The Big Fight (7 page)

I began to wonder whether the fury I sometimes displayed in the ring, which was most uncharacteristic of my true nature, might be traced to these incidents as much as the fighting between my parents.

I do not know. I am not a psychologist.

I do know that I was in a lot of pain as I chased my dream of winning the gold.

Yet chase it I did.

B
eating Bobby Magruder and the other top fighters in the hotly competitive D.C. region was not easy. Beating the Russians and the Poles and the Cubans would be even tougher.

I would first have to deal with the throbbing pain in my hands, which started around 1973 and became worse as the months dragged on. Every time I fought, especially the long, rigorous sparring sessions, the pain, caused by calcium deposits around my knuckles, was awful, and it sometimes took me hours to fall asleep. I felt as if someone had shot me with a jolt of electricity. My trainers and I tried every possible remedy, from rubbing alcohol to Epsom salts to Ben-Gay. Nothing solved the problem. I realized the pain would be a regular companion throughout my quest for the gold, and if I wasn't prepared to accept this reality, I might as well give up before wasting more time and money. While that thought did occur to me, as it does to every boxer, I never came close to quitting. It is remarkable what one is willing to tolerate if the goal means that much.

The one remedy that did have a positive effect was winning. My hands did not seem to hurt quite as badly after I knocked someone out or earned a decision. Even when I did lose, my confidence continued to soar. Such as the time I took on Anatoli Kamnev, a talented Russian fighter, in Moscow. Not surprisingly, just as in Cincinnati, I was robbed by the judges, who awarded the decision to one of their own. To his credit, Kamnev promptly walked across the ring and handed me the trophy. In another unforgettable fight, I sent Poland's Kazimier Szczerba to the canvas three times during the final round, the last one a certain knockout. But the referee decided the punch came after the bell, which it didn't, and awarded the victory to Szczerba. I don't think he enjoyed it too much, however, as he needed to be propped up to take part in the postfight ceremony. And I thought figure skating was rigged.

Going abroad to take on fighters from other countries was the ideal preparation for the Olympics, and for my personal development. I knew very little about the world outside Palmer Park, Maryland, and without boxing, I probably would have remained sheltered forever. One day, walking by myself in Rome, I came upon a girl no older than eight or nine who stared at me for the longest time. She took off, but then returned with a handful of other kids, each with the same puzzled expression. What was wrong with me? I wondered. Had they never seen a black person before? As a matter of fact, I believe they had not, and soon there were a few dozen gathered in a circle around me. I felt like I was on exhibit at the zoo. They weren't bashful, either, touching my hair and my skin. It occurred to them that while I was different, I was a human being just like them. No one spoke to me, but I felt their love.

Going abroad was not always an enjoyable experience. In Moscow, the food was terrible. I wouldn't eat much of anything but ice cream. It became obvious that the Russians were also staring because I was black. Only, I did not feel their love. Being away from home for several weeks, the longest stretch of my life, the loneliness got to me like never before. I became depressed, asking my roommate to kneel down and pray with me on the floor by my bed, and I was not the religious type. About a year later, when I was out of town preparing for the 1975 Pan American Games in Mexico City, I called Dave Jacobs to tell him I could no longer take the isolation and wanted to come home. He talked me out of it. He said I'd come too far and was too close to winning the gold in Mexico. He was right. The victory at the Pan Am Games gave me a profound boost of confidence heading into 1976, and it wouldn't have happened without Jake's persistence. I got through a lot of lonely nights with the love letters I received from Juanita. I wrote her whenever I left the United States for a long period, and could not wait to hear back.

It was around this time when a new member joined my team—well, not officially, as his checks were signed by ABC Sports, but it sure felt as if Howard Cosell were on my side.

With Muhammad Ali approaching the end of his brilliant career, Howard was searching for his next sidekick. In me, he saw someone who could not only win his fights but also appeal to the nonboxing fans, which meant good ratings and advertising dollars for ABC. Howard covered a few of my amateur fights, setting the stage for the Games in Montreal. He and I never established the magical rapport he enjoyed with Ali, but I can't imagine how my career would have progressed without him, and where I would be today. With Howard as the announcer, ABC carried each of my fights in the Olympics, and perhaps more significant were the interviews, bringing out the best of my personality to fans all over America. I was careful, however, not to let the inevitable comparisons to Ali get to my head. The attention would vanish as fast as it emerged if I didn't perform where it mattered most, between the ropes.

I could never be Ali outside the ropes. Nobody could. As unpredictable as he was in public, that was nothing compared to the Ali I observed in private. I got to see that side of him during our first meeting in early 1976, when I was invited by the Touchdown Club in D.C. to present him with an award. I was never as self-conscious of my poor upbringing. When I pulled up in a little blue Chevy Nova and saw a parking lot filled with one limousine after another, I made a U-turn and parked on the street a few blocks away.

At the dinner table, Ali sat on my left. Leave it to him to ease any tension.

“How long do you stop having pussy before a fight?” he said, with the same delivery as if he were asking me to pass the mashed potatoes.

I almost choked on my food.

“About two days,” I answered, once I composed myself.

“Two days?” he said without looking up. “You a baaaaad nigger.”

 

 

 

I
n the late spring of '76, I went back to Cincinnati for the Olympic Trials. As Sarge Johnson had predicted, the lessons I learned four years earlier made me a much better fighter. In my first qualifying match, I won a decision vs. Ronnie Shields. Next up was Sam Bonds, a tall, skinny southpaw. It did not take me long to figure him out. I hit him with a jab to the body, another jab, and a right. It was over in forty-two seconds.

In the final, I squared off against Bruce Curry, the Golden Gloves state champion from Texas.

Getting by Curry was far from automatic. He was an outstanding boxer, a future junior welterweight champ, but that wasn't my major problem. It was my right hand, which hurt terribly, forcing me to throw one left after another, and he knew it. He became more aggressive in round two. Unless I showed Curry a different look, he might take control of the fight. I couldn't let that happen. Late in the second, I landed a combination. The pain was intense but I had no choice. In the third, I scored repeatedly with my left, again sparing the right as much as possible. The decision was mine.

Shortly afterward, Curry and I met again at the team's training camp in Vermont for what was known as a
box off
. If he were to prevail, we'd face each other in a third, and final, match with an Olympic berth in the light welterweight division on the line. Fortunately, it didn't come to that, as I beat Curry once more. I was going to Montreal. I owed an extraordinary amount to Dave Jacobs, Pepe Correa, and Janks Morton for getting me this far. They never stopped believing in me, and their faith was paying off. Now it would be up to U.S. Olympic boxing coaches Pat Nappi and Sarge Johnson to help me win the gold.

As the Games approached, the pressure was intense, and not just on me. In 1972, only one American boxer, light welterweight Sugar Ray Seales, captured the gold medal in Munich. We could live with the fact that other countries poured millions into their amateur programs, but we were the United States of America, producing such outstanding Olympic champions as Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, and George Foreman, in 1960, 1964, and 1968, respectively. Winning only one gold was something we could not live with.

There were plenty of reasons to believe we wouldn't suffer a similar fate in Montreal. In addition to me, the squad included the two Spinks brothers, Michael (middleweight) and Leon (light heavyweight), Howard Davis (lightweight), and Leo Randolph (flyweight). Another positive was the experience we had gained in taking on the best boxers from other nations, often on unfriendly soil. We were familiar with their styles and strengths, primarily the Europeans. Nonetheless, the experts didn't expect us to dominate. There were too many other good fighters.

In Vermont, we learned how to be a team, not a collection of gifted individuals out for their own glory. As usual, I was shy in any group setting, although the earlier overseas trips, as well as the Cosell interviews, loosened me up to the point that I was selected as captain.

Of course, being young and immature, our egos collided. Howard Davis and I were sparring innocently when, as a CBS TV crew filmed us, he went after me hard, giving me a black eye. I didn't retaliate at the time, but that night I complained to teammate Louis Curtis. My pride was definitely on the line.

“He's trying to overshadow me,” I told Louis.

“Just show him, Ray,” he said.

I did just that. In our next sparring session a few days later in Montreal, after he threw a lazy jab, I dropped him with a right hand. My pride was just fine.

In general, everyone got along superbly. We laughed together—the tap dancing by Chuck Walker, the lone white boxer, was a source of constant amusement—and we cried together, rallying around Howard after his mother died suddenly of a heart attack. He thought about giving up his bid but we assured him that she would want her son to bring home the gold. Everyone shared the same goal of turning pro after the Games, earning as much money as possible before our bodies gave out. Everyone except me. I didn't waver for a minute: My dream would end in Montreal. That was the promise I made to my mother, Juanita, and myself.

Boxing was a path to the future. Boxing was not
the
future.

O
n July 17, 1976, along with more than six thousand athletes from ninety-two countries, I walked into a scene unlike any other I've ever witnessed—the opening ceremony of what was known officially as the Games of the XXI Olympiad. Starting with Greece, the delegations from each nation paraded into Olympic Stadium, their flags raised, their hopes even higher. Queen Elizabeth II, in respect to the people of Quebec, gave the welcoming address in French. Moments later, thousands of pigeons were released to signify the opening of the Games. It's too bad that I remember very little. My mind was busy on the task ahead. With the endorsements I was likely to receive if I was successful, I'd be set financially, and free to pursue my next goal of being the first in my family to earn a college degree. The classroom would be no easier than the ring.

Each night, as I stayed in the Olympic Village, protected by hundreds of armed security guards and numerous iron gates—it was only four years since the devastating attack on the Israeli athletes in Munich—I went to sleep thinking about my next fight, and about Juanita. She didn't go to Canada with me. Girlfriends weren't allowed in the Village, and besides, she and I were in one of our frequent cooling-off periods, dating back a few months. I can't recall what broke us up on that occasion, but it's safe to assume I was to blame, another episode of womanizing the likely cause. Yet while I kept messing around, first with a girl in Vermont and then one in Montreal, Juanita was the only one I truly loved. I wrote poems to her every week and taped her picture on my sock for the whole world to see. Not for one moment did I imagine she and I were done for good, so deep were my feelings for her, even if I had a strange way of expressing them. It was clear to everybody around me that I needed her there for moral support.

Dave Jacobs seized the initiative, persuading a reluctant Juanita, who left behind little Ray and an offer to become the assistant manager at a clothing store to join about a dozen others in a borrowed camper to make the all-night trek from Palmer Park. The trip turned out to be about a hundred miles longer than necessary after they took a wrong turn and were headed toward Toronto before realizing their error. Daddy was perhaps the most excited of everyone, going on the long journey despite the fact that his boss men warned him that he would lose his job if he went. He didn't care. Nothing was going to prevent this navy vet from watching a son of his represent his beloved country. After they arrived in Montreal midway through the competition, the camper parked only about four blocks from the Village, I went to visit them every chance I got. One thing you could safely say about the Leonards: They weren't very interested in keeping a low profile. Pictures of me were plastered on the windows, signs proclaiming: RAY LEONARD FAN CLUB, PALMER PARK, MD
.
I was a bit embarrassed, but loved it. Having them around after being on my own for two months was a source of great comfort. The men slept in the camper while the women shared a room in a motel.