactly what he was doing and that I should’ve been glaring at him. Instead, overwhelmed by the atmosphere, I stared at the large screen above the ring. I peered into the crowd, searching for comforting faces. I was bothered by the cold, damp air. My attention was everywhere—except where it needed to be.
Week after week, I thought about hurting Duran. Now, with the devil himself finally in my sights, I was lost.
The first round set the pace for the rest of the evening. Duran was the same as always, thrusting forward, almost recklessly, ready to die in the ring. Soon came the first hard punch, and I realized that “Hands of Stone” was no exaggeration. Each well-timed shot felt like a jackhammer being drilled into my skull, my teeth knocked back so hard I had to push them into place with my glove between rounds. I found myself in the trap I was determined to avoid, the ropes, Duran landing lefts and rights to the head and body, impressing the judges and fans.
The second round was worse. Duran caught me with a hook and right hand, and though I tried to indicate otherwise, it definitely did some damage. I may have acted my way out of trouble against Geraldo, but a seasoned pro such as Duran wasn’t easily fooled. The seconds couldn’t go by fast enough as he tried to end the fight right then. But I survived the round, and to show Duran, the judges, and the crowd that I was not deterred, I rose from my stool a full twenty seconds before the bell rang for round three. Looking back, it wasn’t the brightest idea. I could have used the extra rest.
As dangerous as Duran was, however, his best wasn’t going to put me away. I, too, was ready to die in the ring, and that, unfortunately, was where I went wrong. I fought Duran toe-to-toe instead of exploiting my superior boxing skills.
Why was I so stupid? It was because I wanted to hurt Duran the way he hurt me and Juanita with his constant insults. Gaining revenge became almost as important as gaining victory, and I refused to change my tactics no matter what Angelo might have told me in the corner. I was too caught up in my own anger and pride to listen to the man who had saved Ali more than once, and could have saved me. I never gave him the chance.
As the fight wore on, it was becoming clear that Arcel had perhaps gotten inside the head of Carlos Padilla, the same ref who worked the Benitez fight. He had expressed concerns that Padilla, known for breaking up clinches between fighters prematurely, wouldn’t allow Duran to fight where he was most at home, in the trenches. In any case, Padilla compensated too much in the opposite direction. For as little as he broke us up, he might as well have taken a seat in the front row.
Still, I couldn’t blame Padilla. He wasn’t the one who kept retreating straight back toward the ropes instead of sliding to the right as Angelo had suggested, providing Duran enough room to advance a step or two and unload at a stationary target. If I had fought a more intelligent fight, nothing Padilla did, or did not do, would have made a difference. Yet I hung in there, and by the sixth round I was giving it to Duran as hard as he was giving it to me. If he was overlooked as a boxer, the same went for me as a slugger. Ask Andy Price. Ask Davey Boy Green. Ask Roberto Duran.
I was back in the fight, and there was still a long way to go. In the next several rounds I scored repeatedly while keeping Duran in the center of the ring. I also heard a more familiar sound—applause. Fans, whatever their rooting interest may be before a bout starts, appreciate a hard-fought contest, which both Duran and I were providing. With the courage I was displaying, they could see that I was not the pampered millionaire I was made out to be. The action, though, was too much for Juanita. She fainted into the arms of my sister Sharon during the eighth round. Juanita wasn’t used to seeing her husband get his face bashed in.
Despite my renewed determination, I didn’t come close to hurting Duran, which I needed to do to halt the momentum he had built in the first four rounds. I missed my target over and over, and when I did land a strong combination or two, he retaliated immediately with an effective flurry of his own. No one rocked me as hard in the body as he did. If anything, the hits he took made him counter with greater fury, as if he actually enjoyed the pain. Time, too, was becoming a factor as the bell sounded for round eleven. Unless I seized control of the fight, the decision would go to Duran and he would be the new champ. Yet, if there was any impulse to reverse course and box my way to the finish line, it was too late. I chose the wrong strategy and I was stuck with it.
The eleventh served up some of the fiercest c
ombat of my career, the two of us going at each other as if everything were at stake, and I suppose it was. Roger shouted from the corner, “You’re the best in the world,” and I tried to prove it, hitting Duran with lefts and rights, but he stood his ground again. The slugfest continued during rounds twelve, thirteen, and fourteen, setting the stage for one last duel in the fifteenth.
Angelo gave me a pep talk in the corner. I don’t remember what he said. I was too busy berating myself for how I fought the first fourteen rounds.
My desire was there. Unfortunately, my power was not. During the waning seconds of the bout, Duran smirked. He was convinced the fight was his. When the bell rang, I walked toward him to touch gloves. He would have no part of it. Instead, he shouted at me in one final act of defiance:
“Fuck you!” he said. “I show you.”
Needless to say, there was no postfight hug. Duran and I were anything but partners.
My fate was now in the hands of the three judges—Raymond Baldeyrou of France, Angelo Poletti of Italy, and England’s Harry Gibbs.
Would they reward Duran for being the aggressor throughout the fight? Or would they abide by boxing’s unwritten rule that the champ must be knocked out or decisively outpointed to be stripped of his crown, neither of which took place? Within seconds, the ring, as it always does, filled up with handlers and boxing officials as everyone awaited the verdict.
I feared the worst. I knew what I had done right and what I had done wrong and felt the aches and pains from head to toe to know what Duran had done, and it was a great deal. Yet I couldn’t be certain of the outcome. Judges were human beings, with their own prejudices and flaws. They got it wrong many times.
I didn’t have to wait long.
The first card announced belonged to Baldeyrou, who scored it 146–144 in favor of Duran.
Next up was Poletti, who scored it a draw. (The WBC claimed that an error in the addition changed his tally to a one-point edge for Duran.)
Only Gibbs was left.
Gibbs scored it 145–144 . . . in favor of Duran, the new welterweight champion of the world.
Duran and his corner went crazy, as well they should.
I slowly walked back to the dressing room, a loser for the first time as a professional. I got dressed and left the stadium in no time. The sooner I abandoned the scene of the crime, the better. The boys told me I fought a courageous fight, but I didn’t want to hear a word. The best thing anyone could do at that moment was to be quiet.
At the hotel, a doctor came to my suite to draw blood from ruptured vessels in both ears. The pain was almost unbearable, the knots and contusions more grotesque than the injuries I sustained against Benitez. I was afraid that I’d have cauliflower ears for the rest of my life.
I flew home the next day. It was quite a contrast from the last time I left Montreal, with a medal around my neck and the world at my feet.
At National Airport in D.C., I was moved by the hundreds of fans who showed up to offer their support. Yet I couldn’t wait to get home, away from any reminder of defeat.
Over the ensuing days in Maryland, I put my own emotions aside to console others. Juanita was devastated. So was Roger and the rest of my family. Before the loss to Duran, they saw only one side of the boxing business. Seeing the other terrified them. It was not until a few days later, alone in my room, that I could experience the full impact of Montreal and sort out what it might mean.
I felt a deep sense of loss, as if a part of me had been taken away for good. I was certain I would defeat every opponent until there was none left, and then retire for real, on top, undefeated like Marciano, invincible forever. As it turned out, I was not invincible.
Equally disappointing was finding out that, contrary to the image I constantly tried to convey to the press and public, I was not a model of composure who saved his best for the sport’s grandest stages. The evidence was everywhere—from my juvenile responses to Duran’s antics to my inability to manage my training camp to my flawed strategy in the ring. The Duran fight was bigger than the Benitez fight, much bigger, and I hadn’t been ready for it.
I also needed to accept the simple fact that Roberto Duran, at least on that night, was the better man. He cut off the ring and used his expertise to outmuscle and outwit me. His heart was every bit as impressive as his hands.
I deserved credit as well. By standing my ground for fifteen rounds, I showed my critics a resilience, as Ali did against Frazier in 1971, that they didn’t think was in me. I proved I could punch and take one, too. And, despite fighting Duran’s fight, I came extremely close to winning. Once I got over the fog I was in during the first three or four rounds, I landed dozens of solid combinations to the head and body. If both Poletti and Gibbs had awarded me a single extra round, I would have been celebrating in Montreal, not Duran.
As the days went by, I stopped examining what went wrong and started to focus on the future:
Would I permit the defeat to weaken my confidence and perhaps define me forever? A lot of fighters were never the same after their first loss. They cashed their checks and conquered their opponents, but that intangible quality that separated them from the pack was missing.
Or would I use the defeat to spur me on to more glorious triumphs? If perfection was no longer possible, redemption was. Ali came back to defeat Frazier in their second and third duels.
The choice was mine.
6
No Más
Juanita and I flew to Honolulu in July. I needed to recuperate from the disappointment in Montreal, and the same went for her. She felt the sting of losing perhaps as much as I did, and was hoping I’d retire. We had more money in the bank than we could ever spend—the total earnings from the Duran bout would exceed $10 million—and my faculties were still intact. She was afraid, and with good cause, that I might one day end up like many in my profession who hung around a year or two too long, the next payday too tempting to turn down. Better to leave a year or two too soon.
We stayed in a plush suite with a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean, and feasted on the finest food. Nothing was out of our price range. Roberto who?
There was no sparring in the gym. No watching reels of old fight films. And, most gratifying for her, no “dates” with any of the boys tagging along. For once, Juanita and I could act as two newlyweds in our early twenties. With Ray Jr. back in Maryland, we could enjoy a real honeymoon.
Gazing from our balcony at the most sparkling blue water I ever saw, I wondered:
Maybe Juanita was right. Maybe it was time to leave boxing. Our nest egg would not be worth a dime if I was limited, mentally or physically. And what kind of father would I be to little Ray as he grew up? There was so much I wanted to teach him. I was supposed to take care of him, not the other way around.
The money would not be anywhere near the same as I could make in the ring, but we’d survive. I could work as a boxing analyst on television, sitting in my tuxedo, hobnobbing with the network executives, watching others put their hides on the line. Come to think of it, that sounded pretty good. I’d done a few broadcasts for CBS since turning professional and got a kick out of it. I could tell the viewers how a boxer thinks and what he fears.
Another option was acting. Madison Avenue, which had shown no interest after the Olympics, now pictured me as the unique black pitchman who could appeal to whites and blacks of all classes. The paternity suit was long forgotten.
Beginning in the late 1970s, I appeared in a number of national television spots, none more popular than the campaign launched by 7UP, featuring the country’s most successful young athletes, for which I was guaranteed $100,000. I fancied myself to be a fine actor, but Ray Jr. was, without a doubt, the star of the show. The spot, which lasted thirty seconds, started with us in matching white trunks hitting the speed bags, with the jingle “Feelin’ 7UP” playing in the background. We shadowboxed in front of a mirror and took a long sip of the soft drink.
A few kids walked into the gym.
“Wow, is that the champ?” one asked.
“Naw, it’s just my dad,” Ray Jr. answered, flashing the cutest smile in the world.
My future on the small screen, despite the loss to Duran, was filled with possibilities, and there was also the big screen. I wouldn’t be the first athlete to make the transition to Hollywood.
On our second day in Hawaii, I went for what I assumed would be a leisurely jog on the beach. Just because I wasn’t in training didn’t mean I’d let my body fall apart. I never went more than a week without engaging in some manner of exercise. That’s why my weight stayed between 145 and 155 and why I didn’t need to go on any rigorous program after a fight was made. I ran again the next day, and the day after that. During each run, and along the strip of shops and restaurants in lively Waikiki Beach, I was greeted by tourists telling me that I deserved the decision against Duran, and that if I’d fought my fight, it would have been no contest. I thanked them for their kind words and hurried back to our suite to see Juanita and resume our long-overdue holiday.
One afternoon, on day five or six, I left Juanita on the beach for a few minutes and went upstairs to our suite. When I got there, the large mirror in the bathroom caught my attention. I approached it, taking in my reflection. Without thinking, I began to shadowbox, slowly at first. I watched my fists reach for their target. I watched my muscles tighten with each punch I threw. I watched my feet dance in circles. I sensed sweat across my brow, on my upper lip. Closing my eyes, I felt my hands go faster and faster. I opened my eyes. They were alive in a way they never were in Montreal. I was Sugar Ray. They wanted another crack at Duran. They wanted the crown that had been taken away. The aches and pains from the beating I absorbed were long gone. So were the beatings I gave myself, day after day, for fighting him toe-to-toe. I put an end to any thoughts of retirement and plotted a course for revenge.
The Big Fight Page 14