The Big Fight (19 page)

The eleventh served up some of the fiercest combat of my career, the two of us going at each other as if everything were at stake, and I suppose it was. Roger shouted from the corner, “You're the best in the world,” and I tried to prove it, hitting Duran with lefts and rights, but he stood his ground again. The slugfest continued during rounds twelve, thirteen, and fourteen, setting the stage for one last duel in the fifteenth.

Angelo gave me a pep talk in the corner. I don't remember what he said. I was too busy berating myself for how I fought the first fourteen rounds.

My desire was there. Unfortunately, my power was not. During the waning seconds of the bout, Duran smirked. He was convinced the fight was his. When the bell rang, I walked toward him to touch gloves. He would have no part of it. Instead, he shouted at me in one final act of defiance:

“Fuck you!” he said. “I show you.”

Needless to say, there was no postfight hug. Duran and I were anything but partners.

My fate was now in the hands of the three judges—Raymond Baldeyrou of France, Angelo Poletti of Italy, and England's Harry Gibbs.

Would they reward Duran for being the aggressor throughout the fight? Or would they abide by boxing's unwritten rule that the champ must be knocked out or decisively outpointed to be stripped of his crown, neither of which took place? Within seconds, the ring, as it always does, filled up with handlers and boxing officials as everyone awaited the verdict.

I feared the worst. I knew what I had done right and what I had done wrong and felt the aches and pains from head to toe to know what Duran had done, and it was a great deal. Yet I couldn't be certain of the outcome. Judges were human beings, with their own prejudices and flaws. They got it wrong many times.

I didn't have to wait long.

The first card announced belonged to Baldeyrou, who scored it 146–144 in favor of Duran.

Next up was Poletti, who scored it a draw. (The WBC claimed that an error in the addition changed his tally to a one-point edge for Duran.)

Only Gibbs was left.

Gibbs scored it 145–144 . . . in favor of Duran, the new welterweight champion of the world.

Duran and his corner went crazy, as well they should.

I slowly walked back to the dressing room, a loser for the first time as a professional. I got dressed and left the stadium in no time. The sooner I abandoned the scene of the crime, the better. The boys told me I fought a courageous fight, but I didn't want to hear a word. The best thing anyone could do at that moment was to be quiet.

At the hotel, a doctor came to my suite to draw blood from ruptured vessels in both ears. The pain was almost unbearable, the knots and contusions more grotesque than the injuries I sustained against Benitez. I was afraid that I'd have cauliflower ears for the rest of my life.

I flew home the next day. It was quite a contrast from the last time I left Montreal, with a medal around my neck and the world at my feet.

At National Airport in D.C., I was moved by the hundreds of fans who showed up to offer their support. Yet I couldn't wait to get home, away from any reminder of defeat.

Over the ensuing days in Maryland, I put my own emotions aside to console others. Juanita was devastated. So was Roger and the rest of my family. Before the loss to Duran, they saw only one side of the boxing business. Seeing the other terrified them. It was not until a few days later, alone in my room, that I could experience the full impact of Montreal and sort out what it might mean.

I felt a deep sense of loss, as if a part of me had been taken away for good. I was certain I would defeat every opponent until there was none left, and then retire for real, on top, undefeated like Marciano, invincible forever. As it turned out, I was not invincible.

Equally disappointing was finding out that, contrary to the image I constantly tried to convey to the press and public, I was not a model of composure who saved his best for the sport's grandest stages. The evidence was everywhere—from my juvenile responses to Duran's antics to my inability to manage my training camp to my flawed strategy in the ring. The Duran fight was bigger than the Benitez fight, much bigger, and I hadn't been ready for it.

I also needed to accept the simple fact that Roberto Duran, at least on that night, was the better man. He cut off the ring and used his expertise to outmuscle and outwit me. His heart was every bit as impressive as his hands.

I deserved credit as well. By standing my ground for fifteen rounds, I showed my critics a resilience, as Ali did against Frazier in 1971, that they didn't think was in me. I proved I could punch and take one, too. And, despite fighting Duran's fight, I came extremely close to winning. Once I got over the fog I was in during the first three or four rounds, I landed dozens of solid combinations to the head and body. If both Poletti and Gibbs had awarded me a single extra round, I would have been celebrating in Montreal, not Duran.

As the days went by, I stopped examining what went wrong and started to focus on the future:

Would I permit the defeat to weaken my confidence and perhaps define me forever? A lot of fighters were never the same after their first loss. They cashed their checks and conquered their opponents, but that intangible quality that separated them from the pack was missing.

Or would I use the defeat to spur me on to more glorious triumphs? If perfection was no longer possible, redemption was. Ali came back to defeat Frazier in their second and third duels.

The choice was mine.

J
uanita and I flew to Honolulu in July. I needed to recuperate from the disappointment in Montreal, and the same went for her. She felt the sting of losing perhaps as much as I did, and was hoping I'd retire. We had more money in the bank than we could ever spend—the total earnings from the Duran bout would exceed $10 million—and my faculties were still intact. She was afraid, and with good cause, that I might one day end up like many in my profession who hung around a year or two too long, the next payday too tempting to turn down. Better to leave a year or two too soon.

We stayed in a plush suite with a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean, and feasted on the finest food. Nothing was out of our price range. Roberto who?

There was no sparring in the gym. No watching reels of old fight films. And, most gratifying for her, no “dates” with any of the boys tagging along. For once, Juanita and I could act as two newlyweds in our early twenties. With Ray Jr. back in Maryland, we could enjoy a real honeymoon.

Gazing from our balcony at the most sparkling blue water I ever saw, I wondered:

Maybe Juanita was right. Maybe it was time to leave boxing. Our nest egg would not be worth a dime if I was limited, mentally or physically. And what kind of father would I be to little Ray as he grew up? There was so much I wanted to teach him. I was supposed to take care of him, not the other way around.

The money would not be anywhere near the same as I could make in the ring, but we'd survive. I could work as a boxing analyst on television, sitting in my tuxedo, hobnobbing with the network executives, watching others put their hides on the line. Come to think of it, that sounded pretty good. I'd done a few broadcasts for CBS since turning professional and got a kick out of it. I could tell the viewers how a boxer thinks and what he fears.

Another option was acting. Madison Avenue, which had shown no interest after the Olympics, now pictured me as the unique black pitchman who could appeal to whites and blacks of all classes. The paternity suit was long forgotten.

Beginning in the late 1970s, I appeared in a number of national television spots, none more popular than the campaign launched by 7UP, featuring the country's most successful young athletes, for which I was guaranteed $100,000. I fancied myself to be a fine actor, but Ray Jr. was, without a doubt, the star of the show. The spot, which lasted thirty seconds, started with us in matching white trunks hitting the speed bags, with the jingle “Feelin' 7UP” playing in the background. We shadowboxed in front of a mirror and took a long sip of the soft drink.

A few kids walked into the gym.

“Wow, is that the champ?” one asked.

“Naw, it's just my dad,” Ray Jr. answered, flashing the cutest smile in the world.

My future on the small screen, despite the loss to Duran, was filled with possibilities, and there was also the big screen. I wouldn't be the first athlete to make the transition to Hollywood.

 

 

 

O
n our second day in Hawaii, I went for what I assumed would be a leisurely jog on the beach. Just because I wasn't in training didn't mean I'd let my body fall apart. I never went more than a week without engaging in some manner of exercise. That's why my weight stayed between 145 and 155 and why I didn't need to go on any rigorous program after a fight was made. I ran again the next day, and the day after that. During each run, and along the strip of shops and restaurants in lively Waikiki Beach, I was greeted by tourists telling me that I deserved the decision against Duran, and that if I'd fought my fight, it would have been no contest. I thanked them for their kind words and hurried back to our suite to see Juanita and resume our long-overdue holiday.

One afternoon, on day five or six, I left Juanita on the beach for a few minutes and went upstairs to our suite. When I got there, the large mirror in the bathroom caught my attention. I approached it, taking in my reflection. Without thinking, I began to shadowbox, slowly at first. I watched my fists reach for their target. I watched my muscles tighten with each punch I threw. I watched my feet dance in circles. I sensed sweat across my brow, on my upper lip. Closing my eyes, I felt my hands go faster and faster. I opened my eyes. They were alive in a way they never were in Montreal. I was Sugar Ray. They wanted another crack at Duran. They wanted the crown that had been taken away. The aches and pains from the beating I absorbed were long gone. So were the beatings I gave myself, day after day, for fighting him toe-to-toe. I put an end to any thoughts of retirement and plotted a course for revenge.

“You might not like what I'm going to say,” I told Juanita that evening, “but you know that I want to fight Duran again, don't you?”

Of course, Juanita knew. She always knew. She knew
before
I knew. If I was deceiving myself by the jogs on the beach, I was not fooling her. The disappointment was all over her face, the tears forming before I could finish my sentence.

As usual, I was too self-absorbed to console her. My mind was already on Duran, not her. Nor did she try to talk me out of it. She'd been around me long enough to know there was nothing she or anyone else could do when I made up my mind. I was as stubborn as my mother.

The next person I told was Mike Trainer.

“Mike, I want to fight Duran again,” I said. “I can beat him. I'll fight my fight this time. He won't know what hit him.”

Mike did not get too excited. That wasn't his personality. He suggested I relax and enjoy my time off.

“Call me when you get home,” he said. “We can talk about it then.”

I called back several days later. Once I decided to seek a rematch, Juanita and I cut our trip short and flew to Maryland. The vacation was over.

What enticed me to commit every ounce of my being into a second fight with the dangerous Duran?

Money was one reason. Money always was, given my upbringing. I could never put enough away. I would also need to make more deposits in Ray the bank, as the pleas for a “loan” weren't about to go away. Everyone knew how much I made in the Duran fight. It didn't matter that I lost. Giving them handouts to cope with the latest emergency still beat a confrontation.

But money was not the overriding reason. If I never fought again, if my final appearance in the ring turned out to be my only loss as a professional, I would soon be forgotten, or, worse, ridiculed for walking away at the age of twenty-four. I'd never be able to live with myself.

Mike was fully on board with the idea of a rematch, as were Janks, Angelo, and the rest of my team. Why wouldn't they be? Another big fight meant another big check for everyone. There was only one valuable member who was opposed to a second Duran bout, and that was Dave Jacobs.

By this stage, Jake had become quite bitter. He felt overshadowed by Angelo and it was easy to see why. Angelo received more credit for my growth as a professional, and more money. His name appeared in every newspaper and magazine article about me while few reporters gave Jake the due he deserved. From the day I walked into the Palmer Park Recreation Center as a scrawny, shy kid with the silly John L. Sullivan pose until the Olympics six years later, nobody worked with me as diligently as Dave Jacobs did. Without his guidance and dedication, there would have been no gold medal and no pro career. I would have retired at the ripe old age of fourteen.

During the first few years after I turned pro, Jake didn't come to me with any concerns over money, or his reduced authority, though I had heard from others in the camp how he felt. I decided to say nothing about it, hoping that time, and the success of the whole team, would make him reflect on his good fortune. Most trainers spent a lifetime in hot, smelly gymnasiums without grooming a champion or earning any real money. If he learned to accept his role, Jake would make a bundle.

I was wrong.

While I empathized with his anger, he failed to grasp the big picture. Angelo raised my stature beyond any level Jake could ever help me attain. Jake was a good trainer, but he was a novice in the highstakes world of professional boxing, and with the clock ticking, as it does for every fighter, I could not afford for him to learn on the job. Mike Trainer was a novice, too, but he learned fast. Dave Jacobs was no Mike Trainer.