The Big Fight (20 page)

After the Benitez fight, Jake approached me with his complaints. We agreed to give Jake enough to keep him around though it seemed just a matter of time before his discontent would resurface.

I went to see him shortly after I got back from Hawaii. Once we met in person, I figured, he would not be able to resist the chance for payback against Duran, whom he disliked nearly as much as I did. He knew what I did wrong in Montreal and would make sure it didn't happen again.

Our meeting did not go well.

“The system will not let you win,” Jake insisted.

By the “system,” I presumed he was referring to the boxing establishment, which did not approve of the way Mike Trainer did business, by shutting out the middlemen who were normally given a healthy percentage of the profits for doing, in many cases, absolutely nothing. In Jake's opinion, that was why I had been denied the victory the first time and why the result would be the same if the second fight also went the distance. I could see his point, but I did not go to his house to engage in a long debate over the amount of corruption in professional boxing.

“I don't give a shit about the system, Jake,” I said. “All I care about is that I know I can beat Duran and I want you to help me.”

“Son, you beat him the first time,” he pleaded, “and they still didn't give you the decision.”

Jake started to cry but the tears didn't make him any less adamant. He would not be a party to a rematch with Duran—not without a tune-up or two, and that was not going to happen.

I got up and walked toward the door.

“Jake, I'm going to win this fight with or without you,” I said. I drove away, saddened at losing the support of a man who had meant so much to me.

Once Jake was off the team, I didn't look back. I only looked forward, to Duran. When asked by the reporters about Jake's departure, I was quoted as saying there was, thankfully, “one less check” to write. Sounds very insensitive, doesn't it? That's because I was furious, and when I set out to hurt someone's feelings, I can attack with words as mightily as I can with punches, and I rarely miss my target.

To this day, I am convinced the system had nothing to do with Jake's decision to bolt. He was seething, understandably, over his lack of authority. He had been demoted to third string behind Angelo
and
Janks, and this was his way to prove he didn't need me. I brought him back for the Hagler fight in 1987 and several others, but our relationship was never the same after the breakup.

T
he task for Mike Trainer was to get a deal done with Duran's people as fast as possible. The rush was not due to any impatience on our part, although I was getting a little sick of being introduced as the
former
welterweight champion of the world. I still don't like hearing that word today when I give motivational speeches around the country. I prefer to be called, simply, the champ.

Contrary to what fans might have assumed, once I dealt with the initial disappointment of losing to Duran, I wasn't in a constant state of despair. The urgency stemmed from the belief that the sooner we fought him, the better our chances of winning. Returning to Panama after the fight, Duran was greeted as a greater hero than ever. I was invited to attend the celebration but declined. I was not about to watch Roberto Duran show off the championship belt,
my
belt, as thousands of his countrymen cheered. For him the party never ended and that was a problem. In no time, Duran, who gained a lot of weight between fights, was at 180 pounds and climbing. If he were a stock, I would have purchased a thousand shares. Losing the necessary fat to slim down to the 147-pound welterweight limit would clearly affect his stamina.

Mike's job was tougher than it was the first time. The leverage we enjoyed as the champ during the negotiations for the duel in Montreal firmly belonged to Duran's promoter, Don King, and you could bet King was not going to waste it. The man never left a dime on the bargaining table.

But Mike was no pushover, either. He used his power—I was still the bigger draw in the all-important area of closed-circuit TV—to secure for me a guaranteed $7 million, only $1 million less than Duran's purse. Better yet, the match was to be staged at the Superdome in New Orleans on November 25, just five months after our meeting in Montreal. Rematches between the top fighters have been known to take much longer to arrange. In the late twenties, for example, a full year passed between the two Jack Dempsey vs. Gene Tunney fights. Whoever wins the original bout might squeeze in an extra payday or two against unranked opponents who pose no viable threat. The public might not approve but it's a privilege the champ has earned and a reason why winning the first time is critical. You call the shots.

First things first. Before Duran and I met in the ring, we met, of all places, on a set to tape a commercial for 7UP.

I thought it was the most ridiculous idea ever when Mike informed me of the company's suggestion. Duran and I in the same spot, with no one around to keep us from killing each other? The animosity between us was not contrived. It was real and it wasn't going away anytime soon. And with 7UP's representatives asking for Ray Jr. to appear in the commercial again, I was not about to tolerate Duran making obscene gestures in front of my six-year-old. He insulted my wife whenever he saw her. Why would I expect him to be any less vulgar toward my son?

The money was good, so I went along, although I issued a strong warning to Mike.

“If Duran does anything crazy at all,” I said, “we will be out of there so fast, you won't believe it.”

There was nothing to worry about. Duran, who looked as if he hadn't missed too many meals, could not have been more professional and polite during the entire shoot. He treated Ray Jr. as if he were his own son, who also appeared in the commercial. The boys got along superbly.

I was confused:
Who
was the wild man I saw in Montreal? Was it an act? Was I now seeing the real Duran?

A
s I worked out and dissected footage of the first fight, my conclusions came swiftly, and decisively: I'd better make dramatic changes or history would repeat itself in New Orleans. More would be on the line than at any point in my career. A second loss to Duran might shatter my self-esteem, and box office appeal. Juanita wouldn't have to
ask
me to retire.

For starters, I could not afford to be overwhelmed again by the spectacle. By the time my attention was where it should've been in Montreal, on Duran, it was too late. He'd already seized control of the fight with his aggression in the first few rounds. In the minds of the judges, I was constantly on the defensive, and that was no way to retain my crown. No matter how effective I might be in countering his vicious attacks, and connecting with my own, for the duration of the fight, the initial impression was almost impossible to override.

Another change I set out to make was to do what Ronald Reagan promised the American people he would do to the federal government if he was elected president in November—trim the fat from my bloated entourage. No longer would I give in to the pleas of my brothers for their homeys to be part of camp in Maryland and hit the road with us for the final weeks, especially with the fight being staged in the Big Easy. The boys would have held a Mardi Gras celebration of their own, and guess who would have paid the bill.

To be fair, I could have said no to any one of them at any moment, but I didn't, and the reason was because surrounding myself with as many people as possible fed an already oversized ego. I believed the clippings about my invincibility and wanted everybody to share in the glory of my next, most impressive conquest. If I could have afforded it, I would have put the entire population of Palmer Park on a caravan of buses to Canada. As I prepared for New Orleans, humbled at last, it was important to remember the most recent clippings, which weren't nearly as flattering—DURAN BEATS LEONARD! I cut my entourage from several dozen to roughly half that size, leaving behind, as they say in government, any nonessential personnel. The Gipper would have been pleased.

A more disciplined mental approach and leaner team weren't sufficient. The most pivotal changes needed to take place
inside
the ropes. In Montreal, I proved to the critics that I would not back off for an instant. There was no reason to prove it again. I was desperate for a real victory, not a moral one.

I would fight my fight, not Duran's. That didn't mean I would run in circles for the entire night to stay out of his reach. That's not how the challenger seizes the crown from the champion. It meant I'd maneuver from side to side and not back up in a straight line. The objective was to keep the action toward the center of the canvas, which I did not do often enough the first time, and if I did catch myself on the ropes, I'd spin off.

I also worked on refining my uppercuts. The way Duran went after me at close range, he left himself exposed to that particular weapon. I was glad to find out that the ring at the Superdome—21 feet by 21 feet—would be larger than the one in Olympic Stadium. The more room, the easier I could operate on the perimeter. I sparred fewer rounds per workout than I had in the past, and took a day off here and there. There was no point in peaking too soon and burning out.

Another critical adjustment was to be ready for Duran's dirty tactics, which was why sparring partners proficient in mauling were brought to camp. Leading the group was Dale Staley, the James Dean look-alike I beat as an amateur in the early 1970s. Staley was proud of his reputation, referring to himself as “the American Assassin.” He was disqualified
twice
for biting his opponent. Although I didn't necessarily agree with his style of combat, with my career in the balance, I was not about to seize the moral high ground. I would have put Andre the Giant on the payroll if he could help me neutralize Duran. Staley, who idolized Duran, got the best of me for a while, but once I figured out his unorthodox moves, I slapped him around, fighting dirty for probably the first time. I must admit it felt quite satisfying to take him down at his own game.

Several days before the rematch, Mike Trainer, believing I needed more instruction in spinning off the ropes, suggested that Angelo and Janks conduct a closed workout with me. No one respected Mike's intelligence more than I did. Yet my first thought was: What does a white attorney from Bethesda know about prizefighting? Plenty, it turned out. He knew a great deal about psychology as well, selling the whole idea to Angelo by making it appear to be a publicity stunt. Mike knew Angelo wouldn't be able to resist the extra attention once we told the press they couldn't attend, and he was right. Then, as long as we were in the ring, Mike asked him to show me a few techniques. The key was to make the initial move the moment I sensed the bottom strand of the ropes brushing against my calf. I also worked on pushing Duran off me whenever he tried to use his head as a weapon.

There was one more significant change in my approach to the rematch and it didn't come from Angelo or Janks or Mike. The source was Roger.

“Ray, you got to embarrass Duran,” he told me. “When you do, he will lose trust in himself and you will have him. Duran has to always be the macho man. Make fun of him, and he will not know how to handle it.”

I didn't pay much attention to his suggestion. I loved Roger but he was a drug addict who threw away a promising career. Make fun of Duran? The man was a killer. The fact that Roger suggested the idea proved he was almost as crazy as Duran. Yet over the next few days, I saw my brother try out a series of unusual moves in the ring, including the bolo punch first made famous decades earlier by welterweight champion Kid Gavilan. Before too long, I found myself experimenting with similar playful gestures. Roger had clearly gotten inside my head. I was not sure that was a good thing.