The Big Fight (21 page)

In mid-November, I flew to Louisiana. I was fit, physically and mentally, although there were still moments of concern.

What if a smaller entourage and smarter strategy did not lead to a victory on November 25? What if the truth was that Duran was better than me? What would happen then? I shared these thoughts with no one. I couldn't afford for them to get back to anybody in Duran's camp. Still, the doubts were there. They always were. Which may be why I violated one of my most cherished rules about a week before the fight. I told Juanita, who was staying in a separate room, that I wanted to make love.

“We can't do that, Ray,” she pleaded. “You'll need all your strength for Duran. We never have sex this close to a fight. You know that.”

“Of course, I know,” I protested, “but it has been many weeks since we were together.”

We went back and forth for a few more minutes before she gave in. That night remains the only time before a big fight that I ever had sex within days of the opening bell.

In New Orleans, members of my team did not bump into Duran and his people as often as we did in Montreal, but nobody was complaining. Whenever we did run into him, he was the same madman as before. It was as if the 7UP commercial had never taken place.

There was one major difference: I was not rattled. I was ready.

 

 

 

F
inally, November 25 was here. I woke up feeling the exact opposite of how I felt on that dreary day in Montreal. My biorhythms were in perfect order. I could not wait for showtime.

The next encouraging sign came at the morning weigh-in when I tipped the scales at 146 pounds on the nose. For the first fight, I weighed about a pound less and felt thin. Fans may wonder: What is the big deal about a pound or two? It can be a huge deal. The extra muscle tissue, in the upper body especially, would provide me with the armor I would need to absorb his attacks, not to mention the boost in confidence.

Nothing, though, lifted my spirits as much as the rendition of “America the Beautiful” before the fight. Normally, I don't pay attention during the national anthem or any other prefight rituals. I'm completely in the zone and have no desire to come out. This was an exception. It was the first and only time I met Ray Charles, my namesake.

How his appearance was kept a secret from me, and who invited him, I have no idea. All I recall are the chills that came over my entire body as Mr. Charles, in a blue shirt and blue blazer and wearing his familiar sunglasses, sang with remarkable passion, as if any word might be his last. I bounced up and down and could not stop smiling. I stole a glance at Duran, who was not moved one bit. He seemed removed, as I had been in Montreal, perhaps wishing he were somewhere else. The scowl was gone. For once, he did not look like Charles Manson.

You are now in America!
I thought to myself. This was Team USA vs. Panama.

After Mr. Charles belted his final notes and the spectators gave him a rousing ovation, he slowly walked over to me. We embraced. I leaned my head toward his shoulder. He kissed me on the back of the neck.

“I love you, son,” he said.

“I love you, too,” I told him.

He had one more thing to say:

“Kick his ass!”

I knew right then Duran was mine.

I went to my corner and got serious. Everything about me that night was serious. I wore black trunks and black shoes and black socks. The gold lettering on my robe, which was also black, spelled out “Leonard,” nothing else. I would have put on black gloves if they had let me.

It was not the time for any more showbiz. There was a title to win back.

“How do I look?” I had asked Mike in the dressing room before the fight. I knew he would tell it to me straight.

“You look like a mix of the Grim Reaper and an assassin,” he said.

Exactly.

 

 

 

A
lmost immediately, Duran knew, Cosell knew, and the thousands of fans in the Superdome and the millions tuning in on closed-circuit knew: I was not the same man I was in Montreal. I wasn't standing still. I was dancing and jabbing, and Duran did not seem energized by every blow he absorbed. It was my turn to get inside
his
head. Aggressive as usual, he got me toward the ropes, but I spun away and connected with a hard right, and landed a solid combination before the bell. Round two offered more of the same. The strong start ensured I wouldn't have to claw from behind as I did the first time.

“He's gone,” I said in the corner after the second round. “Duran is gone.”

My only concern was a sagging spot I discovered near the middle of the canvas, where either Duran or I might easily lose our balance at any moment and leave ourselves wide open. It was too late to do anything except be very careful.

During the next three rounds Duran scored well, but there was no cause for alarm. My initial strategy was to maintain a safe distance, although as the bout wore on, I realized I could penetrate his defenses and pull back without risking significant damage. He, too, was not the same man from five months before. When he went after me in the midsection, I countered with uppercuts. I also noticed something I had never seen in my prior twenty-eight fights. Duran was staring at my feet, trying to time my rhythm.

Nonetheless, as the bell sounded for round seven, Duran was not close to being seriously hurt. The fight was up for grabs. I assumed I was ahead, but not by nearly enough, and there were nine rounds to go! One good poke, and the fight could turn in his direction. He was still Roberto Duran.

I then recalled the words of the renowned psychologist Dr. Roger Leonard:

“Ray, you got to
embarrass
Duran.”

What did I have to lose? If it didn't work, I'd know soon enough.

In the seventh, I dropped my hands to the side and stuck my chin out, inviting Duran to hit me. I didn't choreograph any of these moves in advance, but after I could see his frustration, I kept improvising. I did the Ali shuffle. I was performing more than I was punching.

Midway through the round, I wound up my right arm several times as if I were about to throw the bolo punch I played around with during camp. I faked Duran out, firing a straight left jab instead.

The jab did not hurt him. But the reaction to the jab did. It hurt him badly.

The fans were laughing. Duran could take punishment, perhaps more than anyone in my era, or any era. What he could not take was being made to look like a fool. That went against the manly Latin American image he spent a lifetime building.

Still, it was only one more round in the books, and I knew he would be out for blood in the eighth. No more showboating, I told myself. The judges would not think too kindly of me if these theatrics went on for long, and the fight was too tight to throw away a single point.

Angelo didn't approve of my strategy, either.

“You don't need to do that,” he said. “You're about to be the welterweight champion of the world.”

I looked over at Duran's corner. His eyes were vacant. He seemed more out of it than he was before the fight.

In the eighth, I continued to have my way with Duran. Then, with about thirty seconds remaining in the round, it happened.

Duran threw his arm up and walked slowly toward his corner. Thinking it was simply another trick, I punched him in the belly. He flinched and motioned to indicate that he was done for the night. With sixteen seconds to go, the ref, Octavio Meyran, made it official: The fight was over.

From that moment on, the evening of November 25, 1980, in New Orleans, Louisiana, ceased to be about me and regaining my title. I took on a supporting role in a more complicated drama, in which an icon to an entire continent became, in one sudden, unfortunate act, an object of derision for the rest of his life. Forgotten were the victories, the devastating knockdowns, the hands of stone.

It wasn't losing the fight. Great fighters lose fights all the time. It was
how
Duran lost.

He quit, and that is the one thing you simply cannot do as a fighter. You can be lazy. You can be overweight. You can be dirty. You can fight past your prime. But you cannot give up. You can never give up.

Of all the people in the fight game, Roberto Duran was the last one you could imagine walking away. He fought with more courage than ten men combined and pain never seemed to bother him. If anything, pain made him fight harder.

Yet there he was, not bloodied, not battered, surrendering his title, and dignity, in front of the world. And while there is some question as to whether Duran ever actually uttered the famous words
“no más,”
the point was the same. He quit.

I felt sorry for him. I really did. For months, since he'd insulted me at the Waldorf, I'd wanted to hurt him. But once the second fight was over, I could hate him no more.

Moments later, we hugged. Yes, hugged, Duran and I, the enemy a partner at last.

I was asked by the press afterward, and on countless occasions in the three decades since, why Duran gave up. The fact is that I was as surprised as anyone, and my only explanation is the same one offered by the writers at ringside, that Duran felt humiliated by my antics and did not pause to consider the consequences. I certainly never bought his explanation, that he suffered from stomach cramps resulting from the three steaks he ate in the hours leading up to the bout. Before our third fight, in December 1989, Duran, if I'm not mistaken, promised he would tell the real story behind
no más
, win or lose. After I won by decision, he didn't, of course, and that's because there was no other story. There never will be.

There were some who claimed the fight in New Orleans was a fix, that Duran lost on purpose to set up a rubber match. Nothing could be further from the truth. Any chance for a third bout in the near future was eliminated the instant Duran walked to his corner, and it was a shame because I could have earned another $10 million, at least.

What disturbs me much more is the lack of respect I received for regaining the title. I was given more credit for losing courageously in Montreal than for winning cleverly in New Orleans. It was almost as if I hadn't been in the same ring with Duran. Yet I set the tone of the fight just as he set the tone the first time.

Was there a part of me that wanted to see Duran on the deck, writhing in total agony? You bet there was, but what I did was much more satisfying than putting him away.

For me, another image that stands out from that night is not something I saw in the ring. It is what I saw in the van about to transport Duran and his entourage back to their hotel while I went to meet with the press. It was chilling. Duran sat in the passenger seat. I waved, and he waved back, but he was a million miles away.

What was he thinking? Did he grasp the significance of what he had just done? Did he realize he would never be seen the same way again? In an instant, the van was gone.

The word was that Duran partied well into the night in New Orleans. That might be the case, but knowing the soul of a prizefighter as I do, there isn't enough alcohol or women on the planet to take away the pain of losing, especially the way he lost. To this day, I still agonize over each of my three defeats, and I never surrendered like Duran. I can't imagine how much
no más
must continue to haunt him.

 

 

 

M
y dealings with Duran between New Orleans and our third fight were limited, although there are two brief exchanges I will never forget.

The first would come on November 10, 1983, at Caesars. Retired at the time, due to the detached retina, I was on the HBO broadcast team covering the Duran-Hagler bout, which Hagler won in a narrow fifteenround decision. After the fight ended, Duran walked over to me at ringside, and reached between the ropes.

“You box him, you beat him,” he said.

For Duran to offer any advice to his most despised rival, the man responsible for causing him a lifetime of shame, blew me away. I would have expected him to root for Hagler over me every time.

The other memorable comment would come in 1989 when the third fight was announced at a hotel in Las Vegas. I had not spoken to Duran since the night he fought Hagler. While we were waiting backstage to meet with the reporters, Duran gave me a warm embrace.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said. “Thank you.”

I was shocked again. The Duran I knew from our battles in 1980 would not have said thank you if I had saved him from drowning. It turned out I
was
saving him. He was having severe financial problems.

His eyes were no longer filled with hatred. They were sad.

T
he plane ride from New Orleans to Washington was similar to the trip in the van after winning the gold medal. I could not wait to get home to be with my family and closest friends. The only blemish on my record was avenged, seen for what it really was, an aberration, an off night in a magnificient career, with more heroic conquests to come. I vanquished the great Duran. I was the champ again, not the “former” champ.

When I stopped celebrating, I settled back into the life—rather, the two separate lives—I lived before the fight.

At home, once I took my cape off, I was Ray, a father and a husband, my priorities in the right order. I was the same innocent kid from Palmer Park, except with money and fame. Time came to a halt. I was in no rush to go anywhere or do anything.

Away from home, Sugar Ray took over, as always. Wherever I went, whether in public appearances or intimate gatherings, Sugar Ray was the main event. He never shared top billing with anybody. He would not stand for it. In looking back, I could do what I did for many years, and that is to blame my boys for putting me on a pedestal. The truth is that I was the one to blame. I wanted to hear how special I was all the time and that's why I surrounded myself with the people I knew would tell me just that. Between fights, with no spectators to cheer me on, and no reporters to write flattering columns, the boys were where I went for applause, for validation. They never let me down.