I tried to forget about it but I couldn’t. As I stood in the corner on fight night awaiting the bell, I became convinced that the vision was about to come true. The only question was: Which round? The answer was the fourth, a Lalonde right on the side of my head doing the trick.
Once back on my feet, I was calm. I wasn’t hurt and now I could get on with the business of winning the fight. I took a deep breath. After the first knockdown, too many fighters panic, which leads to a mistake and the next, and often conclusive, knockdown. The key is to slow down your heart rate and survive the round, which I did. Lalonde made it easier by rushing his punches. In the fifth, I measured him, scoring with shorter, crisper shots, and took over the match. There was nothing like a knockdown to get me out of a rut.
The end came in round nine. After he stung me with a right uppercut, I responded with my most fluid combinations of the night, a left hook to the jaw sending him to the deck. Lalonde got up in time, but another hook finished him off. I was not proud of my effort. At least I didn’t retire, as I did minutes after the Howard bout. The next retirement, I told myself, had better be the last.
I returned to Potomac, to drinking and crying at night, sleeping in late. I still loved Juanita, and wondered if there was any chance of winning her back. I saw more women, but the idea of another serious relationship was out of the question.
Then, out of nowhere, there she was and my life would never be the same.
I met Bernadette Robi at a Luther Vandross concert at the Los Angeles Sports Arena in April 1989. She was with saxophonist Kenny G and his girlfriend, Lyndie. I did not get a chance to talk to her much that night, but a day or two later, Kenny called. He asked me about my marital status. I told him I was legally separated. “Good, because my friend Bernadette was inquiring,” he said.
“Which one was Bernadette?” I said. “The girl with the curly hair?”
“That’s the one,” he said.
I called the same night and her machine picked up. When we finally did speak, I felt as if I had known her for years. However, I was not ready. I was nowhere near ready. We made plans to get together on three different occasions, each one in a larger group setting. I stood her up every time.
Any other woman would have decided I wasn’t worth the trouble, which was what her friends told her. Not Bern. She believed in us long before there was an us. The fourth time, when I promised I’d meet her for dinner with friends, including Kenny G and the actor Dudley Moore, in Venice Beach, she took charge.
“I am picking you up,” she said.
I was a bit taken aback, though intrigued. Women didn’t pick me up. That’s not how it worked. Yet we had a blast, and afterward, driving around Venice, I told her that every time we crossed a bridge, and there were quite a few, I would give her a kiss. With much reluctance, she let me get away with a few kisses.
Upon arriving at my hotel in Westwood, I invited her upstairs for a nightcap. We kissed and I squeezed her tightly. I got ready to take Bern to bed. That’s what I did on first dates . . . on every date. That was not what Bern did. Her eyes were warm, but firm. There was no room for compromise.
“I have to leave,” she said.
I was in shock. Who exactly was this woman who was so different from the other girls? Didn’t she know who I was?
The next morning, I called to tell her how much I enjoyed myself. From then on, we saw each other whenever I came to L.A., which was often. I started to have feelings for her that I had been sure I would never have again. More than her drop-dead looks, I fell for the beauty on the inside, the sweetness, sensitivity and intelligence that made me believe in the future.
Early on in our courtship, Bern and I were invited to an event at the home of a well-known Hollywood producer. I told the boys and they were fired up, as some of the hottest celebrities in town were bound to be there.
Bern set me straight.
“Ray, I really don’t think you should bring them,” she said. “There will be people there who are more famous than you are and they won’t have their security.”
Not bring the boys? Was she out of her mind?
I brought the boys everywhere. They were not just my security; they were my security blanket. I could walk in as Sugar Ray Leonard, the part I knew better than any other, charm everyone, and the evening would be a huge success. I wasn’t quite sure how Ray Leonard would fare.
Three hours before departing, I made the decision: The boys would stay home. Bern was right. I didn’t need them. I could be Ray, and everything would be just fine.
Thank goodness they didn’t come. When the door opened at the producer’s home, standing in front of us were Ronald and Nancy Reagan. I can’t imagine how the boys would have handled themselves. I was in a cold sweat myself, and I was accustomed to meeting the top people in politics and show business. Bern and I hung out for hours and I didn’t feel uncomfortable for one second.
Yet the months went by, and still we did not have sex. I was becoming a little edgy, but didn’t pressure her. It wouldn’t have done any good. I might have ruined everything.
One day I could tell from how intensely Bern kissed me in the car that this would be the night. I showered for a half hour, perhaps longer, sprayed on too much cologne, and had two or three drinks. I was as terrified as I was at sixteen when Juanita told me she did not come over to my house to watch TV. I now knew plenty about sex, but nothing about making love. All I can say is that it was worth the wait, and it was not the act itself as much as the connection we made during and after that was so meaningful. The clearest indication came the next morning. I had a plane to catch, but didn’t want to leave her side. Normally, after sleeping with someone, I was out the door before dawn. After I left, I called her from the car, and again from the airport. I told Bern how happy I was, and that I loved her. The boys were speechless.
I opened up to her, and because I did, she saw the side of me that wasn’t very attractive. Just because I was in love again did not mean I would stay away from alcohol and other women. Days would go by without a single phone call, and when I did call, I would be slurring my words, inventing the latest lie. But from the sound of my voice, she always knew, just as Juanita knew, the only difference being that Bern’s forgiveness wasn’t for sale. Once, after she could not reach me for several hours on her birthday, she was very upset when we finally connected. I arranged for a new BMW to be delivered to her house. She sent it back.
“Ray, this car means nothing to me,” Bern said. “What you’re doing is damaging the relationship. Just imagine a bridge. You are chipping away at the foundation and the thing will collapse.”
I apologized. Of course, no sooner was one apology offered than I’d need to make another, and another. Getting rid of my old habits wasn’t going to be easy. It was the world I knew from my life as a celebrity. It took years to construct.
Over time, I slowly got rid of the other women—except Juanita. No matter how close Bern and I became, I couldn’t get Juanita out of my head. She was my first love and stood by me even as I tried to destroy us and myself. When I began to destroy the kids, that she could not tolerate.
In the late fall of 1989, I had to find out once and for all.
“I’m going to see Juanita,” I told Bern.
I feared Bern might end it and I wouldn’t blame her. She surprised me again.
“Do what is best for your family,” she said. “You owe it to them.”
A few days later in Maryland, I made love to Juanita for the first time in well over a year, but there was something wrong, and I didn’t know what it was until she issued an ultimatum the following morning while we were still in bed.
“Ray, I’m willing to get back together, but you have to get rid of Bernadette,” Juanita said. “I can’t share you with another woman again.”
I didn’t speak for a few minutes. I was confused. Yet as I thought about it, I saw my situation more clearly than I had in the longest time. The woman I wanted to be with was not next to me
in bed. She was three thousand miles away, in California, and I could not be with her soon enough.
“I can’t get rid of Bernadette,” I told Juanita. “I just can’t do that.”
I couldn’t believe what I said. I had told her the truth. I never told her the truth.
Now, for a change, I was the one walking away, and any chance of reconciling was gone forever.
The next day, I was on a plane to Los Angeles.
Getting rid of alcohol was an entirely different matter. Bern was very patient with me, but there were times when the disease threatened to do what Juanita could not—break us up.
Each morning after I woke up, there was only one way to tell how I behaved the night before. If Bern spoke to me, I knew I had survived another night. If she was in tears, I knew I had messed up. I messed up a lot.
I doubt we would have survived if not for the consoling talks Bern had with her mom, Martha. They’d dealt with the situation before, with Bern’s father, Paul Robi, an original member of the Platters, the vocal group from the fifties, who also had a drinking problem.
“You’re an alcoholic,” Bern said. When she said it, she looked me in the eyes just as Juanita did, and I gave the same answer.
“No, I am not!” I protested.
Bern wasn’t Juanita. She didn’t let me live in denial. I agreed with her suggestion to see a therapist. Seeing one, I learned, was not the same as admitting a problem. That would take years.
In the spring of 1989, I went back to work. My opponent would be Tommy Hearns.
Eight years since our historic duel, we were headed to Caesars again and for more money than last time—a guaranteed $13 million for me, $11 million for Tommy. Were we, both in our thirties, the same fighters we had been in 1981? Of course not. But we were still two of the best in the world, with plenty to prove—me, that the poor performance against Lalonde was a fluke; Tommy, that he wasn’t finished after his surprising loss to Iran Barkley, which was followed by a narrow decision over Kinchen. Our rematch, entitled “The War,” was scheduled for June 12.
I was sure that Tommy, eroded skills or not, would be the Tommy Hearns of old. From my experience after losing to Duran, I knew there was no greater incentive for a fighter than to avenge defeat. You are willing to put your body and mind through hell, if necessary. Too bad the rest of Team Leonard did not give Tommy the same respect. The others were certain he was shot, and it affected the effort they put forth at training camp in Palm Beach, Florida. It was similar to the mood before the first Duran fight, the boys concerned more with their own needs than with mine, but with only days left before the main event, it was too late to restore order. I couldn’t rely on Juanita, or Janks Morton, who had left after Lalonde, to get everyone in line. The behavior of Roger and Kenny hurt the most. As my older brothers, it was their duty to look out for me. They didn’t.
I never got into my zone and there were plenty of signs, none more revealing than what took place during the morning weigh-in. It had been reported that a nineteen-year-old girl was found shot to death at Tommy’s house in Southfield, Michigan, and that his brother, Henry, twenty-two, was a suspect.
“Tommy, I’m sorry,” I said. “I hope everything will be okay.”
That was the worst thing I could have said. Not that I didn’t feel sympathy for Tommy. I did. But expressing the slightest compassion to an opponent only hours before going into combat proved I wasn’t ready. Can you imagine me approaching Tommy before our first bout, or Duran or Hagler, and letting my guard down like that? I could have had one of the boys relay the same message or sent a telegram.
Further evidence came as soon as the bell rang. My eyes were filled with fear instead of confidence. The plan was to attack Tommy with a steady diet of overhand rights, just as Kinchen did. In camp, I overpowered one sparring partner after another with the right. Yet, against Tommy, every overhand right I threw was off target. There was no snap in my jabs, and the left hooks felt like lead. I was in trouble. Pepe and Jake tried to get me back on track between rounds, but there was little that could be salvaged at this stage. Not even Angelo could have saved me. I’d have to find something that worked, and fast.
In round three, I went down, a hard right nailing me on the side of the head. I got up in a hurry and was alert enough, but I wasn’t facing Kevin Howard or Donny Lalonde. When Tommy Hearns went for the kill, he got his man.
Fortunately, by maintaining my distance, I hung on until the bell and recovered by the start of round four. In the fifth, it was my turn to score as I landed a hard left hook to the chin. He was hurt. If Tommy was a shot fighter, as everybody claimed, here was my opportunity to put him away. I threw more combinations and trapped him near the ropes, but I punched myself out and he survived. My window was gone. Over the next four rounds, he got in his licks and I got in mine. The fight was clearly going the distance.
Or was it? In the eleventh, Tommy connected with three straight rights and a left that sent me to the canvas again, the first time I was knocked down twice in the same fight. I hung on once more, though with only one round to go, the task confronting me was obvious: Knock Tommy out or lose.
I tried with everything I had, controlling most of the action, but Tommy had learned a lot in eight years. He finally knew how to clinch, buying himself precious seconds till the bell rang. The only uncertainty left was the margin of defeat. I braced myself for the announcement.
The judges must have been watching a different fight. It was ruled a draw. What saved me was my aggressiveness in the final round. I was stunned. Unlike Hagler, Tommy had a right to feel robbed.
He didn’t. That’s because he accomplished something much more important than winning the fight. He redeemed himself. For the rest of his life, he would be able to say that on June 12, 1989, he held his own against me. That was enough.
As for me, the future was uncertain, although retirement was not an option no matter how many people might have urged me to quit. I was not going out like this. My showing had nothing to do with declining abilities. The problem was my attitude, and that could be fixed.
One way to do it was by agreeing to take on Duran next. I would have no trouble getting motivated for him. After what happened in New Orleans, I assumed the two of us would never meet again. But nine years had passed since that strange night, and Duran, now thirty-eight, had done a superb job of rehabilitating himself. He had won eight of his last nine bouts, including an upset over Iran Barkley in February, which earned him the WBC middleweight title. The bout was slated for December 7 in Las Vegas, but instead of Caesars, where I had fought the previous three times, the site would be an outdoor stadium adjacent to the Mirage, the new hotel owned by multimillionaire Steve Wynn.
In the fall, I set up camp in Hilton Head. As I did for the second Duran bout, I cut back on my entourage—only, this time, those affected included Roger and Kenny. The way they fooled around in Florida meant I could no longer trust them. Breaking the news to them was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I told Roger first.
“You are my brother and I love you,” I said, “but you cannot go with me to the next fight.”
Roger was crushed, though his spirits brightened considerably when he took a glance at the farewell check I handed him, for $100,000. That’s a lot of chickens. His take per fight was typically in the $40,000 range. Kenny was wounded, too, but I wasn’t about to change my mind. My career came first.
Also let go was Dave Jacobs. Having two voices in the corner in the last fight had been one too many. I put Pepe in charge and he made me work, in the gym and on the road, building my reflexes and stamina. I was thirty-three, not twenty-three. I could not rely on speed any longer.
Walking down the aisle on an extremely cold fight night, I was well aware that a third straight lackluster effort would result in more pleas for retirement. I wasn’t ready to exit the stage quite yet.
I went out and proved it, capturing every round on at least two of the three cards, except for the twelfth, wh
en the outcome was no longer in doubt. The rigorous training had paid off. I kept sliding out of range, forcing Duran to miss an astonishing 86 percent of his punches, although he connected often enough that I needed sixty stitches to close gashes in my left eyelid, right eyebrow, and upper lip. I was a mess. I was also a winner again.
My next fight wasn’t in the ring. It was in a courthouse in Rockville, Maryland.
On November 2, 1990, Juanita and I appeared in court to determine the temporary alimony and child support payments, which she was seeking to increase. I usually had a good sense of how a judge was going to rule, being wrong only in the second Hearns fight, but this time I didn’t have a clue.
Before we could find out, I received word that Juanita wanted a few minutes alone with me. My attorneys were opposed, as were hers, including the celebrated Marvin Mitchelson. We overruled them. The battle was between us, not our attorneys.
I met her in a conference room. She started to cry.
“Ray, I’m scared,” Juanita said.
“I’m scared, too,” I said.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
Neither did I. But I had to do something.
“We’ve been together a long time,” I said, “and our kids don’t need this. You and I can work this out without any more meetings with our attorneys. How much money do you want for the divorce to go through?”
“Twenty million,” Juanita said with no hesitation.
“No, Juanita, what do you need?” I asked.
We went back and forth for another minute or two before coming to an agreement.
The Big Fight Page 25