Sorcery at Caesars: Sugar Ray's Marvelous Fight

by Steve Marantz

  Hooligan fans rioted on September 27, 1980, at London's indoor Wembley Stadium, after Hagler stopped England's Alan Minter in a 3rd-round TKO. They responded to Hagler's victory with a barrage of projectiles and jeers. Nobody was hurt, including Leonard, at ringside for HBO.

  Minter had lifted the title from Antuofermo in June. Hagler had arrived in London still angry over the draw in Las Vegas, and determined to circumvent the scoring judges. He had held up his two fists, and said, "This is "K" and this is "O". To a friend, Tony Petronelli, Hagler confided, "He's going to have to kill me to beat me."

  Neo-racist coverage by the British press had depicted Hagler as a dark ghetto apparition intent on mugging Minter. Hagler was "a fighting desperado from the wrong side of the tracks who fights dirty - with his fists or his tongue," according to the Sunday People. He was "panther-like...the kind of face that would convert most people into instant pacifists," wrote the London Express.

  Minter, from the London suburb of Crawley, looked more like an English butler or thespian than a boxer. Formerly a brawler, Minter's style had changed after an opponent, Angelo Jacopucci, died as a result of their 1978 bout. He had used a tactical approach to twice defeat Antuofermo - the second time in an 8th-round TKO.

  Twelve thousand fans crowded the arena to see Minter bring honor to the Union Jack. Instead, they saw a vintage Hagler, precise and remorseless. He forced Minter to engage, and in the 1st round he split open Minter's wax-paper skin in two places. Another cut opened in the second. Six cuts were open, and Minter's face a mask of blood, when the fight was stopped at 1:45 in the 3rd round.

  In the fan riot that followed, Minter's two championship belts were forgotten. Routinely, the belts would be strapped around the waist of the new champion, but a ceremony was impossible under the circumstances. Hagler could not win for winning. Even when he finally won the long-awaited title his moment of triumph was co-opted.

  Hagler left the arena under police escort, returned to his hotel, and partied into the next morning, and the next day, and the next. Hagler savored a drink when he wasn't in training, and now that he was middleweight champion, he indulged. He and photographer Angie Carlino shared a bottle of Jim Beam before "cleaning out everything in his room," Carlino recalled. When Hagler flew home a police motorcade whisked him from Logan Airport in Boston to a rally of 3500 fans at Brockton City Hall.

  He hit all the right notes. Marciano had put Brockton on the map, he said, and he intended to keep it there. He kissed Rocky's mother and thanked her family for supporting him. He thanked Bertha, Mae, the Petronellis, and God. To the young people, Hagler said, "Go after your dream - it will come true if you want it bad enough."

  Two weeks later the two championship belts arrived. In a special ceremony, Jersey Joe Walcott, the old warhorse dethroned as heavyweight champion by Marciano in 1952, placed the belts around his waist. That Hagler had to wait to obtain his prized belts - after fleeing an ugly mob - fit conveniently into the aggrieved narrative of his career. In time, the London bout would be remembered more for the hooligan fans than the savage demolition of Minter.

  (c) Angie Carlino

  Hagler's most prized possessions were his two championship belts. He saw them as validation of his long slog to the top.

  1980: No Mas

  At center ring Ray Charles sang "America the Beautiful" while lit by the 100-watt smile of his namesake, Ray Charles Leonard. The blind vocalist made his way to Leonard and hugged him.

  As the two Rays embraced at the Louisiana Superdome on November 25, 1980, the champion, Duran, watched from the opposite corner. There would be no love for Duran on this fateful night.

  The rematch showcased Leonard's resolve and cleverness. But his journey from Montreal to New Orleans had not been easy.

  Immediately after his loss in Montreal, Leonard's face was somebody else's - a funhouse mirror face. He was a mass of sores and swollen appendages. His head was lumpy and knotted and his back was raw with rope burns. Duran's right hands and the rubbing of Duran's head during clinches made his left ear hideously swollen and gnarled. Though a doctor drained it, it was tender and raw, and Leonard envisioned himself an old palooka with cauliflower ears.

  Leonard's first inclination was to call it a career. Indeed, he told the media, "This is it - I can't go on," a statement generally interpreted to be his second retirement.

  Juanita's position was clear - she hated boxing and Montreal had been an ordeal for her. Juanita asked him why he had fought as he did, and his answer - "I had something to prove - they were saying I couldn't take a punch" - did not comfort her.

  Common sense told him to quit and preserve his health. Cleveland Denny, who fought on the undercard in Montreal, was on life-support and soon would die from the punches of Canadian Gaetan Hart. Ali himself was brain damaged, though it was not yet acknowledged. Another beating could send Leonard in the same direction. His financial future was secure after his record $10 million payday. Common sense told Leonard to cash out.

  But a restorative vacation in Hawaii healed his body and spirit and made him resolve to continue. He wasn't convinced Duran was the better fighter, and he didn't want to be pitied as the guy driven into retirement by Duran.

  Leonard knew from reliable sources that Duran had celebrated throughout the summer and was bloated and sodden. On the assumption that Duran needed extended conditioning, Leonard and Trainer pushed for a rematch that was sooner rather than later. Duran preferred to wait until the spring, but could not risk losing a $9 million payday if Leonard changed his mind. Early in October the two sides announced the November 25 date. Duran had seven weeks to reverse the damage of his three-month party.

  Conditioning was not a problem for Leonard - he had been in the gym most of the summer. His biggest distraction was longtime trainer, Dave Jacobs, who was unhappy about his compensation and his secondary role, to Dundee, in the corner. Jacobs lobbied for a tune-up bout before a rematch with Duran. Leonard was torn between his history with Jacobs and his bottom-line philosophy. When Jacobs would not relent, he fired him.

  The firing was chilling proof of Leonard's business resolve. At a press conference Leonard was asked what Jacobs' absence meant to him. "One less check to write," Leonard said, without a flicker of emotion. Veteran reporters were taken aback. "That was about as cold and callous as a person could be," recalled Thom Greer, who wrote for the Philadelphia Daily News. Dave Kindred, who wrote for the Washington Post, said, "That's the working image of Leonard in my mind."

  "People look at Ray sometime and say, 'oh, he's a nice kid,' little smile and everything," recalled older brother Kenny Leonard. "But Ray got something inside of him, you know, is terrible. It's a complete dark side."

  Duran struggled to drop from 180 pounds to 147, and virtually starved for three days prior to the weigh-in. On the morning of the fight, after he made weight, the famished champion tore into several steaks and various fruits, vegetables, and liquids. When he climbed into the ring, he looked thick, and his stomach lacked the tone it had in Montreal.

  From the opening bell it was clear Montreal would not be duplicated. Leonard was light on his feet as he circled and darted. When Duran lunged, Leonard was gone. When Duran bulled Leonard to the ropes, he spun away. By the 3rd round a pattern emerged. As Duran chased, he repeatedly walked into stiff left jabs. When he occasionally caught up, Leonard was faster in the flurries. Duran managed a couple of flashes of energy, and eked out two close rounds on the scorecards, but he was not competitive.

  The 7th round produced a remarkable spectacle. So comfortable was Leonard that he began to mug and clown. As Duran plodded in pursuit, Leonard craned forward his face as if to say "hit me if you can." Leonard wiggled his shoulders, and spun his feet in a shuffle. When Duran managed to close the distance Leonard sharply out-punched him. Finally, Leonard wound up his right hand for a bolo punch, and as Duran lunged forward, snapped his left into Duran's face.

  In the eighth Leonard stopped clowning and resumed circular mov
ement. He darted, jabbed, and retreated. Duran's pace was slower yet. He managed one lunging attack, and his hair flew up as Leonard caught him on the way in. Leonard landed four or five solid blows in the third minute, and Duran's confusion increased.

  A half-minute remained when they exchanged, near Duran's corner, and Duran got the worst of it. As referee Octavio Meyran separated a clinch, Duran turned, walked toward his corner, and waved off Leonard.

  The bell had rung, spectators assumed.

  Leonard came up from behind and whipped a right into his unguarded stomach and a left into his left side.

  Meyran jumped in and instructed Duran to box. Leonard walked toward his own corner, arms upraised. Duran moved away from Meyran, turned a circle, and waved a glove at Leonard. It appeared he realized there had not been a bell.

  Now Meyran motioned for Duran and Leonard to resume fighting. Leonard came toward Duran with gloves cocked, but once again Duran waved him off. He spoke. Meyran leaned in to hear Duran's words.

  "No quiero pelear con el payaso."

  I do not want to fight with this clown.

  In broken English, Duran added, "I don't box anymore."

  Meyran asked him why.

  "No mas," Duran said. "No mas."

  No more.

  Meyran's right hand shot upward in a waving motion. Bout over! Leonard sprinted toward a neutral corner, leaped upon the bottom rope, and raised his arms toward the far reaches of the Superdome.

  Within seconds Duran's interpreter informed media that Duran had quit because of stomach cramps.

  Leonard pushed his way toward Duran, whose face already was shadowed with humiliation and regret. The two embraced, and Leonard slung an arm over Duran's shoulder, almost protectively. In the blink of an eye and the utterance of a phrase Duran had gone from champion to pariah, and Leonard from apprentice to master. Leonard had gamed Duran.

  Chapter 7

  1981: Hit Man

  Detroit Mayor Coleman Young took one look at Ring magazine's December 1980 cover and exploded. His profanity-laced tirade echoed throughout City Hall. "Get me Emanuel Steward," Young bellowed.

  Ring's cover featured none other than Thomas Hearns, the WBA's new welterweight champion and Detroit's most popular boxer since Joe Louis.

  Normally, a Ring cover of Hearns would have been welcomed at City Hall, which funded the amateur program that spawned him. But this wasn't a normal boxing spread.

  Hearns was posed in a dark pinstripe suit and fedora, and he held an M-16 semi-automatic rifle. The headline read: "Detroit's "Hit Man" Takes Aim at Duran and Leonard."

  The M-16 was a toy version purchased at a Manhattan department store, but that was not apparent to the naked eye. Hearns looked like he was armed and willing.

  Young, elected in 1973 as one of the first black mayors of a major city, had labored mightily to repair Detroit's gang-infested and crime-ridden image, and now its newest celebrity was nicknamed "Hit Man."

  Hearns' manager/trainer, Steward, was summoned to "discuss" the nickname. Steward often brought his top amateur fighters to meet Young and pose for photos. Young made his views clear to Steward, and overnight Hearns became the "Motor City Cobra." Or at least he tried to. But changing nicknames was like putting toothpaste back in the tube.

  Problem was, "Hit Man" fit Hearns as comfortably as the tailored suits he wore. He had become "Hit Man" after he scored a 3rd-round knockout in a 1979 bout at Los Angeles. Expected at a post-fight party, Hearns told the limo driver to drop him at his hotel. A disappointed party guest summed up Hearns' aloofness, "He came in, did his job like a hit man, and left."

  "Hit Man" tapped into his cold remorseless appearance - the flat expression and deep-set hooded eyes - but it missed his personality. Hearns had warmth usually hidden from public view. One Thanksgiving he visited a nursing home in New Orleans with Bob Arum's publicist Irving Rudd. He approached a startled 85-year-old resident and asked, "Can I have this dance with you?" Then he delicately twirled the delighted woman around the floor.

  In front of media, however, he glowered on cue, and dutifully projected an air of menace. That was Hearns' intention moments after the "No Mas" bout, when he arrived at the Superdome media room where the press interviewed Leonard. He threw a rubber chicken at Leonard, and shouted "Chicken Ray."

  He had reminded Leonard that they were both champions - supposedly equals. But it was an awkward stunt, and Leonard shrugged him off as if he were a pesky little brother.

  Leonard's haughtiness was nothing new to Hearns. Leonard, two-and-a-half years older, was already an amateur star when Hearns started to make his name at Detroit's Kronk Recreation Center. Though Leonard's home gym was at Palmer Park, he was an icon at the Kronk, his photos plastered on the walls, and his career charted with obsessive interest.

  "Ray was the first Kronk star," Steward recalled.

  Hearns beat a path to Kronk in 1973, as a 14-year-old, on a crosstown bus. Kronk was on Detroit's west side, while Hearns lived on the gang-ridden east side, with his eight siblings and mother Lois, who worked as a clerk and a beautician. Hearns, the oldest boy, lived in the attic of their three-story house on Helen Street and plastered his walls with Elvis Presley posters, a vestige of his mother's Memphis roots. His sisters called him "Junior."

  On Helen Street, Hearns excelled at the popular pastime of slap-boxing, and was in a gang called the Helen Hoods. Once, Hearns fell off a bike and broke his nose, incurring a sinus condition that would hamper his breathing and speech the rest of his life. But the injury did not stop him from slap-boxing or wanting to join the King Solomon boxing gym, which he did, at 10.

  Hearns eventually was drawn to the Kronk, as were many youths of broken homes and poverty, because of Steward. He too had come from a broken home and poverty, and had won a national Golden Gloves title in 1963. When Hearns walked in Steward quickly sized him up. Hearns was like many of his young aspirants, fatherless and needing adult male guidance. Hearns, in fact, had never known his father. His surname had been taken from his stepfather, who barely merited mention in accounts of his youth. Steward became his surrogate father at the center of a Spartan cult of ring rats.

  Kronk fighters engaged in fierce intramural battles and preferred sparring to bag and rope work. Fighters had to spar against larger fighters, often for longer than three minutes. If a fighter trained for a bout, Steward made him spar against a succession of fresh boxers, each instructed to go all out. Clinching was frowned upon as a mark of weakness.

  With the basement gym stoked to a steamy 95 degrees, the army-green walls and asbestos-wrapped ceiling pipes pressed upon the practice ring in a stark simulation of a tropical boot camp. Only the toughest survived.

  Steward gave Kronk fighters a technical approach typified by Hearns. They were taught to size up and adjust to an opponent - to box according to the situation. Combination punching and speed were requisites. A sturdy left jab was to stalk and set up a knockout punch.

  Along with technical instruction, Steward gave them bright red-and-gold jackets with Kronk lettering across the back. Kronk's colors were as known throughout amateur boxing as the gold-and-blue of Notre Dame in college football. Long after he had become a world champion, Hearns wore his Kronk jacket. To him it was an identity.

  Hearns won national Golden Gloves and AAU titles in 1977 and turned pro at 19. He was at his full height, 6-1, freakishly tall for a welterweight, with broad shoulders, a torso corded with hard muscle, taut waist, narrow hips, and flamingo-thin legs. His reach was 781/2 inches, compared to Leonard's 74 and Hagler's 75.

  His first pro bout was on the day after Thanksgiving, Nov. 25, 1977, at Detroit's old Olympia. Leonard, invited by Steward, was at ringside to see Hearns knock out Jerome Hill in two rounds.

  After the fight Steward drove Leonard and Hearns to a small barbecue joint where they were photographed as they savored the ribs. At that moment, "Never in a million years did I think those two guys would fight each other," Steward recalled.

  To
return the favor Hearns agreed to help Leonard prepare for his next fight. Hearns traveled to Palmer Park and sparred with Leonard for the first time. The session started slowly and gradually escalated until it became an all-out exchange. Hearns got the better of it and slammed Leonard's headgear off kilter. Steward and Jacobs jumped in to stop it.

  Nine months later Hearns was asked to help Leonard prepare for another bout. Jacobs opened his home to Hearns and welcomed him back to the gym. Once again Leonard and Hearns sparred, but this time they sniped at a distance, circled and darted. Later that evening Hearns phoned Steward.

  "I did good," Hearns reported.

  Jacobs told Steward that Hearns was "giving Ray the blues." Steward initially was surprised, and then - as if a light bulb went on - it dawned on him that Hearns and Leonard could well become opponents. He asked Jacobs to shut down their sparring and send Hearns back to Detroit.

  In little over a year Hearns fought 14 times - all knockout victories within four rounds. By August 1980 Hearns had a record of 28-0. On August 2, 1980, Hearns knocked out Pipino Cuevas in the 2nd round to become the new WBA welterweight champion.

  Not yet 22, Hearns bought himself a gold Cadillac and his mother a home in southwestern Detroit. He supported his 1-year-old son, Ronald, though he was too much of a ladies man to settle down. Still shy in a crowd, he felt increasingly comfortable at Las Vegas casinos, indulging a voracious appetite for gaming. He was meticulous about his body, abstained from liquor, drugs and pork, and maintained a rigorous conditioning regimen.

  But something was missing. Hearns had two nicknames, a championship belt, and relative obscurity. It mattered little what the mayor of Detroit called him. To fans and media he was "the other welterweight champion" and would remain so until he beat Leonard.