I Am Duran

by Roberto Duran

  In 2013, Robin reached an agreement in the United States for a movie about my life titled Hands of Stone, which is coming out in 2016. My old friend Robert De Niro, who I beat at softball in New York all those years ago, is playing Ray Arcel, while Usher is Sugar Ray Leonard and my friend Rubén Blades is Eleta. And the most important role, of course, me, belongs to Édgar Ramírez, a Venezuelan actor. We had all the cast for dinner and drinks at the restaurant, and they got a good taste of the kinds of salsa parties we often throw on weekends.

  And in the fall of 2015, Robin was chosen to play me in Manos de Piedra: Un K.O. Musical, telling my life story through the eyes of people on the streets of El Chorrillo. It had a budget of more than $400,000, a cast of thirty-eight, and they re-created some of the big fights like Leonard and Barkley. Robin did a great job. I went to see it when it opened in Panama and got up onstage to thank the audience. The critics hailed it as a major success, and Fula isn’t the only one to cry every time she’s seen it.

  People think I’m a millionaire but I’m not, although I used to be. I think I made about $60 million from my fights, but nowadays the house is all that’s left to show for it. The cash I do have goes to paying the bills, for food, water, and electricity, with a little bit put aside in case of an emergency. The days of buying fancy cars and microlights are long gone! But still people come knocking on my door for money even though they know that it’s been years since I had a payout from a fight and, Panama being the place it is, that I’ve had money problems.

  Some people feel sorry for me; they think that growing up on the streets has been a burden I’ve carried all my life. But I don’t know any different—I have nothing to compare it to. It hasn’t been an easy life, but it’s the life I’ve had. The only one. I’m not sitting around with a psychiatrist, trying to figure out why my dad abandoned me. I’m not traumatized by anything I went through. If you like me, fine. If not, let’s move on—it’s all the same to me. People ask me what I’d do differently the second time around and I tell them, “Nothing.” I don’t do regrets. Why? Because nobody is born knowing what’s going to happen. Only God knows that.

  But I’m happy. Some of the stories I’ve been telling you about my life might have made you cry, but you’ll have found yourself laughing, too. No tears for me, though: I’m not finished yet. I’m going to die of old age, it’s quite clear to me. That’s written by God. I’ve survived a car crash, an airplane crash, a motorcycle crash, and I’m still going. When I die, the doctors will have to open me up to see what I’m made of. I should have been dead a long time ago, but God doesn’t want me dead. El Cholo will live forever.

  Fighting Ken Buchanan at Madison Square Garden in 1972. I was determined to beat him and bring home the title for my idol, Ismael Laguna.

  Without Freddie Brown (on my left here), I wouldn’t have become the new world lightweight champion.

  At the end of the thirteenth round, I had Buchanan against the ropes.

  Celebrating with Ray Arcel (center) after the Buchanan fight at Madison Square Garden.

  Pre-fight physical exams with Esteban de Jesús in 1972. Losing to the then lightweight champion spurred me to win my next forty-one fights.

  Goofing around with promoter Don King and Puerto Rican boxer Edwin Viruet before our 1975 fight, which I won in a ten-round unanimous decision.

  With my wife, Fula, and our son Roberto Jr., after the Viruet fight.

  Throwing a punch against Juan Medina during the fight at the Olympic Auditorium, Los Angeles, in 1973. I won by TKO in round seven.

  As I became more famous, I’d be listed on the undercard of Muhammad Ali’s fights to draw in the crowds and make sure they stayed. Soon I’d be on magazine covers.

  Celebrating my wins over Edwin Viruet in 1977 and Zeferino Gonzales in 1979.

  Americans began calling me “El Diablo.” I was the mysterious foreigner fighting their great American hero, Sugar Ray Leonard.

  In 1980, I beat Sugar Ray Leonard. Many said I couldn’t, but when I got into the ring I could do anything.

  Holding my $2,000 bonus after winning the welterweight crown.

  I never said “No más.” It just wasn’t my night, and I couldn’t keep fighting.

  After tension and taunting in the pre-fight, Don King tries to separate me from Wilfred Benítez.

  The 1982 light-middleweight bout against Benítez. In the end, he was better and stronger than I was.

  Davey Moore was the favorite in 1983, but I came away with the light-middleweight title.

  Marvin Hagler and I did a lot of promotion before our 1983 fight. In the fifth round, I fractured my hand after hitting him in the head and lost by two rounds.

  With my son Robin in Palm Springs.

  After my defeat to Robbie Sims in 1986. I was determined to keep boxing despite having lost this fight, the sixth loss of my past thirteen fights.

  Training on the speed bag before my 1989 fight against Leonard. Nine years after “No más,” I lost our third fight by unanimous decision.

  On December 20, 1989, the United States invaded Panama. Many people were left homeless, buildings were destroyed, and my barrio—El Chorrillo—suffered.

  At a performance of City of Angels on Broadway in 1990.

  Fighting Héctor Camacho—the clown—in Atlantic City in 2001. Little did I know this would be my last fight: a few months later I was in a serious car accident.

  Meeting Nelson Mandela with Marvin Hagler in 1997. It was a great honor to spend time with such an inspirational leader.

  El Diablo. Manos de Piedra. Being inducted into the Nevada Boxing Hall of Fame by Sugar Ray Leonard in 2014.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First of all, I would like to thank Mr. George Diaz for taking the time to listen to me, and for understanding my life and all that goes with it. I’m not an easy person, because I’m always in a rush, but he was patient and somehow made it work. George also took the time to do his homework and research my real life—not just the bullshit written in some books or the misinformation that’s on the Web. He went beyond all that and connected with my son Robin and my wife, Felicidad.

  You know by now that I’ve had a tough life, but also a beautiful one. I’ve lived how I’ve wanted to live and done most of the things I’ve wanted to do, and yet I’ve still been a family man. I’ve had a lot of money, only to lose it and get it back. I’ve been lied to, scammed, and robbed by people I’ve trusted, but I’ve also had the love of my family, who have been with me through thick and thin. My wife—oh, my wife—she should be getting the belts and statues. She’s the one person I really depend on.

  My heart resides in my country, Panama. It’s where I was born and raised, and it’s where I will die. Even if, at times, I’ve felt betrayed by my country or unloved by those I’ve fought for, I harbor no hate or grudges. On the contrary, I love my country, and every time I went into battle, all I was thinking of was triumphing for my people. At the end of the day, I’m just a man. I’ve made bad decisions like any other person, but I don’t regret any of them, because without them I wouldn’t be the man I’ve become, and I probably wouldn’t have fought with such hunger for those championships. I’m still that young boy from the streets whose childhood was taken by his rough life, and I’m still that young man who won his first world title in New York City. I will never change that. Thank you, George, for telling the world my story in my own words. This is the life of Roberto “Manos de Piedra” Durán. This is the life of a son of Panama.

  —Roberto Duran

  In 1971, a few days after my fifteenth birthday, I stepped into the old Miami Jai-Alai Fronton with my uncle to watch the first Ali–Frazier fight on a giant screen. I became mesmerized that day by the blood sport of boxing, a form of warfare equal parts physical and psychological.

  I eventually made my way to ringside as a journalist for some of the most dramatic moments in boxing h
istory, including the infamous “Bite Fight” in Las Vegas. On that summer night in 1997, Mike Tyson found a crazy way out against Evander Holyfield.

  The ultimate bad-ass, in a fit of frustration, looked for an exit strategy.

  Wasn’t that also the narrative of Roberto Durán in one of the most iconic fights in boxing history? It is easy to paint with broad strokes when defining our sports heroes, although we like to color within the lines. Good or bad? Winner or loser? Strong or weak?

  Roberto Durán was all those things during his career. I’ve tried to be true to his story, and he certainly pulled no punches in trying to explain his complicated and conflicted journey in boxing and as a hero to the people of Panama.

  It was a complicated journey for me, too, trying to piece things together with Roberto. Like any good boxer, he has learned to move on, and not get stuck in the past. Always look to the next round. But we found a way, thanks in large measure to his wonderful family—including his wife, Fula, son Robin, and daughter Irichelle. They helped Roberto and me put the pieces together, and the whole family had the conviction to reveal hard truths that were not always flattering. Thank you, Roberto, for being true to yourself after all these years—a mix of kindness, quirkiness, obstinacy, tenacity, and humor.

  Thank you, too, Sugar Ray Leonard, for your role in telling the story, and helping to weave a narrative for a man who was once your greatest enemy, and whom you now call one of your best friends.

  And many thanks to my better half, Theresa—always my best friend, always my most supportive fan on this and every other project I’ve undertaken.

  A book, much like life, is a collaborative journey. People come into the plot. Some leave. Some stay. Regardless, they shape your story. Through circumstances and serendipity, Roberto Durán came into my life. Together, we told his story. I hope you enjoyed reading it.

  —George Diaz

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