The Big Fight

by Sugar Ray Leonard

  After Mr. Charles belted his final notes and the spectators gave him a rousing ovation, he slowly walked over to me. We embraced. I leaned my head toward his shoulder. He kissed me on the back of the neck.

  “I love you, son,” he said.

  “I love you, too,” I told him.

  He had one more thing to say:

  “Kick his ass!”

  I knew right then Duran was mine.

  I went to my corner and got serious. Everything about me that night was serious. I wore black trunks and black shoes and black socks. The gold lettering on my robe, which was also black, spelled out “Leonard,” nothing else. I would have put on black gloves if they had let me.

  It was not the time for any more showbiz. There was a title to win back.

  “How do I look?” I had asked Mike in the dressing room before the fight. I knew he would tell it to me straight.

  “You look like a mix of the Grim Reaper and an assassin,” he said.

  Exactly.

  Almost immediately, Duran knew, Cosell knew, and the thousands of fans in the Superdome and the millions tuning in on closed-circuit knew: I was not the same man I was in Montreal. I wasn’t standing still. I was dancing and jabbing, and Duran did not seem energized by every blow he absorbed. It was my turn to get inside his head. Aggressive as usual, he got me toward the ropes, but I spun away and connected with a hard right, and landed a solid combination before the bell. Round two offered more of the same. The strong start ensured I wouldn’t have to claw from behind as I did the first time.

  “He’s gone,” I said in the corner after the second round. “Duran is gone.”

  My only concern was a sagging spot I discovered near the middle of the canvas, where either Duran or I might easily lose our balance at any moment and leave ourselves wide open. It was too late to do anything except be very careful.

  During the next three rounds Duran scored well, but there was no cause for alarm. My initial strategy was to maintain a safe distance, although as the bout wore on, I realized I could penetrate his defenses and pull back without risking significant damage. He, too, was not the same man from five months before. When he went after me in the midsection, I countered with uppercuts. I also noticed something I had never seen in my prior twenty-eight fights. Duran was staring at my feet, trying to time my rhythm.

  Nonetheless, as the bell sounded for round seven, Duran was not close to being seriously hurt. The fight was up for grabs. I assumed I was ahead, but not by nearly enough, and there were nine rounds to go! One good poke, and the fight could turn in his direction. He was still Roberto Duran.

  I then recalled the words of the renowned psychologist Dr. Roger Leonard:

  “Ray, you got to embarrass Duran.”

  What did I have to lose? If it didn’t work, I’d know soon enough.

  In the seventh, I dropped my hands to the side and stuck my chin out, inviting Duran to hit me. I didn’t choreograph any of these moves in advance, but after I could see his frustration, I kept improvising. I did the Ali shuffle. I was performing more than I was punching.

  Midway through the round, I wound up my right arm several times as if I were about to throw the bolo punch I played around with during camp. I faked Duran out, firing a straight left jab instead.

  The jab did not hurt him. But the reaction to the jab did. It hurt him badly.

  The fans were laughing. Duran could take punishment, perhaps more than anyone in my era, or any era. What he could not take was being made to look like a fool. That went against the manly Latin American image he spent a lifetime building.

  Still, it was only one more round in the books, and I knew he would be out for blood in the eighth. No more showboating, I told myself. The judges would not think too kindly of me if these theatrics went on for long, and the fight was too tight to throw away a single point.

  Angelo didn’t approve of my strategy, either.

  “You don’t need to do that,” he said. “You’re about to be the welterweight champion of the world.”

  I looked over at Duran’s corner. His eyes were vacant. He seemed more out of it than he was before the fight.

  In the eighth, I continued to have my way with Duran. Then, with about thirty seconds remaining in the round, it happened.

  Duran threw his arm up and walked slowly toward his corner. Thinking it was simply another trick, I punched him in the belly. He flinched and motioned to indicate that he was done for the night. With sixteen seconds to go, the ref, Octavio Meyran, made it official: The fight was over.

  From that moment on, the evening of November 25, 1980, in New Orleans, Louisiana, ceased to be about me and regaining my title. I took on a supporting role in a more complicated drama, in which an icon to an entire continent became, in one sudden, unfortunate act, an object of derision for the rest of his life. Forgotten were the victories, the devastating knockdowns, the hands of stone.

  It wasn’t losing the fight. Great fighters lose fights all the time. It was how Duran lost.

  He quit, and that is the one thing you simply cannot do as a fighter. You can be lazy. You can be overweight. You can be dirty. You can fight past your prime. But you cannot give up. You can never give up.

  Of all the people in the fight game, Roberto Duran was the last one you could imagine walking away. He fought with more courage than ten men combined and pain never seemed to bother him. If anything, pain made him fight harder.

  Yet there he was, not bloodied, not battered, surrendering his title, and dignity, in front of the world. And while there is some question as to whether Duran ever actually uttered the famous words “no más,” the point was the same. He quit.

  I felt sorry for him. I really did. For months, since he’d insulted me at the Waldorf, I’d wanted to hurt him. But once the second fight was over, I could hate him no more.

  Moments later, we hugged. Yes, hugged, Duran and I, the enemy a partner at last.

  I was asked by the press afterward, and on countless occasions in the three decades since, why Duran gave up. The fact is that I was as surprised as anyone, and my only explanation is the same one offered by the writers at ringside, that Duran felt humiliated by my antics and did not pause to consider the consequences. I certainly never bought his explanation, that he suffered from stomach cramps resulting from the three steaks he ate in the hours leading up to the bout. Before our third fight, in December 1989, Duran, if I’m not mistaken, promised he would tell the real story behind no más, win or lose. After I won by decision, he didn’t, of course, and that’s because there was no other story. There never will be.

  There were some who claimed the fight in New Orleans was a fix, that Duran lost on purpose to set up a rubber match. Nothing could be further from the truth. Any chance for a third bout in the near future was eliminated the instant Duran walked to his corner, and it was a shame because I could have earned another $10 million, at least.

  What disturbs me much more is the lack of respect I received for regaining the title. I was given more credit for losing courageously in Montreal than for winning cleverly in New Orleans. It was almost as if I hadn’t been in the same ring with Duran. Yet I set the tone of the fight just as he set the tone the first time.

  Was there a part of me that wanted to see Duran on the deck, writhing in total agony? You bet there was, but what I did was much more satisfying than putting him away.

  For me, another image that stands out from that night is not something I saw in the ring. It is what I saw in the van about to transport Duran and his entourage back to their hotel while I went to meet with the press. It was chilling. Duran sat in the passenger seat. I waved, and he waved back, but he was a million miles away.

  What was he thinking? Did he grasp the significance of what he had just done? Did he realize he would never be seen the same way again? In an instant, the van was gone.

  The word was that Duran partied well into the night in New Orleans. That might be the case, but knowing the soul of a prizefighter as I do
, there isn’t enough alcohol or women on the planet to take away the pain of losing, especially the way he lost. To this day, I still agonize over each of my three defeats, and I never surrendered like Duran. I can’t imagine how much no más must continue to haunt him.

  My dealings with Duran between New Orleans and our third fight were limited, although there are two brief exchanges I will never forget.

  The first would come on November 10, 1983, at Caesars. Retired at the time, due to the detached retina, I was on the HBO broadcast team covering the Duran-Hagler bout, which Hagler won in a narrow fifteenround decision. After the fight ended, Duran walked over to me at ringside, and reached between the ropes.

  “You box him, you beat him,” he said.

  For Duran to offer any advice to his most despised rival, the man responsible for causing him a lifetime of shame, blew me away. I would have expected him to root for Hagler over me every time.

  The other memorable comment would come in 1989 when the third fight was announced at a hotel in Las Vegas. I had not spoken to Duran since the night he fought Hagler. While we were waiting backstage to meet with the reporters, Duran gave me a warm embrace.

  “Thank you, my friend,” he said. “Thank you.”

  I was shocked again. The Duran I knew from our battles in 1980 would not have said thank you if I had saved him from drowning. It turned out I was saving him. He was having severe financial problems.

  His eyes were no longer filled with hatred. They were sad.

  7

  The Showdown

  The plane ride from New Orleans to Washington was similar to the trip in the van after winning the gold medal. I could not wait to get home to be with my family and closest friends. The only blemish on my record was avenged, seen for what it really was, an aberration, an off night in a magnificient career, with more heroic conquests to come. I vanquished the great Duran. I was the champ again, not the “former” champ.

  When I stopped celebrating, I settled back into the life—rather, the two separate lives—I lived before the fight.

  At home, once I took my cape off, I was Ray, a father and a husband, my priorities in the right order. I was the same innocent kid from Palmer Park, except with money and fame. Time came to a halt. I was in no rush to go anywhere or do anything.

  Away from home, Sugar Ray took over, as always. Wherever I went, whether in public appearances or intimate gatherings, Sugar Ray was the main event. He never shared top billing with anybody. He would not stand for it. In looking back, I could do what I did for many years, and that is to blame my boys for putting me on a pedestal. The truth is that I was the one to blame. I wanted to hear how special I was all the time and that’s why I surrounded myself with the people I knew would tell me just that. Between fights, with no spectators to cheer me on, and no reporters to write flattering columns, the boys were where I went for applause, for validation. They never let me down.

  On March 28, 1981, I took on a fighter named Larry Bonds. Bonds was put out there as an easy payday before my next major challenge, in the fall, presumably against Tommy “the Hitman” Hearns.

  I deserved a breather. All fighters do after waging war, as I did against Duran—two wars, to be precise. With the belt in my possession, I could afford to gather my senses, and dollars, and face an overmatched adversary such as Bonds. It was also reasonable to assume that the fans need breathers, too. Give them too many so-called Fights of the Year in, well, a matter of months, and you’d dilute the impact of each one. Sooner or later, they would feel cheated, and wouldn’t pay to watch the contest on closed circuit. I wouldn’t blame them. It is better to stretch these history-making events out as far as possible, slowly building the level of anticipation until it reaches a feverish pitch, to where people feel they can’t miss out.

  The fight was arranged in a hurry, my opponent apparently not finding out until about a month before. For Bonds, fighting was almost a hobby, his last ring appearance coming in April 1980 when he knocked out Costello (no relation to Don) King. Prior to that, his most recent bout was in September 1979. Bonds drifted from one menial job to another, working in construction, as a bouncer, and collecting rubbish. In the newspaper stories before our bout, he was described as “the Fighting Garbage Man.”

  Bonds, however, was no bum. Ranked fifteenth by The Ring, he was a respectable 29-3. He possessed long arms, covered himself extremely well in the trenches, and blocked a lot of shots. He was a southpaw, which required me to make some adjustments, as lefties present the exact reverse angles on where to attack and defend. I sure couldn’t take Bonds lightly, not with the Hearns match on the horizon. Bonds, though, wasn’t ready for his close-up. During a prefight press conference, he asked me to sign some of my glossy eight-by-ten photographs. Can you imagine Duran, Hearns, or Hagler ever requesting my John Hancock? The only souvenir they would want was my scalp.

  The fight itself, staged before twenty thousand at the Carrier Dome in Syracuse, New York, was no contest from the opening bell. I backed Bonds against the ropes and he had nowhere to go. Late in the fourth round, I sent him to the canvas with a right uppercut. Game, set, and match, I assumed, as did the crowd. But Bonds bravely hung around until the tenth, when he became a little cocky for his own good, reminiscent of Davey Boy Green in Maryland. I nailed him with five straight punches to put him back on the floor. Bonds foolishly rose at the count of six. Here was a case where the fighter should perhaps have shown less heart.

  I kept firing away until the referee, Arthur Mercante, mercifully stopped the mismatch, Bonds fortunate to leave the ring on his own power.

  Three months later, at the Astrodome in Houston, I fought Ayub Kalule.

  Unlike Bonds, Kalule was no breather. A converted southpaw born in Uganda, he was the World Boxing Association’s junior middleweight champion, undefeated in thirty-six bouts, and had never been knocked down.

  I was motivated, and not just because I could add another title. Tommy Hearns was on the undercard, taking on Pablo Baez. Being in the same building offered Tommy and me the chance to build the interest for our fight, set for September 16, at a site yet to be determined. As long as we both took care of business, nothing would get in our way. Tommy did his part first, staggering Baez with his signature right midway in round four. The referee stopped the bout thirty seconds later. Tommy used very little energy. I would not be as fortunate.

  I looked good when I arrived in the ring, wearing a black robe with yellow serpents on each sleeve and black trunks with a yellow cobra head on my left leg.

  The cobra wasn’t for Tommy, who was also known as “the Motor City Cobra.” The cobra was for a Ugandan witch doctor who had been flown to Houston as a publicity stunt. Ugandan witch doctors are not too thrilled with the color black or snakes. Only in boxing.

  I looked good in the fight as well, landing one jab after another in the first two rounds. I hoped to end the bout as convincingly as Tommy did and let the hype begin for September.

  In the third, however, I bruised a knuckle in the middle finger of my hand when I struck Kalule with a left to the head, forcing me to rely more on the right. Still, I kept scoring well with both hands, mostly hits to the midsection. Somehow Kalule survived solid rights in the fourth and fifth and scored decently himself over the next several rounds. Maybe the witch doctor had put a spell on me after all. Late in the ninth round, I finally got to Kalule with two hard rights, a short left, and another right. Timbbberrr!

  Kalule rose but was in a daze. With the round about to end, the bell would have saved him. Only, he didn’t know it. After taking the mandatory eight-count from the referee, Carlos Berrocal, Kalule indicated he had enough. It was a smart move. I would have gone right after him in the tenth and might have hurt him badly. He could now safely return to his home in Denmark with an extra $150,000 in the bank.

  I wish I had been as bright as he was. When the fight was over, I pretended I was Olga Korbut, launching a front flip near my corner. If the jump had been spontaneous, tha
t would be one thing, but I had actually thought of the stunt the night before in my suite, figuring I would need an encore after another stellar performance in the ring.

  Needless to say, I should have spent more time contemplating what to do during the fight. What I came up with turned out to be dramatic, all right—more than the audience ever knew.

  The moment my feet were off the ground, I realized the degree of difficulty was higher than I had anticipated, and that’s because I wore a protective cup, which restricted my ability to bend in the air and execute the necessary turn. I landed awkwardly, and was lucky I didn’t hurt myself. I can’t begin to imagine how embarrassed I would have been: “Leonard knocks out Kalule . . . then himself.” I think the East German judge got it right when he gave me a 3.5.

  With Kalule out of the way, the conversation at the press conference in Houston shifted, naturally, to the upcoming duel with Tommy. I started to wage the fight before the fight, the one to seize the mental edge. There was no time to waste. I hoped to avoid a repeat of what occurred when Duran gained the upper hand at the Waldorf.

  “I hope one day they give a medical examination to Tommy Hearns,” I said. “If you do an autopsy of his skull, you’ll find he has no brain up there.”

  The reporters jumped on that comment, as I knew they would. Only years later, long after I retired for the last time, did I recognize its sheer cruelty. It was comparable to the nastiest things Ali said about his opponents, primarily Frazier, whom he portrayed as an Uncle Tom before their first fight, and a gorilla before their third.

  It would be easy to say that I was merely trying to pump up interest in the fight. Easy and wrong. The truth is that there were times, and that was clearly one of them, when I was simply sick of having to live up to the image of the smiling, charming, safe Sugar Ray. It took too much energy. Everyone wants to be a smart-ass at one point or another. I was no exception.

  I took several weeks off before I began to prepare for Tommy. The crack I made about his intelligence was not only mean, it was inaccurate. Tommy was very smart where it mattered most, in the ring, and he teamed with one of the craftiest trainers in boxing, Emanuel Steward. I knew Manny well from the days I spent as an amateur working out at his Kronk Gym in Detroit. Referring to me as “Superbad” for my speed and combinations, the other fighters treated me as if I were one of their own, and I was always grateful. This also meant Manny understood my strengths and weaknesses as well as anyone, and that included Angelo and Janks. He would have his fighter fully prepared for any game plan my team might devise.