The Big Fight (34 page)

“You're an alcoholic,” Bern said. When she said it, she looked me in the eyes just as Juanita did, and I gave the same answer.

“No, I am not!” I protested.

Bern wasn't Juanita. She didn't let me live in denial. I agreed with her suggestion to see a therapist. Seeing one, I learned, was not the same as admitting a problem. That would take years.

 

 

 

I
n the spring of 1989, I went back to work. My opponent would be Tommy Hearns.

Eight years since our historic duel, we were headed to Caesars again and for more money than last time—a guaranteed $13 million for me, $11 million for Tommy. Were we, both in our thirties, the same fighters we had been in 1981? Of course not. But we were still two of the best in the world, with plenty to prove—me, that the poor performance against Lalonde was a fluke; Tommy, that he wasn't finished after his surprising loss to Iran Barkley, which was followed by a narrow decision over Kinchen. Our rematch, entitled “The War,” was scheduled for June 12.

I was sure that Tommy, eroded skills or not, would be the Tommy Hearns of old. From my experience after losing to Duran, I knew there was no greater incentive for a fighter than to avenge defeat. You are willing to put your body and mind through hell, if necessary. Too bad the rest of Team Leonard did not give Tommy the same respect. The others were certain he was shot, and it affected the effort they put forth at training camp in Palm Beach, Florida. It was similar to the mood before the first Duran fight, the boys concerned more with their own needs than with mine, but with only days left before the main event, it was too late to restore order. I couldn't rely on Juanita, or Janks Morton, who had left after Lalonde, to get everyone in line. The behavior of Roger and Kenny hurt the most. As my older brothers, it was their duty to look out for me. They didn't.

I never got into my zone and there were plenty of signs, none more revealing than what took place during the morning weigh-in. It had been reported that a nineteen-year-old girl was found shot to death at Tommy's house in Southfield, Michigan, and that his brother, Henry, twenty-two, was a suspect.

“Tommy, I'm sorry,” I said. “I hope everything will be okay.”

That was the worst thing I could have said. Not that I didn't feel sympathy for Tommy. I did. But expressing the slightest compassion to an opponent only hours before going into combat proved I wasn't ready. Can you imagine me approaching Tommy before our first bout, or Duran or Hagler, and letting my guard down like that? I could have had one of the boys relay the same message or sent a telegram.

Further evidence came as soon as the bell rang. My eyes were filled with fear instead of confidence. The plan was to attack Tommy with a steady diet of overhand rights, just as Kinchen did. In camp, I overpowered one sparring partner after another with the right. Yet, against Tommy, every overhand right I threw was off target. There was no snap in my jabs, and the left hooks felt like lead. I was in trouble. Pepe and Jake tried to get me back on track between rounds, but there was little that could be salvaged at this stage. Not even Angelo could have saved me. I'd have to find something that worked, and fast.

In round three, I went down, a hard right nailing me on the side of the head. I got up in a hurry and was alert enough, but I wasn't facing Kevin Howard or Donny Lalonde. When Tommy Hearns went for the kill, he got his man.

Fortunately, by maintaining my distance, I hung on until the bell and recovered by the start of round four. In the fifth, it was my turn to score as I landed a hard left hook to the chin. He was hurt. If Tommy was a shot fighter, as everybody claimed, here was my opportunity to put him away. I threw more combinations and trapped him near the ropes, but I punched myself out and he survived. My window was gone. Over the next four rounds, he got in his licks and I got in mine. The fight was clearly going the distance.

Or was it? In the eleventh, Tommy connected with three straight rights and a left that sent me to the canvas again, the first time I was knocked down twice in the same fight. I hung on once more, though with only one round to go, the task confronting me was obvious: Knock Tommy out or lose.

I tried with everything I had, controlling most of the action, but Tommy had learned a lot in eight years. He finally knew how to clinch, buying himself precious seconds till the bell rang. The only uncertainty left was the margin of defeat. I braced myself for the announcement.

The judges must have been watching a different fight. It was ruled a draw. What saved me was my aggressiveness in the final round. I was stunned. Unlike Hagler, Tommy had a right to feel robbed.

He didn't. That's because he accomplished something much more important than winning the fight. He redeemed himself. For the rest of his life, he would be able to say that on June 12, 1989, he held his own against me. That was enough.

As for me, the future was uncertain, although retirement was not an option no matter how many people might have urged me to quit. I was not going out like this. My showing had nothing to do with declining abilities. The problem was my attitude, and that could be fixed.

One way to do it was by agreeing to take on Duran next. I would have no trouble getting motivated for him. After what happened in New Orleans, I assumed the two of us would never meet again. But nine years had passed since that strange night, and Duran, now thirty-eight, had done a superb job of rehabilitating himself. He had won eight of his last nine bouts, including an upset over Iran Barkley in February, which earned him the WBC middleweight title. The bout was slated for December 7 in Las Vegas, but instead of Caesars, where I had fought the previous three times, the site would be an outdoor stadium adjacent to the Mirage, the new hotel owned by multimillionaire Steve Wynn.

In the fall, I set up camp in Hilton Head. As I did for the second Duran bout, I cut back on my entourage—only, this time, those affected included Roger and Kenny. The way they fooled around in Florida meant I could no longer trust them. Breaking the news to them was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I told Roger first.

“You are my brother and I love you,” I said, “but you cannot go with me to the next fight.”

Roger was crushed, though his spirits brightened considerably when he took a glance at the farewell check I handed him, for $100,000. That's a lot of chickens. His take per fight was typically in the $40,000 range. Kenny was wounded, too, but I wasn't about to change my mind. My career came first.

Also let go was Dave Jacobs. Having two voices in the corner in the last fight had been one too many. I put Pepe in charge and he made me work, in the gym and on the road, building my reflexes and stamina. I was thirty-three, not twenty-three. I could not rely on speed any longer.

Walking down the aisle on an extremely cold fight night, I was well aware that a third straight lackluster effort would result in more pleas for retirement. I wasn't ready to exit the stage quite yet.

I went out and proved it, capturing every round on at least two of the three cards, except for the twelfth, when the outcome was no longer in doubt. The rigorous training had paid off. I kept sliding out of range, forcing Duran to miss an astonishing 86 percent of his punches, although he connected often enough that I needed sixty stitches to close gashes in my left eyelid, right eyebrow, and upper lip. I was a mess. I was also a winner again.

M
y next fight wasn't in the ring. It was in a courthouse in Rockville, Maryland.

On November 2, 1990, Juanita and I appeared in court to determine the temporary alimony and child support payments, which she was seeking to increase. I usually had a good sense of how a judge was going to rule, being wrong only in the second Hearns fight, but this time I didn't have a clue.

Before we could find out, I received word that Juanita wanted a few minutes alone with me. My attorneys were opposed, as were hers, including the celebrated Marvin Mitchelson. We overruled them. The battle was between us, not our attorneys.

I met her in a conference room. She started to cry.

“Ray, I'm scared,” Juanita said.

“I'm scared, too,” I said.

“I don't know what to do,” she said.

Neither did I. But I had to do something.

“We've been together a long time,” I said, “and our kids don't need this. You and I can work this out without any more meetings with our attorneys. How much money do you want for the divorce to go through?”

“Twenty million,” Juanita said with no hesitation.

“No, Juanita, what do you
need
?” I asked.

We went back and forth for another minute or two before coming to an agreement.

A short time later, Juanita and I left the courthouse together, smiling and holding hands as the reporters and camera crews crowded around us. We'd soon no longer be husband and wife, but despite all the arguments, we loved each other and that would never change.

She got into her car. I got into mine. The following day, I flew to Los Angeles.

Bern was waiting for me.

W
hat else was waiting for me, I could not be sure. The smart thing to do was to leave the fight game for good. I had beaten them all—Benitez, Duran (twice), Hearns, Hagler—my position as one of the all-time greats secured forever. In addition, unlike too many of my colleagues, I was not showing any ill effects from the hits I had taken. The years I lost due to the detached retina, which I long thought of as a curse, were actually a blessing. After beating Bruce Finch in February 1982, I appeared in the ring only five times for the rest of the eighties, for a total of fifty-four rounds. If I had not suffered the eye injury, there is little doubt I would have fought twice as often, and the damage those extra blows might have caused is frightening to consider.

Naturally, I didn't do the smart thing. I rarely did.

Instead, in late November, I signed on to fight Terry Norris, the WBC super-welterweight champion. I was very excited. For the first time, I would be fighting in Madison Square Garden. I always felt I'd missed something by not competing in the Garden, where Dempsey and Louis and Marciano and Robinson and Ali had fought. At last, in the twilight of my career, I would get a chance.

As for my opponent, I wasn't too worried. Norris had definite strengths. At twenty-three, he was fearless, fast, and could attack with either hand. But taking on John Mugabi at the Sun Dome in Tampa, Florida, or Tony Montgomery at the Civic Auditorium in Santa Monica, California—they were two of his recent foes—would not be the same as a duel in the Garden against the conqueror of Duran, Hearns, and Hagler. The fight, for which I was guaranteed $4 million, was set for February 9.

In December, I began to work out across the street from the same Palmer Park gym where, twenty years before, I took up the sport. Of the three men who taught me back then, only Pepe was with me, determined that I train as diligently as I did in preparing for Duran. Keeping me on my toes was Michael Ward, nineteen, a welterweight from the D.C. area with a promising future. As the weeks went by, my body grew stronger. I had not been in this kind of shape since the Hagler fight. Poor Terry Norris would not know what hit him.

Neither would I. One day in camp, Ward dropped me with a shot to the chin. He also rocked me in the ribs. The fact that he got through my defenses was proof that my reflexes were not as sharp as I assumed.

The ribs were cracked, which meant I should have asked for an immediate postponement. I didn't. I'd required a postponement against Kevin Howard, and it disrupted my rhythm. I decided the Norris fight would take place on February 9 or not at all.

Donning a flak jacket similar to the type quarterbacks in the NFL wear, I kept training, the sparring partners instructed to avoid hitting me anywhere near the ribs. I put a sweatshirt on over the jacket to keep the press in the dark. If news of the injury leaked, the fight would be postponed for sure.

Cracked ribs or not, I figured to make short work of Norris. His day would come, just not in my era.

I was right—well, partially right. His day came sooner than I expected.

I knew it the moment I walked down the aisle, much like a frightened groom who does not want to go through with the wedding. I loved everything about fighting but fighting itself, and it is fair to suggest that, except for the Hagler bout, the passion had been mostly missing for a full decade, since I beat Hearns. Only, I was too stubborn to admit it. Instead, I kept coming back and would continue to until someone would help me see the light. That someone would be Terry Norris.

As I climbed into the ring, I was no longer in pain due to the shots I received in the dressing room. It's a shame there were no shots to alleviate the other pain I was feeling.