Hands of Stone

by Christian Giudice

  Duran broke down Thompson early in the second round with a left hook to the head, and then landed four straight head shots to end the round. Thompson tried to counter but with no success as a patient Duran ducked and swayed with marvelous economy while maintaining his forward drive. Every move, every punch followed a precise pattern, as if he had orchestrated every second in his mind in training.

  The fight wasn’t without its oddities. Four times after rounds ended, Duran walked to Thompson’s corner instead of his own. Duran seemed stupefied by his own actions. The confusion didn’t halt his attack as he knocked down Thompson with seconds remaining in the third round. After a mandatory eight count, Thompson walked into another big left hook before the bell sounded. Using the intermission to clear his head, Thompson boxed well in the fourth and in the fifth he traded with Duran, hustling points and landing two solid uppercuts. As the intensity increased, both men traded body shots and uppercuts in the sixth and seventh round.

  A jarring left hook to the neck sent Thompson sprawling in the eighth and blood squirted from his nose like a spigot. He was up quickly but disoriented, and after the second mandatory eight-count Duran landed two more shots and referee Nicasio Drake stepped in to halt it with fifteen seconds left in the round. Thompson was slumped against the ropes and appeared unable to defend himself. The Australian later complained that the stoppage was premature, but Duran was well ahead on points and had clearly outworked him.

  That night, Thompson faced an indomitable champion. Some would contend that Duran never fought a more vicious, focused fight. “Thompson, a classical stylist, had gambled on his skill being too much for Duran, but like Ken Buchanan before him he learned the hard way that technique without power is not enough to counter Duran’s explosive hitting,” concluded Boxing News.

  “I think the one fight where people realized how great he could be was against Thompson,” said Eleta. “You should have seen that fight, they went at each other, tried to kill each other, but not in the way it is translated. It means that they fought very hard in Spanish. It showed that Duran had that something extra.

  “Duran didn’t like any fighter that he had to fight. After that they got together and were friendly. But that’s why Duran was Duran, because he got everybody afraid of him. That’s why he would say, ‘I am going to kill you’ and all that.”

  Thompson went on to be one of the greatest Australian boxers ever but a world title would elude him. In 1976, another of his opponents, American Chuck Wilburn, died in hospital from injuries sustained during their bout, and Thompson himself was eventually forced to retire after an electro-encephalogram revealed he could suffer permanent brain damage if he continued.

  The title had also brought Duran a new home with a pool in Nuevo Reparten, an upscale community in Panama, a place where he could indulge both his generous conviviality and his roughly playful sense of humour. While later taking pictures during a party at Duran’s home, a local photographer was standing by the side of Duran’s pool. Next thing he knew Duran was telling the people that “it was time to push a photographer in the pool.” At the moment it seemed a harmless announcement that Duran made to get some laughs. Minutes later the man and his equipment were in the water, while Duran and his friends basked in the moment.

  Duran asked how much for the equipment.

  “One thousand dollars,” said the dripping photographer.

  “I’ll give you two thousand dollars,” replied Duran.

  “I couldn’t stay mad any longer,” said the photographer, after fishing out his equipment.

  A little over two months after the Thompson fight, Duran was surrounded by Puerto Ricans in the Roberto Clemente Coliseum in Hato Rey, Puerto Rico. On DeJesus’s turf, he faced Adolphus “Doc” McClendon, who had nine losses in eighteen bouts, in a ten-round non-title bout, and banged out a unanimous decision, with few notable exchanges. “Doc didn’t do much after holding his own for the first three rounds,” reported Ring. “He also managed to land a sneaky right hand. That won the plaudits of the fans, but they were few and far between.” After the fight, the generous Duran gave McClendon an expensive gold watch as a gift. Material things meant little to him. It wasn’t unusual for him to offer a piece of clothing to a stranger in public just to see their reaction. In an airport one day, he ripped off his T-shirt to give to an admirer, and continued to walk shirt-less through the terminal.

  His Nuevo Panama haven was the venue for his third defense against Japan’s Ishimatsu “Guts” Suzuki, on a bill that also featured fellow WBA champion Ernesto Marcel defending his featherweight crown. A crowd of 16,000 turned out to watch the two local heroes on September 8, 1973. Suzuki, a flamboyant personality with more courage than skill, was an attention-lover who later became a comedian and actor (Black Rain, Empire Of The Sun) and was noted for unintentionally humorous comments, such as, “My life has turned three hundred and eighty degrees because of boxing,” and, “I know the human being and the fish can coexist peacefully.” He came into the fight with a 25-10-5 record and the intention of unseating the brash young champion, and succeeded in gashing Duran’s eye in the third round, but was sent to the canvas five times before the bout was stopped in the tenth round. The champion attacked from the outset, producing some of the best boxing of his career, and by round eight Suzuki’s eye was badly swollen. Duran floored him twice in the ninth and a further three times in the tenth before the referee called a halt. Marcel also won in style.

  In a post-fight interview, Duran said, “I am a little tired. Suzuki was very good.”

  “Who was better, Suzuki or Thompson?” asked the reporter.

  “Thompson, muy fuerte. Very strong.”

  From December 1972 to February 1973, Duran only needed eleven rounds to dispatch Tony Garcia in Panama, Leonard Tavarez in Paris, France, and Armando Mendoza in his hometown in three non-title bouts. “Duran had a problem when he traveled to Europe,” said Plomo. “He fought against Tavarez who was [French] champion. It is not known whether Duran ate something that made him sick, a beefsteak or something else, or if he was given something in bad condition on purpose, you can never be too sure about what people who love their country may do, the cook perhaps…I was already getting him ready and he asked to go to the bathroom. Then, in the middle of the fight, when they were interchanging blows, all of a sudden, pruuff! The excrement went off. He had diarrhea. That happened after he had already knocked Tavarez down and they had put up his hand. He had to go running to the bathroom.”

  A dramatic photograph of a thunderous Duran right cross appearing to cave in Tavarez’s face later appeared in several publications. “The 35-year-old Frenchman was bleeding from the nose as early as the first round and barely escaped a knockout when he was floored at the end of the third, only to be saved by the bell,” reported Boxing News. “Duran launched another fierce attack in the fourth and Tavarez’s manager, Jean Traxel, threw in the towel after one minute of the round.”

  A WEEK BEFORE Christmas, 1973, the promotional group Top Rank, headed by the ambitious former attorney Bob Arum, announced that Duran would defend his title against the only man to beat him, Esteban DeJesus, for his biggest ever purse of $125,000. DeJesus, as challenger, would receive $40,000. Arum had promoted most of Muhammad Ali’s title defenses in the Sixties and was one of the first to spot the opportunities afforded by closed-circuit cinema broadcasts, foresight that would make him a major player. The fight would have happened sooner but Eleta had deterred previous approaches with his stringent demands, including not leaving Panama to fight. “The trouble started when Duran … reportedly had been assured that he would be too tough for DeJesus,” wrote columnist Alberto Montilla, after the first fight. “However, Esteban gave Duran a boxing lesson and Duran, report had it, felt he had been suckered into a bad deal in New York. This was not true.”

  If there was an ideal mix for a prizefighter, Esteban DeJesus had all the ingredients, just not in sufficient abundance to qualify for greatness. A magnificent counter-pu
ncher, he instinctively understood the nuances of the fight game. DeJesus had not received due credit for beating Duran in their first fight. Many blamed poor conditioning on Duran’s part, while Duran had the excuse of his injured elbow. DeJesus was undefeated since beating Duran at the Garden.

  Eleta urged Duran to remember the feeling he had in the restaurant after the first loss. Losing was a sign of weakness, and no man could strip him of his virility. He wore gold rings and the Armani suits, but Chorrillo was still inside him. He was fighting for every Panamanian who grew up with nothing. The Duran name would become ingrained in the hearts of the Panamanians for his generosity as well as his accomplishments. Although he earned and spent to excess, money meant nothing to Duran; people did. Money was just something that would arrive after each bout.

  Duran fought his best when he had something to prove, never more so than in the return bout with DeJesus. He wanted DeJesus with a passion, while lesser opponents were merely a break in his carousing. DeJesus had to be taken seriously; Duran knew this much. This was the guy who floored him in their first fight, whose left hook was the hot topic in pre-fight interviews, who cursed Duran in public and challenged him during press conferences.

  Weeks before the fight Duran told a local reporter, “I wake up with DeJesus. I breakfast with DeJesus. I lunch with DeJesus. And I go to sleep with DeJesus. There is not a moment that I don’t think about him. I have no fear. In the first fight, I was not in good physical condition. This time I am in better condition than I was when I massacred Buchanan. I hope that DeJesus doesn’t run like a coward.” On March 15, a photo in La Critica showed Duran holding up six fingers to signify the round he would knock out his opponent.

  He further elaborated in a radio interview with journalist Tomy Cupas.

  “How do you feel about the fight?” asked Cupas.

  “I am in perfect condition and DeJesus is covered in shit,” said Duran.

  “Listen, champ, we are on air …”

  “Excuse me, but I will take him out at all costs.”

  Ray Arcel arrived on March 9 to train Duran in a gym in the interior in Veraguas, Santiago, while DeJesus stayed in Panama City and trained at Juan Demostenes Arosemena. There were rumors that Duran hurt his hand in sparring, while DeJesus, whose sparring partners were the Puerto Rican Benitez brothers, allegedly suffered a cut days before the fight. Trainer Gregorio Benitez complained about the training conditions and tried to postpone the fight a week, though this may have been because DeJesus was struggling to get down to the weight.

  It was also the hot season, when humidity became almost unbearable, hardly the best time for anyone to step into the ring against the local hero.

  “Duran didn’t have trouble with guys who moved. He had trouble with a guy who was a good fighter,” said Gil Clancy. “And DeJesus was a guy who could fight. What you are looking for is to see the effect of when a guy lands a punch, to see how well the other guy stands up.”

  DeJesus also had one weapon that no mortal man could counter without help: magic. He brought with him his brujos, the shamanic wizards or witch doctors in whose magic many black and native Americans believed. Brujos are respected and feared from Mexico to Chile. They can cast a spell on enemies, cure ills and stop a straying husband. In Chile they believed that to become a brujo one must perform evil acts, even killing a family member to acquire magical powers. According to some legends, brujos can fly when wearing a vest made from the skin of a virgin worn inside out.

  Newspapers referred to DeJesus as “the sorcerer from Puerto Rico.” Clara Samaniego prayed to Virgen del Carmen, patron saint of the mestizo population, for her son’s safety but also took measures to counter his opponent’s dark magic. “Esteban DeJesus did not know me at that time,” said Clara. “He came to Panama, and said that anyone who wanted to meet him could go visit him. I went to see him, and I immediately saw the African brujos. I sensed this was not going to be a good thing for my son during the fight the following day. So I sent Roberto [a religious object] so that he did not fall on the first round. But Roberto threw away what I had given him.

  “When I arrived I said I wanted to talk to a lieutenant, and I asked him to take me to see Roberto, for I was his mother. When Roberto saw me, crying, I told him to hook him up from downwards and upwards, combining them. I then claimed for the help of my late mother, ‘Mrs Ceferina Garcia, give Roberto a breath, and help him stand up.’ Roberto says he felt her breath after a while, and he stood up. I started shouting at him where to hit his rival, and this was when Roberto finally recovered.”

  Despite stifling heat and humidity, Duran, resplendent in green trunks with yellow stripes and a Super Malta advertisement, wasn’t even sweating as he entered the ring for the showdown at the Nuevo Panama Gymnasium on 16 March 1974. The combatants had nearly identical records with Duran 40-1 (thirty-five KOs) and DeJesus 41-1 (twenty-nine KOs). Sixteen thousand fans had snatched up tickets ranging from $10 to $100 apiece, and Duran was a 2–1 betting favorite. HB soda and Atlas beer flowed as the fans watched local fighter Mario Mendoza ignite proceedings with a seventh-round knockout victory.

  Once again, Duran would find himself looking up at DeJesus. DeJesus started strongly and set up the first big left hook with a straight right that landed flush on Duran’s jaw. Duran’s unruly black locks flew up in the air as he tried to balance himself. Unable to recover, the next left hook flattened him, again. He rose quickly with a disgusted look, took an eight-count and promised to exact revenge.

  “I don’t agree that he beat me in the first fight,” said Duran. “DeJesus fought with Roberto Duran who just had an accident. When I fought the rematch, I was having too many problems making the weight for the fight here in Panama. I get a pimple on my face, I break it and keep messing with it. I burn it and get scarred. When he knocks me down in the rematch, Plomo says to me, ‘Hey what happened, he knocked you down with the same hand as before?’ I said, ‘Take it easy man, I’m about to rip his ass up.’”

  Cornermen Arcel and Brown knew their fighter was only temporarily shaken. Between rounds, Duran sat without emotion, no snarl or disdain, just innocence; a surreal snapshot of detachment. Whatever the old men preached, Duran looked through them. He knew what to do. In truth, DeJesus, 134½, had also struggled mightily to shed pounds to reach the 135-pound lightweight limit, and lacked the vim of their first fight.

  The old adage that you “don’t hook with a hooker” was forgotten as Duran tore into DeJesus in an action-packed second round. In the third, Duran responded with a blizzard of punches. On the inside he shortened his blows, used his shoulders to crowd the Puerto Rican and raked DeJesus with the top of his head. He ended the round with a furious nine-punch barrage. It marked the first clear-cut round for Duran in over thirteen rounds of boxing with the Puerto Rican.

  The champion began to move and show his defensive skills in the fourth, landing and avoiding DeJesus’ counters at blink speed. He had the ability to “go” with a punch, turning or tilting his head slightly, but decisively on impact to negate the force. Blows that looked solid to spectators and seemed to jolt his head were in fact robbed of power. Rarely did Duran take a clean shot. The challenger was always dangerous, but was clearly bothered by both his opponent’s attack and the Panama heat. His blows arrived singly, not in combination, and he began to jab and move to dodge punishment. Brawling with this Duran was not an option.

  The champion bled first, a gash opening under his left eye after the sixth round. But he ignored it to land a left-right combination and then artfully fall into DeJesus, bringing his elbows up to his chest to grab him in a clinch to prevent any counter. It was a beautiful sequence, executed in rapid succession.

  By round seven, the writing was on the wall. The force of Duran’s punches could be measured by the swaying of the crowd; with each solid hit they rose in a wave, arms aloft. The roar became deafening when Duran clubbed DeJesus to his knees with a quick right hand halfway through the round. For a few seconds it looked like
DeJesus wouldn’t get up. He looked all in, yet he couldn’t stay down. Being a boxer came with a steep price. Defeat was no shame but any perceived lack of courage was. The life he had chosen gave him only one option: to fight. DeJesus willed himself to rise, and survived the round on instinct alone.

  After the break, Duran continued to ravage his challenger with left hooks to the liver. One eight-punch combination in the middle of the ring put the seal on his dominance. DeJesus had a hopeless look in his eyes as he doubled over from each hook. Each break between rounds was merely a temporary respite from the torture. The sixty-second interval forces a boxer to confront the truth. In these brief periods of introspection, DeJesus had to decide whether to come forward with the same intensity and risk injury, stay away from his opponent or even quit. In what other sport must an athlete answer such profound questions? As promoter J. Russell Peltz said, any fighter who gets in the ring “has stones.” DeJesus pondered the eighteen minutes of warfare thus far, he sat with eyes ahead and mouth agape, stare blank, thoughts jumbled, as his handlers tried to revive him and urge him on. They flushed his entire body with water. One massaged his shoulders while another jostled his cheeks like a proud grandmother. DeJesus never changed expression.

  By the end of round ten, the Puerto Rican was grimacing at every punch. He again slumped on his stool at the bell and told his manager, “No voy más. I’m finished, I can’t go on.” Gregorio Benitez, an uncompromising character who always believed he knew best, responded sharply, “You aren’t going to quit now. You have come for the title…to fight.” He brooked no argument.