The Big Fight (33 page)

The night that finally ended our marriage fit the pattern perfectly: me wasted, her ranting. I demanded she hand over her wedding ring, which I then placed on my finger. As the argument grew more heated, I gave her a little shove, accidentally scraping Juanita on the forehead with the ring's large diamond. Blood trickled down the bridge of her nose. I was horrified. How could I have done this to the woman I loved? At the same time, she had pushed my buttons, but that's no excuse. I prefer to believe that was the alcoholic in me, not the real me.

Juanita did not panic. She calmly packed her bags, rounded up the boys, and loaded them into the car. I went outside to try to stop them. I didn't have a prayer.

“Leave my momma alone!” Jarrel, three, yelled. “I hate you. I hate you.” His words hurt worse than any punishment I ever absorbed in the ring. Ray Jr., fourteen, also defended his mother, his eyes filled with anger.

As I stood in the dark watching them drive to the front gate, I realized the sides had been drawn. It was no longer merely a fight between husband and wife. It was three against one. I never felt so alone in my life.

Juanita didn't come back after a few days this time. She never came back.

Ray Jr. did. At first, I figured he came back for me, to prove he was on my side after all, and to see if we could establish the closeness that had always been missing from our relationship.

Once again, I was deceiving myself. Ray came back because Potomac was his home, where his friends were and where he was a star running back in high school. Although we lived in the same house, Ray and I might as well have been living in different counties for the amount of time we spent together. While he was out with his buddies, I remained in the bedroom, as if I were the victim. I cried in bed every night, and didn't wake up till ten or eleven.

And there were women. There were always women. But the women meant less to me than before, and never stayed the night. I hated the house I used to love, its large rooms and hallways empty, depressing, a prison. Without Juanita around, I did not know whom to trust. No matter how often she and I fought, she was the only person I could count on and now I couldn't anymore. It was no coincidence that once she left for good, I began to entertain the notion of returning to the ring. Where else was I to go?

In August 1988, I made it official: I was coming out of retirement for the third time, which had to be a record. If there were those who thought I was breaking a promise and risking damage to my legacy—and I was guilty on both counts—I didn't mind. I missed the ring. I missed having a place to release my anger.

My opponent would be an unknown from Canada, Donny Lalonde. I liked Lalonde from the moment I met him in Mike Trainer's office. Goodlooking, with long blond hair, he seemed more like a surfer than a fighter. He held the World Boxing Council light-heavyweight title, though the fighters he beat were as anonymous as he was. At stake besides the belt would be the WBC's new super-middleweight crown at 168 pounds, meaning if I won, I'd become only the second boxer to capture world titles in five divisions, assuming that Tommy Hearns got past James Kinchen a few days before my fight. The money was irresistible: $12 million up front, with a chance for another $3 million. The bout was scheduled for November 7 at Caesars.

The only negative in returning was that I'd have to do it without Angelo. I don't recall the specifics, but I believe that Angelo was not pleased with his earnings from the Hagler fight, and refused to work for me again unless he received a formal contract. I felt bad about the break, but I trusted Mike and I was with two trainers—Jake and Janks—who had known me for almost twenty years. I appreciated Angelo's contributions, especially in the corner during the Hearns and Hagler bouts, but boxing was a business and he knew it as well as anyone.

I trained hard for Lalonde, realizing the key to winning was the same as it was against Hagler, forcing Lalonde to miss. The more he missed, the more he would doubt himself, and I'd be in command. He would also be intimidated by the atmosphere at Caesars, which he had never come close to experiencing. Still, I wasn't about to take Lalonde lightly. I made that mistake with Kevin Howard and found my ass on the canvas. Yet, once again, I had trouble getting motivated and snapped at members of my team more than usual. The difficulties in my personal life were clearly getting to me. Two weeks before the bout, I woke up in the middle of the night after a premonition—which I believe in—that I would be knocked down.

I tried to forget about it but I couldn't. As I stood in the corner on fight night awaiting the bell, I became convinced that the vision was about to come true. The only question was: Which round? The answer was the fourth, a Lalonde right on the side of my head doing the trick.

Once back on my feet, I was calm. I wasn't hurt and now I could get on with the business of winning the fight. I took a deep breath. After the first knockdown, too many fighters panic, which leads to a mistake and the next, and often conclusive, knockdown. The key is to slow down your heart rate and survive the round, which I did. Lalonde made it easier by rushing his punches. In the fifth, I measured him, scoring with shorter, crisper shots, and took over the match. There was nothing like a knockdown to get me out of a rut.

The end came in round nine. After he stung me with a right uppercut, I responded with my most fluid combinations of the night, a left hook to the jaw sending him to the deck. Lalonde got up in time, but another hook finished him off. I was not proud of my effort. At least I didn't retire, as I did minutes after the Howard bout. The next retirement, I told myself, had better be the last.

 

 

 

I
returned to Potomac, to drinking and crying at night, sleeping in late. I still loved Juanita, and wondered if there was any chance of winning her back. I saw more women, but the idea of another serious relationship was out of the question.

Then, out of nowhere, there she was and my life would never be the same.

I met Bernadette Robi at a Luther Vandross concert at the Los Angeles Sports Arena in April 1989. She was with saxophonist Kenny G and his girlfriend, Lyndie. I did not get a chance to talk to her much that night, but a day or two later, Kenny called. He asked me about my marital status. I told him I was legally separated. “Good, because my friend Bernadette was inquiring,” he said.

“Which one was Bernadette?” I said. “The girl with the curly hair?”

“That's the one,” he said.

I called the same night and her machine picked up. When we finally did speak, I felt as if I had known her for years. However, I was not ready. I was nowhere near ready. We made plans to get together on three different occasions, each one in a larger group setting. I stood her up every time.

Any other woman would have decided I wasn't worth the trouble, which was what her friends told her. Not Bern. She believed in us long before there was an us. The fourth time, when I promised I'd meet her for dinner with friends, including Kenny G and the actor Dudley Moore, in Venice Beach, she took charge.

“I am picking
you
up,” she said.

I was a bit taken aback, though intrigued. Women didn't pick me up. That's not how it worked. Yet we had a blast, and afterward, driving around Venice, I told her that every time we crossed a bridge, and there were quite a few, I would give her a kiss. With much reluctance, she let me get away with a few kisses.

Upon arriving at my hotel in Westwood, I invited her upstairs for a nightcap. We kissed and I squeezed her tightly. I got ready to take Bern to bed. That's what I did on first dates . . . on every date. That was not what Bern did. Her eyes were warm, but firm. There was no room for compromise.

“I have to leave,” she said.

I was in shock. Who exactly was this woman who was so different from the other girls? Didn't she know who I was?

The next morning, I called to tell her how much I enjoyed myself. From then on, we saw each other whenever I came to L.A., which was often. I started to have feelings for her that I had been sure I would never have again. More than her drop-dead looks, I fell for the beauty on the inside, the sweetness, sensitivity and intelligence that made me believe in the future.

Early on in our courtship, Bern and I were invited to an event at the home of a well-known Hollywood producer. I told the boys and they were fired up, as some of the hottest celebrities in town were bound to be there.

Bern set me straight.

“Ray, I really don't think you should bring them,” she said. “There will be people there who are more famous than you are and they won't have their security.”

Not bring the boys? Was she out of her mind?

I brought the boys everywhere. They were not just my security; they were my security blanket. I could walk in as Sugar Ray Leonard, the part I knew better than any other, charm everyone, and the evening would be a huge success. I wasn't quite sure how Ray Leonard would fare.

Three hours before departing, I made the decision: The boys would stay home. Bern was right. I didn't need them. I could be Ray, and everything would be just fine.

Thank goodness they didn't come. When the door opened at the producer's home, standing in front of us were Ronald and Nancy Reagan. I can't imagine how the boys would have handled themselves. I was in a cold sweat myself, and I was accustomed to meeting the top people in politics and show business. Bern and I hung out for hours and I didn't feel uncomfortable for one second.

Yet the months went by, and still we did not have sex. I was becoming a little edgy, but didn't pressure her. It wouldn't have done any good. I might have ruined everything.

One day I could tell from how intensely Bern kissed me in the car that this would be the night. I showered for a half hour, perhaps longer, sprayed on too much cologne, and had two or three drinks. I was as terrified as I was at sixteen when Juanita told me she did not come over to my house to watch TV. I now knew plenty about sex, but nothing about making love. All I can say is that it was worth the wait, and it was not the act itself as much as the connection we made during and after that was so meaningful. The clearest indication came the next morning. I had a plane to catch, but didn't want to leave her side. Normally, after sleeping with someone, I was out the door before dawn. After I left, I called her from the car, and again from the airport. I told Bern how happy I was, and that I loved her. The boys were speechless.

I opened up to her, and because I did, she saw the side of me that wasn't very attractive. Just because I was in love again did not mean I would stay away from alcohol and other women. Days would go by without a single phone call, and when I did call, I would be slurring my words, inventing the latest lie. But from the sound of my voice, she always knew, just as Juanita knew, the only difference being that Bern's forgiveness wasn't for sale. Once, after she could not reach me for several hours on her birthday, she was very upset when we finally connected. I arranged for a new BMW to be delivered to her house. She sent it back.

“Ray, this car means nothing to me,” Bern said. “What you're doing is damaging the relationship. Just imagine a bridge. You are chipping away at the foundation and the thing will collapse.”

I apologized. Of course, no sooner was one apology offered than I'd need to make another, and another. Getting rid of my old habits wasn't going to be easy. It was the world I knew from my life as a celebrity. It took years to construct.

Over time, I slowly got rid of the other women—except Juanita. No matter how close Bern and I became, I couldn't get Juanita out of my head. She was my first love and stood by me even as I tried to destroy us and myself. When I began to destroy the kids, that she could not tolerate.

In the late fall of 1989, I had to find out once and for all.

“I'm going to see Juanita,” I told Bern.

I feared Bern might end it and I wouldn't blame her. She surprised me again.

“Do what is best for your family,” she said. “You owe it to them.”

A few days later in Maryland, I made love to Juanita for the first time in well over a year, but there was something wrong, and I didn't know what it was until she issued an ultimatum the following morning while we were still in bed.

“Ray, I'm willing to get back together, but you have to get rid of Bernadette,” Juanita said. “I can't share you with another woman again.”

I didn't speak for a few minutes. I was confused. Yet as I thought about it, I saw my situation more clearly than I had in the longest time. The woman I wanted to be with was not next to me in bed. She was three thousand miles away, in California, and I could not be with her soon enough.

“I can't get rid of Bernadette,” I told Juanita. “I just can't do that.”

I couldn't believe what I said. I had told her the truth. I never told her the truth.

Now, for a change, I was the one walking away, and any chance of reconciling was gone forever.

The next day, I was on a plane to Los Angeles.

Getting rid of alcohol was an entirely different matter. Bern was very patient with me, but there were times when the disease threatened to do what Juanita could not—break us up.

Each morning after I woke up, there was only one way to tell how I behaved the night before. If Bern spoke to me, I knew I had survived another night. If she was in tears, I knew I had messed up. I messed up a lot.

I doubt we would have survived if not for the consoling talks Bern had with her mom, Martha. They'd dealt with the situation before, with Bern's father, Paul Robi, an original member of the Platters, the vocal group from the fifties, who also had a drinking problem.