The Big Fight

by Sugar Ray Leonard

  For a change, the wishes of others did not matter. What mattered was how I felt. I never wanted to quit on that night in Baltimore. Sure, I was not at my best against Finch and I was not motivated to take on Stafford. Yet, throw a Marvin Hagler or a Tommy Hearns in front of me and I would have been out for blood. I lived for those challenges. I was out to make history and I could not do it wearing a monkey suit and a headset, watching others steal the glory.

  Furthermore, in no way could I be compared to an over-the-hill Joe Louis taking on Rocky Marciano in his prime, or an immobile Muhammad Ali attempting to wrest the crown away from a younger, more powerful Larry Holmes. Louis was thirty-seven; Ali, thirty-eight. I was twenty-seven, younger than Hagler (twenty-nine), for heaven’s sake. A strong argument could be made that my best years were ahead of me. I was positive of one thing: Unless I returned, I would spend the rest of my life wondering how great I might have become. And as for any fears about my detached retina, if Dr. Michels wasn’t concerned, neither was I and neither should anyone else be. The only questions were: Whom do I fight, and when?

  Not Hagler, that’s for sure. He was too big and too good. I was cocky, but not cocky enough to assume I could jump back into the ring after two years off and compete at Hagler’s level, and in a higher weight class, no less. I would need a tune-up or two, at least, before taking him on or, for that matter, any of the bigger names.

  We decided on Kevin Howard. Kevin who? It was a fair question. Howard had lost four of his twenty-four bouts, one of his victories, I kid you not, coming against a fighter named Richard Nixon. Only in boxing. We chose Howard because he was slow and never kept himself in the best shape. I saw the fight when he lost eleven of twelve rounds to Marlon Starling. Marlon Starling! I was guaranteed $3 million, an unprecedented total for a nontitle match against an unknown. Howard also agreed to wear thumbless gloves, for which we proposed to obtain approval from the state boxing commission. Being poked in the eye by the thumb was considered to be the leading cause of detached retinas. Howard would receive $125,000 for his night’s work, by far the largest check of his career. The ten-round junior middleweight bout was set for February 25 at the Centrum in Worcester, Massachusetts.

  In the gym, one of the necessary adjustments I had to make, and it sounds strange, was to program my face to learn how to take hits again. After being out for such an extended period, the first blows I absorbed hurt in ways they never hurt before. My skin texture, not accustomed to the trauma, swelled quickly. I also had to prepare myself mentally, to again summon the commitment to throw a punch and not worry about the punches coming back. For me, it was no problem. In retirement, I gained a greater appreciation of how blessed I had been to make a living in a profession I loved. I was not about to waste a second chance.

  Things at home were looking up, too. I was not out getting high or drunk every night. Being in the gym, I didn’t need the coke anymore. Juanita and I were very excited about the baby, due in June. It would be much different from when Ray Jr. was born. There would be no concerns about money or how my parents might feel, and everybody would be together instead of living in two separate homes. I saw it as an opportunity to atone for the mistakes I made the first time. I promised myself I would be there for our new child in ways I never was for little Ray.

  It was just as we were putting our lives back together that Juanita got sick again, coming down with an ulcer in her esophagus. She couldn’t digest an ounce of food. She would go into the hospital for four or five days until she could again digest properly and return home, but the problem would once more flare up and she’d be in for another four or five days. She dropped twenty-five pounds in a few months, and doctors told Juanita that if the next remedy they tried did not work, they would have to abort the baby or risk losing her. The idea, a feeding tube that went up her nose and down her throat past the ulcer, did work, thank God, and both she and the fetus were safe. I didn’t think about it at the time, but the ulcer was clearly related to the stress caused by our arguments. The prospect of a new baby wasn’t bringing us closer, as Juanita prayed it would. It did, for perhaps a month or two, but I became too busy being Sugar Ray again. I couldn’t get rid of him.

  If the ulcer was not alarming enough, Juanita then contracted a disease known as Bell’s palsy. The right side of her face became paralyzed, which she did not realize until her mom asked, “Why is your face crooked?” I cried like a baby when I saw her in the hospital. With medication and treatment, it returned to normal, though stress again was the cause. Her pregnancy, except for brief intervals, was an ordeal for the whole nine months.

  I tried to be there for Juanita as often as possible, but I had a fight to worry about. In early February, we moved training camp to Massachusetts for the last stretch. I was ready to entertain the fans once more with my footwork. I was ready to land jabs to set up the rights. I was ready to have my face take its licks and not flinch. I was ready for anything.

  Almost anything.

  On February 13, less than two weeks before the Howard fight, I was undergoing a routine examination by retinal specialist Edward Ryan of the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary when he discovered an area of retinal thinning in my right eye. That’s just wonderful, I thought, now my right eye is having problems.

  The good news, and believe me, I was dying for any good news, was that the solution was a relatively minor procedure called cryotherapy, in which Dr. Ryan created scar tissue and strenghtened the retina, the whole operation taking only a few minutes. I was also relieved that there was no connection with the detached retina in the left eye. The bad news was that the Howard bout would end up being postponed till May 11. I was crushed. After spending weeks attempting to convince the public I was not risking more harm to my left eye, I was forced to address questions about the right one. I gave thought to quitting on the spot, interpreting the latest setback as a sign that maybe God, sensing I didn’t receive his earlier message, did not want me to fight again.

  One may ask: What was so horrible about waiting an additional two and a half months? The situation, after all, could have been a lot worse. The eye would heal and I’d be able to resume training before too long.

  The problem was that by this stage of my preparations, I was in the zone again. I didn’t get there against Finch, nowhere near it, and wouldn’t have gotten there if the Stafford bout had been held. And now that I was there, I was afraid I would not be able to find my way back.

  Howard, meanwhile, decided not to waste the February 25 date, taking on Bill “Fireball” Bradley in Atlantic City. He assumed a bit of a risk but it worked out, as he put Bradley away in six rounds.

  Once I received permission from the doctors, I went back to the gym, training mostly with sparring partners who could race around the ring. I wasn’t worried about power. The power would return. I was concerned about speed and accuracy. Those are the attributes a boxer loses the most when he’s off for too long. Ali, in his postexile years, turned into a stationary target who fought bravely with Frazier and Shavers and the other brawlers of his generation. The result is still difficult to accept.

  The weeks flew by. Before I knew it, it was May 11. At last, I would be inside the ropes for the first time in twenty-seven months. Except, as I feared, I never did get back in the zone I was in prior to the postponement. It was reminiscent of the Duran fight in Montreal. My biorhythms were off. The signs came early, and often, that it was not going to be my night.

  The first sign came shortly after I climbed under the ropes. I liked to get loose for a few minutes, receive the ref’s instructions, stare menacingly at my opponent in a last-ditch psych job, say a prayer, and then get down to business. But after the national anthem, sung beautifully by my sister Sandy, I was forced to wait for the ring announcer to introduce Donald Curry, Aaron Pryor, and, finally, Hagler. Hagler, a Massachusetts resident, received a loud ovation. One would have thought he was fighting, not me. The delay started to get on my nerves. Normally, I would be too focused to allow
such a minor intrusion to distract me while I prepared for battle.

  The second sign came in my corner between the first and second rounds. The first three minutes had gone as expected. I slid cautiously from side to side, getting a feel for Howard, and a feel for the situation—the noise of the crowd, the heat from the lights, the other man anxious to send me to the deck. I was also, contrary to my statements before the fight, concerned about my left eye and what might happen if I was hit there again. Who wouldn’t be?

  The most unusual thing occurred during that first break: I talked. I never talked in the corner. I didn’t talk when Angelo berated me during the Eklund fight. I also looked away; at what, I don’t remember. The point is that I was not where I needed to be.

  If that wasn’t disturbing enough, Howard was proving to be a more worthy adversary than anyone in my camp had anticipated. He hit hard and I should have seen it coming from the moment I touched his shoulder during the prefight press conference. Howard’s muscles were defined, cut. Whoever did the scouting report was either poorly mistaken or Howard put in more time than usual at the gym.

  In the third, I clowned around a little as I did during the seventh round of the Duran rematch. I did it to fire myself up more than for the spectators, and it seemed to pay off. I was into the fight. Howard did not back off, though, gaining more respect, but I was Sugar Ray Leonard and it was only a matter of time before there was a knockdown.

  It was, except for one tiny detail. Howard did not fall. I did.

  It happened with about thirty seconds left in the fourth round. After I threw a careless left jab, he responded with a solid right, the punch landing squarely on my jaw. I was back on my feet immediately, but the damage had been done, to my ego, mostly. In thirty-three previous fights, no one—not Benitez, not Duran, not Hearns, no one—had done this to me, and to think the man to register my first official knockdown was Kevin Howard, a four-time loser, remains as hard to believe today as it was on that eerie night in Worcester.

  Within seconds, once I got over the shock, I made two snap decisions: I would fight as hard as I fought in my entire life to make Howard pay for what he did, and then I’d never fight again. If Howard could put me down, imagine what Hagler could do.

  There would be time to think more about my future after the fight. First I had to finish it.

  Before the fifth round, I stood in my corner and waved to Juanita at ringside to assure her I was not hurt. I had been worried about her. She had been through a lot over the last six months and didn’t take it too well whenever I got hit hard. There was also somebody else’s welfare to consider. Her due date was only a few weeks away.

  I also waved to Howard in the opposite corner. I was coming after him, and I wanted him to know it.

  Howard came after me as well. Only, his brief window of opportunity was gone. I scored repeatedly to the body and moved around the ring over the next two rounds. Howard didn’t come close to putting me down again.

  Late in the eighth, I landed my best combinations of the night. Howard was hurt. He hung on until the bell but I pounced on him again midway through the ninth. With about thirty seconds to go in the round, the referee stopped the fight. Howard was furious and he had every right to be. Though I was connecting with one clean shot after another, he remained alert enough to force a clinch and defend himself. Howard got a bit carried away, however, later telling the press that the only reason the fight was called was because he was on his way to winning a decision. First of all, it wasn’t true—I was ahead on each of the three cards—and second, I would have knocked him out if the fight had lasted much longer. To his credit, Howard apologized to me in the locker room afterward for his comments.

  Typically, after a victory, I’d celebrate in one form or another. Not on this night. There was nothing to be proud of. It took me nine rounds to put away an ex–club fighter. Some tune-up. The tune-up made me look like a club fighter.

  Shortly after I was interviewed in the ring by Larry Merchant from HBO, Juanita, Ray Jr., and I met for a few minutes in a vacant bathroom. I told them about the decision I reached after the knockdown, to retire once more. They seemed relieved, especially Juanita. She was getting her husband back just in time to welcome the new addition to our family.

  I wasted no time in informing the writers, who praised me in the ensuing days for coming to the only sane conclusion. Those who weren’t very pleased included Hagler, denied yet again a likely eight-figure payday, Kenny, and J. D. Brown. Kenny and J.D. had launched a new promotion company, and saw me as their chief attraction. When news of my announcement spread, they rushed into the interview room to find out for themselves. They didn’t dare say a word to me, though the expressions on their faces said plenty: How could you do this to us? This was our one chance to make a fortune.

  After the conference ended, the reporters rushed back to their typewriters to compose another Sugar Ray Leonard obituary. This time I meant it, though, and there wasn’t the deep sadness I experienced after the event in Baltimore. It was not the public that was the driving force behind this decision. It was me. It was my inability to be the fighter I once was and was now convinced I would never be again.

  I walked away with no regrets. I was great once and that was good enough. I had a long life ahead of me and I couldn’t wait to get started living it.

  In June, everyone gathered in Las Vegas for the Duran-Hearns match, the WBC light-middleweight title on the line. I was set to do the broadcast, but almost didn’t make the trip, with Juanita’s delivery date only about a week away. I left Maryland two days before the fight, and was asleep when the phone rang in the middle of the night. Juanita was in labor. I couldn’t get a flight out of Vegas till six A.M., and ended up missing my son’s birth by one stinking hour. I’ve felt awful about it ever since.

  Several days later, the four of us, including our new son, Jarrel, left the hospital for our home in Potomac.

  Maybe Juanita was right after all. Maybe Jarrel would save our marriage. Maybe I would become the husband and father I never was.

  Maybe Ray would stick around.

  10

  Simply Marvelous

  Ray stuck around, though not for long. I proved to be as weak as ever, surrendering once more to the temptations of fame. I went back to drugs. I went back to loose women. I went back to being Sugar Ray. The next two years remain a blur, one sad, shameful incident leading to another. I was on the run again. I did not miss fighting. I missed preparing to fight. I missed the zone that enabled me, if temporarily, to escape the pain.

  Being Sugar Ray came with a cost, as always. The women I attracted were as devious as I was. Two examples stand out. I’m sure there are many others I’ve conveniently chosen to forget.

  One was in Alaska, of all places, where Kenny and I went to make a personal appearance. I did tons of meet and greets in those days. It didn’t take much time and the money was good.

  After business came pleasure. My brother and I scored some of the best blow of our lives and shared it with this incredibly sexy woman. After we gave her a clean new T-shirt to wear, she went into the bathroom to try it on. When she returned, the T-shirt was all she had on. The action got hot and heavy until everyone went to sleep. A few hours later, when he and I woke up, the woman and the coke were gone. She was a pro and we never saw her again. On another occasion, I got up in the morning at the Alexis Park Resort Hotel in Vegas after spending the night with a girl I met at a club and discovered that my money and jewelry, estimated at about thirty-five thousand dollars, were missing. I informed hotel security, who wanted to make a full report to the police. Eager to avoid the publicity, I asked them not to bother, although the robbery somehow made it into the papers. What happens in Vegas, apparently, does not always stay in Vegas. I did learn another important lesson. From then on, whenever I had a girl, I stashed valuables in the hotel safe or under the mattress.

  At home in Maryland, my judgment could be just as cloudy. One time, and I still can’t believe
I did this, I took the Mercedes I had purchased for Juanita and drove to another girl’s apartment. Juanita says she never told little Ray about my flings but he knew. On nights I was out of town, when he heard her sobbing, he would slip under the covers to comfort her.

  “Mommy, it’s going to be okay,” he said.

  Juanita often took the kids and stayed with her mom for a day or two in nearby Largo. Yet she would always return, granting me another chance. She loved me. That was her mistake.

  I went back to work as a commentator for HBO and CBS. With me gone for good, Hagler and Hearns took over the sport. Hagler put away Mustafa Hamsho in three rounds while Hearns knocked out Fred Hutchings, also in three, setting the stage for their much-anticipated fight on April 15, 1985, at Caesars, the WBA, WBC, and IBF middleweight crowns on the line. I did the color for HBO and was as blown away as everyone by the ferocity of exchanges between the two, Hagler winning by a TKO in round three. Never was I as grateful to be on the other side of the ropes.

  In March 1986, however, I felt the exact opposite. I was back in Vegas to see Hagler defend his crown against John “the Beast” Mugabi. I went as a fan, not as a broadcaster, sitting in the second row with Ollie Dunlap and Michael J. Fox, the actor. During the fourth or fifth round, it became apparent that Mugabi, a slugger, was giving Hagler a much tougher test than anyone had predicted. I recalled again what Duran said to me after his loss to Hagler: “You box him, you beat him.” Mugabi was boxing him.

  I couldn’t help it. Right then and there, I began to see myself in the ring.

  “Michael, I can beat this guy,” I said.

  “Sure, you can, Ray,” he said. “Do you want another beer?”

  I didn’t have time to argue. From that moment on, I rooted for Hagler harder than I ever rooted for anyone. “Jab, jab, move,” I shouted. “You can do it, Marvin.” The last thing I wanted was for John Mugabi to do the job for me.