(c) Angie Carlino
Team Hagler: (l-r) Pat Petronelli, attorney Steve Wainwright, Goody Petronelli, Marvelous Marvin Hagler.
Eventually the Petronellis grasped the politics. They hired an attorney, Steven Wainwright, who enlisted the help of several Massachusetts politicians, House Speaker Thomas P. "Tip" O'Neill, Jr., Senator Edward Kennedy, and Senator Paul Tsongas, as well as Congressman Edward P. Beard of Rhode Island. The politicians, in letters to Arum, threatened federal regulation of boxing. Arum, a former assistant U.S. attorney, got the message and agreed to promote Hagler.
(c) Angie Carlino
Marvelous Marvin Hagler training at the Provincetown Inn.
By February of 1979 Hagler had fought more top-10 fighters than any other middleweight. The harsh New England winter found Hagler training at the tip of Cape Cod, in Provincetown, Mass., both a gay enclave and a Portuguese-American fishing town. Each dawn he arose, pulled on Army boots, and ran among beach dunes, punching at the frigid salt air, sunlight glinting off his shaved head. Provincetown, austere and isolated, was a reflection of Hagler's inner Spartan. Bertha and the children were not allowed to visit, and Hagler kept to himself in a quiet wing of the semi-deserted Provincetown Inn, where his workouts were held. He was not entirely a recluse. After his morning run he strolled through town, chatted with storekeepers, and relaxed at a coffee shop amongst residents, gay and straight. Precious few were such moments, when he did not brood about his unjust fate.
"Look at all that money those Olympic kids got, look at all that money tennis players get," Hagler told Michael Katz of the New York Times. "Leon Spinks got a title shot after seven fights. Some guys have fought for the title four times. This is my 45th fight and I still haven't gotten one and I know all I'm going to get is one. I'm too good for my own good."
Pressured by Washington, Arum guided Hagler to his long-awaited title bout. His opponent was Vito Antuofermo, an energetic awkward fireplug with skin like tissue paper who had won the middleweight championship in June. Six and a half years after turning pro, Hagler fought for the championship in his 50th pro bout.
In a historical perspective, Hagler was approximately on schedule. It's a fact that he waited longer than his contemporaries in other weight divisions. Leonard made it as a welterweight in 26 bouts, Thomas Hearns as a welterweight in 29 bouts, and Larry Holmes as a heavyweight in 28 bouts.
But in other weight divisions there were two world titles up for grabs - from the WBC and the WBA - thus twice as many title bouts. The middleweight title had been unified for most of the 1970s; thus there were half as many title bouts available for Hagler and other middleweight contenders.
Philadelphia promoter Russell Peltz rejected the notion that Hagler was unfairly held back.
"I know there is a lot of talk that Marvin didn't get breaks early, but that's not really true," said Peltz. "I had four black middleweights in Philly and they were all tough guys...but only one of them, Bennie Briscoe, fought for the title. It was harder to get a title fight in those days...and Marvin didn't really hit his peak until the late 70s. The only place where Marvin had a tough time is when he got excluded from the Don King tournament. That was outrageous. But if that tournament had never come along, Marvin was still right on schedule. You couldn't get a title fight in those days with 15 fights. You had to have 35 or 40."
Antuofermo was an opponent of limited talent whom Hagler should easily have defeated. Early in the fight that appeared to be the case, as his switch-hitting attack confused Antuofermo and opened cuts under both eyes.
Yet, inexplicably, in the middle rounds Hagler let down. Antuofermo overcame a 51/2-inch reach disadvantage by leaping at Hagler and landing with both hands. Hagler backed up and found himself in uncharted territory against the ropes. From the 11th round on it was a slugging match, and though Hagler rocked Antuofermo in the 15th the round went to Antuofermo.
Most ringside media thought Hagler won by a comfortable margin, and the referee, Mills Lane, told Hagler to face the photographers for the moment when he would raise his hand. But that moment never came. The judges called it a draw, and allowed Antuofermo to retain the title. The judge who voted for Hagler, Duane Ford, was so upset at the outcome that he later vomited outside the Caesars sports pavilion.
"The challenger must win decisively to become champion," a Nevada official told Hagler.
"In my heart I still believe I'm the middleweight champion," Hagler said. "If the judges knew anything about boxing they'd have felt the same way."
Broken-hearted and embittered, Hagler returned to Brockton and despaired of a second chance. The world was not fair to black shaved-head southpaw fighters - he was sure of it. He told a friend, "From now on I'm taking no prisoners."
1979: World Champion
Compared to Hagler, Leonard's ascent to the championship level was pre-ordained. His path was smoother because he had what Hagler lacked - an Olympic gold medal.
He converted his "million dollar smile" into hard cash, but not without collateral damage to people and principles.
Foremost was Ray, Jr., born on November 22, 1973. Juanita was two months shy of 16; Leonard was 17, and both were in high school. They agreed that Juanita would raise the baby under her father's roof while he continued to live with his family, an arrangement Leonard had encouraged to abet his Olympic quest. The decision was practical, since neither had an income and neither family could afford to set them up on their own. But the practical effect was that Leonard's routine of school and boxing did not change, while Juanita had to drop out of school and go to work.
She worked at fast food restaurants, and in the summer at the service station managed by her father. Juanita cleaned windshields, changed oil and tires, and pumped gas, and when she went home she took care of Ray, Jr. Part of her paycheck supplemented her father's household budget, and part of it went to Leonard.
"Ray, with his responsibilities, was not able to work a lot of the time," Juanita recalled. "I had to help him out, as well as his family, you know, when they got into some bad situations."
Leonard did not contribute financially, nor was he much of a presence as a father, from Juanita's perspective.
"He was so dedicated that I think fatherhood never really became a big thing to him at that time," Juanita said.
Even Leonard eventually would admit he had "neglected" Ray, Jr. Boxing came between him and his son, but boxing was not solely responsible. Dick Wilkinson, whose own marriage had failed, detected something familiar and unsettling in Leonard. "Dick saw things - himself maybe," said Ollie Dunlap. "He knew that when Ray left the house he was on the prowl."
Leonard won both the national Golden Gloves and AAU titles in 1974. His star ascended in 1975 as he won another national AAU title and a gold medal in the Pan American Games. He got airtime on ABC's popular Saturday afternoon show, "Wide World of Sports," and caught the attention of Cosell, the bombastic and influential broadcaster. Cosell had ridden to fame in the 1960s on the coattails of Muhammad Ali, with whom he shared a crackling and comedic rapport. Now, with Ali's career in its twilight, Cosell saw Ali's image in Leonard. He also saw an Ali-like charisma to drive TV ratings.
But a funny thing happened on Leonard's way to Montreal - he almost did not get there, nearly victimized by his own artful dodging. After fibbing to Olympic officials in his failed attempt to qualify in 1972, he manipulated the process in 1976.
One of the qualifying routes was the national Golden Gloves, a tournament Leonard had won for three straight years. But in March 1976 he withdrew before the quarterfinal round, ostensibly because of a cut lip. His quarterfinal opponent was to be Ronnie Shields, a tough 139-pounder from Fort Worth.
"Shields was really sharp and Ray didn't look too good," recalled Emanuel Steward, then coach and mastermind of the fast-rising Kronk Gym team from Detroit. "That's why Dave pulled Ray out."
Another qualifying route was the AAU national, which Leonard had won the previous two years. But Leonard did not compet
e, oddly enough. No explanations surfaced in the print media. What happened, at least according to Steward, is that Leonard was suspended, or was threatened with suspension, by the AAU for signing up to compete in a region outside his home region, Potomac.
"There was another boy in Potomac who was a problem," Steward said. "So Ray registered in another region and got caught."
Details clouded over time. Steward thought the violation occurred in the Tennessee region, where another 139-pounder, Milton "Pete" Seward, was considered an Olympic prospect. The record is clear, however, that Leonard did not compete in the AAU nationals, at a time when he needed to.
Now just one option remained - maybe. Leonard could advance through an Eastern Regional qualifying tournament. Only there wasn't one - nobody had stepped forth to host it. Scant motivation had existed, since it was assumed the best fighters would advance in the Golden Gloves and AAU.
Jacobs, anxious and worried, called Steward.
"There's one chance for Ray to make the Olympic team," Jacobs pleaded. "If you can get the Eastern Regional trials."
Steward had been an admirer of Leonard's for years, so much so that the walls of the Kronk Gym were plastered with his photos. Thrown together on the amateur circuit, they had struck up a friendship, though Steward was 12 years Leonard's senior.
Steward agreed to organize the event and quickly raised money. Jacobs agreed that Leonard would train at the Kronk, an overheated basement gym in a Depression-era municipal building.
Steward's team welcomed Leonard in May 1976 as though he were a reigning world champion. Among the Kronk fighters dazzled by Leonard's panache was 17-year-old Thomas Hearns, a beanpole 132-pounder whose own Olympic bid had been cut short by a nose injury. Hearns was not among the Kronk fighters who sparred with Leonard - his turn would come later.
Leonard seized this final opportunity. He won the Eastern Regional tournament, and then beat Shields in the Olympic trials to win his berth on the U.S. team.
Thus, when Cosell opened ABC's telecast of the Summer Games on July 17, 1976, he chose one athlete, Leonard, to stand by his side at the center of Olympic Village.
Leonard's performance justified ABC's spotlight. He beat a Swede, Russian, East German, and a Pole, and he won convincingly despite throbbing pain in his chronically sore hands. In reaching the gold medal round Leonard displayed a range of styles and tactics, and wisely tempered his flourishes - smiling, shuffling and bolo punching - to appease international judges. His success was magnified by the success of his teammates. Leon Spinks (175 pounds), his brother Michael Spinks (160 pounds), Howard Davis (132 pounds) and Leo Randolph (118 pounds) all advanced to the finals, and won gold.
Ultimately it wasn't Leonard's ring performance that elevated his celebrity above the others - it was his personality. In his interviews with Cosell and print media he came across as an All-American boy, fresh, earnest, articulate, respectful, and slightly impish. He was the Chamber of Commerce booster who unfurled the red-and-white flag of Prince George's County. Animated in the ring, Leonard pretended to pat his hair back into place when an opponent narrowly missed with a haymaker. The arrival from Maryland of a rented camper with his parents, Juanita, brother Roger, sisters Sharon and Sandy, Jacobs, and a couple of friends added texture to his personal story. More depth was added by Leonard's decision to tape a photo of Juanita to the socks he wore into the ring.
In the Olympic final he defeated a rugged Cuban southpaw, Andres Aldama, who took three standing eight counts. Leonard's gold gave American boxers five for the first time since 1952.
In a jubilant aftermath, as Cosell held a microphone to his face, Leonard made a surprise announcement.
"I've fought my last fight," Leonard said. "My journey has ended. My dream is fulfilled."
It was the first of many retirements for Leonard. He was exhausted, his knuckles were bruised and swollen, and he wanted a break from boxing. He rode back to Maryland in the rented camper and was greeted by a police escort, fawning public officials and a neighborhood celebration.
Media engulfed the Leonard home on Barlowe Road. Leonard told reporters he had enjoyed his moment of glory and was proud to be in the record books, but that pro boxing was not in his future.
"I'll never be a professional fighter - I promise you that," he said. "It's time I started a new life."
He recalled Ali's advice to put education ahead of boxing and said he planned to get a degree at nearby University of Maryland-College Park. He thought he might follow Dunlap into youth work.
His gold medal, he said, belonged to the Palmer Park community.
"With my girl friend and family in Montreal to cheer me on, I couldn't let them down," he said. "But now I want to set an example for all the kids in the streets."
But Leonard's career as an example-setter was short-lived. Two days after his return from Montreal, on August 5, 1976, the Washington Star bannered a front-page headline: "Sugar Ray's Paternity Suit."
The story detailed a paternity suit filed against Leonard by the county. The suit was triggered by a food stamp application submitted by Juanita, who had been receiving county child support payments for a year. Mandating the suit was a new law intended to determine if unwed fathers could support their children.
Juanita had not known her food stamp application automatically triggered a paternity suit, and Leonard had not even known she had submitted it. Both were caught off guard by the article, which seemed to mock the notion of the loving couple projected by Leonard at Montreal, not to mention the relationship of Leonard with his county, whose flag he had waved before a worldwide audience.
The irony was more than cruel, and when media descended once again on Palmer Park, Leonard reacted with indignation.
"Here I bring the county flag to the Olympics and give them their share of glory and what do I get - a paternity suit," Leonard sniffed.
He explained that he had not "denied" Ray, Jr., was proud of him, and fully intended to contribute to his support.
"I wasn't working because I was training hard and in school," Leonard said. "I was always occupied with something else. I didn't have time to help them the way I wanted to. But you know, this was a dream I had to fulfill even though I neglected Ray somewhat.
"The worst thing is that all the kids here look up to me, and then this thing blows up in my face. It will destroy me. I wouldn't want the kids to see me in a different light...all I can say is I'm sorry. I wish it hadn't happened at this particular time."
An ugly uproar ensued. Leonard and his supporters questioned the public airing of his private life and inferred that the story had racist overtones. County executives, who had supplied Leonard with the flag, pointed fingers at the county attorney for bringing the suit. Plenty of everyday fans turned against Leonard, perhaps feeling suckered and betrayed by his display of Juanita's photo at Montreal. He received hate mail.
Product endorsement offers dried up. Even as another Olympic hero, decathlon gold medalist Bruce Jenner, reaped lucrative national endorsements, Leonard's were local and modest. Some Leonard confidantes believed Jenner's face was on a Wheaties cereal box, and not Leonard's, because of racism, pure and simple.
Soon Leonard's problems compounded. His mother, who had been ill before the Olympics, suffered a minor heart attack. His father, who had been docked pay when he traveled to Montreal, fell ill with spinal meningitis. With both unable to work, their financial situation became perilous.
Leonard was affected by his parents' plight. Though aloof as a father and boyfriend, he was a devoted son. He needed money to help them, as well as to support Little Ray. The obvious solution was to turn pro.
It was then Leonard met Michael G. Trainer, a puckish, combative 35-year-old attorney who knew virtually nothing about boxing and a lot about fighting. Trainer came into Leonard's life to give advice on a paternity suit, and stayed to construct and pilot the financial juggernaut known as Sugar Ray Leonard, Inc.
(c) Ollie Dunlap
Sugar Ray Leo
nard, left, and attorney Michael G. Trainer, early 1980s.
Adopted at birth, Trainer grew up in Bethesda, put himself through University of Maryland Law School, clerked for a Circuit Court judge, and built a practice in real estate, drunk driving, personal injury, and divorce. He took pride in being self-made, and was skeptical of others who started, as he put it, "with a leg up." Married and father to two daughters, Trainer enjoyed beer, cigarettes, golf, and soft-leather loafers worn without socks.
Trainer's philosophy was reflected in the changing economics of sports. Free agency had come to Major League Baseball in 1976. Andy Messersmith had landed a three-year $1 million deal - a staggering amount - with Ted Turner's Atlanta Braves. Reggie Jackson, Bobby Grich, Joe Rudi, Don Baylor, and Rollie Fingers played without contracts in order to become free agents after the season. The notion of free agency resonated with Trainer, who had opened his own practice two years after passing the bar.
Soon after he met Leonard, Trainer imparted his philosophy of self-ownership.
"He had an offer on the table from Abe Pollin, who ran the Capital Centre, for $250,000, and a 50 percent cut," Trainer recalled. "I asked Ray, 'will it bother you if after you make $500,000 and he gets his money back he will take half of what you earn?' And he said, 'yes.'
"I said, 'you can do that, or go into business yourself and fight and keep all of it.' He came back in about a week and said, 'I want to go into business for myself.'"
Sorcery at Caesars: Sugar Ray's Marvelous Fight Page 5