The Big Fight

For years, it was the one title I did not actively pursue, and, if anything, I did my best—and behaved my worst—to avoid. After becoming a father in late 1973 at the age of seventeen, the last thing I craved was more responsibility, especially with all the freedoms I earned with my fists. Juanita, to her credit, was incredibly patient, never once in the six years since Ray Jr. was born pressuring me to get married. Because she believed in the special bond between us, Juanita was certain the day would come eventually, which it did, on January 19, 1980, her twentythird birthday, in front of a packed crowd (typical me, always thinking of the gate) of about seven hundred guests at the First Baptist Church of Highland Park in Landover. Later, at the reception, there was an even bigger gathering, including a fair number who were not invited but were allowed in by one of my brothers or my close friend Joe Broddie. Things got so out of control, people banging on the doors, that Juanita stood up on a table to act as the traffic cop, motioning who could stay and who had to leave. I tried to talk her down, but it did no good. Nothing, though, could spoil the festive mood. With Ray Jr. as the ring bearer and Juanita as gorgeous as a bride could possibly be, we made for quite a threesome.

So what made me tie the knot? The simple answer is, I thought marriage was the right thing to do, which doesn’t make me sound like the most romantic guy in the world, does it? Looking back, that was one of the many warning signs I missed. I first mentioned the idea to her before the Benitez fight and suggested we have the ceremony in Vegas. Not surprisingly, she felt getting married in a Vegas chapel was pretty cheesy, and I couldn’t blame her, which led to the date in January.

Another sign I missed was how I chose to spend my last evening as a single man: with another woman, naturally, at a bachelor party the boys put together. I didn’t know the girl and I never saw her again, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that marriage, no matter how sacred a commitment, was not about to change my life. I promised myself I would still go to the coolest clubs and sleep with the hottest girls. I was Sugar Ray Leonard.

I probably got an hour or two of sleep at most before the big day—Juanita’s big day, that is—and had a horrible hangover throughout the entire ceremony. Even so, I was convinced we would be together forever, which was why I rejected the suggestion when Mike Trainer first brought up the P word—prenup.

After the ceremony, we flew to L.A. for our honeymoon—if you can call it that. I spent more time on the set than I did in our suite, leaving about seven A.M. each day to film a commercial and not returning until around nine at night. Juanita did not complain. It wasn’t the honeymoon she was hoping for, but she had, at last, landed her man. She was Mrs. Ray Leonard.

In the weeks that followed I kept my vows—the ones to myself, not Juanita. Believe me, I wasn’t proud of my actions. Every time I walked through the front door, almost like an enlisted serviceman home for a short leave, I was overcome with guilt about being absent so often. As usual, I did the only thing I knew how to do when I hurt the people I loved: I tried to buy their love back. Toys for Ray Jr., more expensive toys (cars, jewelry) for Juanita—whatever was necessary to compensate for my neglect and create a peaceful home. I engaged in my typical self-deception. Since I took care of their every need, I told myself, Juanita should be happy regardless of how much time we spent apart. She was richer than a black girl from Palmer Park could ever expect to be. The days of working at a gas station were long gone. If Juanita complained, she wasn’t vocal enough to make me want to change my ways. Until it was too late.

Little Ray didn’t complain, either, though our relationship was affected forever, and no amount of bribery could make up for my failings as a father. The gift he wanted most, my time, was the one gift I didn’t give him. I rarely attended any of his sporting events, and if he needed something, I handed a few bucks to Craig Jones, my personal assistant, to pick it up. Craig was around the house more than I was. Years later, when Ray was in his early teens, he asked Craig for a ride to the park.

I loved my wife and son, but when I returned after an extended absence, I still had my Superman cape on. I was Sugar Ray and they wanted to be with Ray. After being told day after day on the road that I could do no wrong, it took a while to let go of that adulation. When Juanita and I went on a “date” to dinner or the movies, four or five of my boys routinely tagged along. It was never just the two of us.

Meanwhile, to my siblings and friends, I was still Ray the bank. If anything, with the $1 million I collected from the Benitez fight, and the guarantee of larger paydays—the dollar figures regularly appeared in the papers—I was approached more than ever to bail them out of their latest crises. I wrote the checks and didn’t ask questions. Saying no was not an option.

Green was not a complete fighter by any means. His “conquests” included victories over household names George McGurk and Giuseppe Minotti, and that was fine with me. After the battle with Benitez, there was nothing wrong with accepting an easy payday of approximately $1.5 million. Nonetheless, I never took an opponent lightly, and that included Davey Boy Green. In 1977, Green had been in position to pull the upset over Palomino and capture the WBC crown, until he walked into a left hook in the eleventh round. I could easily make the same mistake.

I could not have been too preoccupied with Green. Because if I had been preparing for Benitez or Duran or Hearns or Hagler, I would never have sat in the arena less than two hours before my own fight to watch one of the preliminaries, even if it did feature my brother Roger against my old rival Johnny Gant. The boys would have barricaded the dressing room door to make sure I stayed in the zone.

Nearly fifteen months since losing to me, Gant, thirty-one, was, for that era, ancient in boxing years. His chance at glory gone for good, he was simply trying to pick up a few bucks and avoid any lasting damage before he put away his gloves forever. So it goes for almost every prizefighter once the inevitable decline begins, typically in his early thirties. It rarely ends well.

In the fifth, Johnny landed a solid right cross to the chin. Roger was soon on the canvas. My brother and I got into our share of scrapes, but seeing him in trouble and being unable to do a damn thing about it was the most helpless feeling in the world. I screamed and punched the air as I stood on top of my chair, which made a few members of my team quite nervous. I could have fallen and gotten hurt, though there were two large men whose job was to make certain that didn’t happen. Fortunately, Roger gained control of the fight in time to escape with the decision. For Johnny, at least he was out of Leonards.

Next came my chance to cap off the evening. Given the level of competition, I wasn’t as motivated as usual as I listened to the referee’s instructions. I got pumped up in a hurry, though, thanks to Green’s worst move of the night. He got right in my face and bumped me.

During my previous twenty-six professional bouts, I was lucky. My opponents hit me and I hit them back, and when our business was done, we hugged, spoke to the press, got our money, and moved on to train for the next encounter. We endured our share of aches and pains, some worse than others, but they would always heal within a few days. Not once was anyone seriously injured. Not once did I see what the sport could do to a man.

Until Green fell to the floor in the fourth round. It was one punch that did it and it was perhaps the most beautiful punch I ever threw, a short left hook coming from the body and rising to strike him flush in the right temple. Whenever I connected with such power and precision, a tingling sensation similar to an electric shock traveled directly from my hand to my shoulder. It was a tremendous feeling, and one every fighter experiences when he lands the perfect shot. The world has no choice but to stop and acknowledge his work. I raised my hands and stood in admiration, as any artist would. Davey Boy Green was not going to get up before the count reached ten. No one would.

Green slowly came to and was placed delicately on a stool near the corner. I felt a huge sense of relief, and all I could think about as I walked down the aisle was how close I had come to killing another human being. Retaining the welterweight crown was the furthest thing from my mind.

Pepe claims he was walking away from the ring when Angelo told him to get out of the way and used the N word. Pepe, younger and in better shape than Angelo, popped him with a left hook. Angelo’s eyes rolled back, his head hitting the floor. He was out. Fortunately, he regained consciousness before too long. When I heard the news, I got worried that one of Angelo’s friends might try to seek revenge against Pepe.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who was worried. Pepe told me that another member of my team called him to suggest he get out of town. He didn’t take his advice. Instead, he said he contacted a friend in the Mob and the matter was resolved. In any case, Pepe was wrong to hit Angelo no matter what Angelo might have said to him.

If a deal could get done, that is, and that was no guarantee. Which was why we floated the idea of taking on Pipino Cuevas, who held the WBA welterweight crown, with the survivor becoming the division’s undisputed champion. We saw it as a chance to gain leverage in any talks with Duran’s people.

The problem for Cuevas was that he was not the draw Duran was, and if there is one rule in the sport that trumps the others it is this: Follow the money. Another factor was the pressure placed on the boxing authorities by officials representing the government in Panama. As a result, Cuevas was soon out of the discussion.

As usual, I stayed away from the negotiations, leaving them in the capable hands of Mike Trainer. Mike had come a long way since the fall of 1976, when he was the first to admit he knew little about the boxing world. Four years later, there was very little Mike did not know. The move to sign with him was proving more beneficial as the stakes continued to rise. I was not beholden to Don King or any other big-time promoter.

It made no difference that Mike and I rarely talked about our wives or our parents or our children. Or that we didn’t share our deepest fears. Every so often, usually over a beer or two, the conversation might start to veer in the direction of greater intimacy until one or both of us, sensing the dangerous ground we were entering, would quickly guide it back toward less revealing topics. It was the only way our arrangement could work. Getting closer on a personal level would have risked consequences to our professional relationship that we could not afford. What if I had let him down as a friend, or vice versa? More important than friendship was the respect I received from Mike, and it went back to when he launched Sugar Ray Leonard, Inc. Mike invited me to his home in suburban Bethesda for dinner. I had never been to dinner at a white person’s house and couldn’t figure out why I was there. It did not hit me until much later: Mike wanted me to understand that his wife and children were behind us 100 percent.

I was the champion in the ring, and in the box office, which meant that we could set the parameters for the Duran negotiations. At the same time, Mike recognized that Bob Arum, an expert in closed-circuit television, could be very valuable to the bottom line. How these two strongwilled men, along with Don King, who enjoyed a tight relationship with Duran’s people in Panama, joined forces was a textbook example of the behind-the-scenes intrigue that could occur only in boxing. You could not make this stuff up.

In April 1980, Mike, Janks Morton, and Arum were sitting in the VIP lounge of Braniff Airways at JFK Airport, waiting to board a flight to Panama to meet with Carlos Eleta, Duran’s manager, when, out of nowhere, Don King appeared. King had not been invited, but the man knew everyone. King, for the most part, ignored Arum. They got along as well as Ali and Frazier.

Arum and King got the message and agreed to be co-promoters. The deal was unprecedented. I was guaranteed a minimum of $7.5 million, with a chance to earn a few more million, depending on the closed-circuit revenue, while Duran would receive $1.5 million. By contrast, Ali and Frazier made $2.5 million apiece for their “Fight of the Century” in 1971. The Duran bout was slated for June 20.

As for the venue, we settled on the city where I became famous, Montreal. Next to fighting in D.C. or Vegas, there wasn’t a place I’d feel more comfortable. I was treated well by the Canadians in 1976 and there was no reason to think I would not be given the same warm reception north of the border again.

His nickname was “Manos de Piedra” (“Hands of Stone”), and with good reason. He did not defeat his opponents. He demolished them, his lone setback coming in a 1972 decision against Esteban DeJesus, which Duran avenged twice, with knockouts in 1974 and 1978. One story goes that after his defeat, he pounded the walls in his hotel bathroom till his hands were filled with blood. I wouldn’t be shocked if that was true. Another nickname given to him was “El Animal.” He deserved that one as well.

Take his lightweight title duel in June 1972 against the champion from Scotland, Ken Buchanan. Duran, only twenty-one, piled up a ton of points during the first twelve rounds and was nine minutes away from winning the belt. He needed only to keep Buchanan from landing a knockout blow. But that was not Roberto Duran. Duran always went for the knockout and was angry with himself, and the world, if he didn’t get it. Perhaps it was his difficult upbringing—his father abandoned him when he was a kid, forcing him to drop out of school and scrounge for food on the streets—but whatever was behind that familiar rage of his, it controlled him as much as the other way around.

Speaking of legends, assisting Duran in his corner were two of the fight game’s most respected lifers, Ray Arcel and Freddie Brown. Arcel, eighty, worked with Hall of Famers Benny Leonard, James J. Braddock (“the Cinderella Man”), and Ezzard Charles. Brown, an ex-fighter, had been around since the twenties, serving as a cut man for Rocky Marciano, among others. No one was better. If there was an edge to be gained, physical or psychological, there was a good chance Arcel and Brown would find it. The two first hooked up with Duran in the early seventies.

By the spring of 1980, however, with Duran approaching the age of twenty-nine, there were those who thought he had lost something since relinquishing his lightweight crown to join the welterweight ranks in the late seventies. As a welterweight, the power in Duran’s punches was the same. The difference was that heavier men could more easily absorb them.

I didn’t buy into the perception of a less deadly Duran. He was like me and other fighters at the highest level. We may promise to give 110 percent every time, but it’s almost impossible to be totally motivated if the competition doesn’t match up. We are not robots. We save our best for the best.

The first occasion where Duran and I spent any real time together was at the April press conference to officially announce our fight. It was staged at the glamorous Waldorf-Astoria hotel in Manhattan. The top boxing writers were in attendance, geared up to begin promoting what promised to be the biggest fight since Ali vs. Frazier III five years earlier.

I looked forward to these gatherings. They gave me a chance to mingle with reporters I respected and show off my superior communication skills. I also saw an opportunity, as Ali did, to get inside my opponent’s head, to win the fight before the fight. I won every time.

Early in the proceedings, Duran jabbed me softly with an oversized glove that’s commonly used for promotional purposes. The photographers ate it up. For a while, I went along with the unrehearsed bit, anything for the show. Except Duran didn’t know when to stop fooling around. Or he kept going just to irritate me. Either way, the playful taps got harder and harder. I gave him an angry glance. It did no good and was probably the dumbest thing I could have done. He saw that he was getting under my skin and now he would never shut up.

He called me a “motherfucker” and a “son of a bitch” and a “marica” (Spanish for “homosexual”) and told me to kiss his balls. No one had ever spoken to me like that, not even in the hood. For the longest time I stood there like a statue, though it ran counter to every impulse in my body. I should have insulted him back and put my head squarely in his face. It was not as if I didn’t know the language of the gutter as thoroughly as he did. But with Mike Trainer’s mantra—“always smile for the cameras”—echoing in my ears, I was the perfect gentleman, until I could take the abuse no longer.

I told the press I would “kill” Duran in June. The words were out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. I was never so cocky before a fight, and because it wasn’t my natural behavior, I didn’t hit the proper notes. I came across more frightened than fearless.

The trick to Ali’s prefight bragging, besides the fact that he usually backed it up, was how he injected humor into each situation with his silly playacting and clever rhyming. He could make the most outrageous predictions and say the most demeaning things about the proud warriors he fought and somehow seem endearing.

Duran was no different than Hagler and others I fought, falling for the portrayal of me as the TV-manufactured spoiled brat who never had to overcome adversity to make something of himself, as they did. Duran obviously had never spent a night in Palmer Park. He didn’t hang by the mall and watch the drug dealers make a score. He didn’t talk to the hordes of young men without work, and without hope. And he certainly did not observe the struggles in my own family, the man of the house working twelve hours a day, six days a week, his wife raising six children before leaving for a job herself every evening. All Duran saw were the fruits of my labor, not the labor itself. All he saw were the commercials on television and the size of the purses. All he saw was what he wanted to see, and it was not as if Duran were applying for welfare. He wore the most expensive jewelry and ate in the finest restaurants. He enjoyed the good life just as much as I did.

Besides, it wasn’t my fault that Howard Cosell adopted me or that the public embraced me. It wasn’t my fault that I was articulate and charismatic, the heir to Ali in an era when boxing fans preferred artistry over aggression. Did I notice that vacuum, and do everything I could to fill it? Absolutely, and there was nothing wrong with that. Many felt I was being phony. I was not. I was merely bringing out a part of myself—the part that wished to please. I could never have pulled it off if it wasn’t real. I wasn’t that good an actor. Only later, much later, when I carried the role of Sugar Ray too far, harming those closest to me, did I feel any doubts about who I had created.

Still, I could never have made it to the top of my profession if I didn’t put in the work. I worked like crazy, just as my father did, to be the best fighter I could be, and wasn’t that the American way? I beat Wilfred Benitez fair and square, as I beat the men I fought before him. The title wasn’t handed to me. I took it.

For years I didn’t understand Duran, and the confusion was a factor in the animosity I felt toward him. I figured out Benitez. I figured out Hearns and Hagler. Understanding the essence of the opponent I was facing made it easier for me to beat the living daylights out of him, and, when the fight was over, show genuine empathy. With Duran, however, it wasn’t until the last several years that I figured him out. He wasn’t a madman. He only pretended to be one. He was like me, searching for a way, any way, to stand out from the rest. Boxing is a form of entertainment, and, like Hollywood, to generate the most headlines, and dollars, one must develop a strong persona. Mine was Sugar Ray, the innocent charmer. His was Hands of Stone, the macho brute. Duran and I took on these roles without hesitation, and rarely stepped out of character. At least, not until our fighting days were long gone.

In the weeks that followed the press conference, I was determined that Duran would not seize the advantage in any future head-to-head encounters. I could not have been more naïve. I was a rank amateur compared to him. Trying to match his crudeness was like trying to compete with Ali in a battle of wits. I came up short each time and it reached the stage where I dreaded the next face-off. I had to show up, however, to meet with the press. It was in the contract.

Away from the cameras, perhaps I would see a composed and civil Duran, and perhaps we could both revel in the ridiculous amount of money we were due to collect for forty-five minutes, or less, of work. There must be a decent human being in there somewhere, right?

He cursed me again and demonstrated, by a series of obscene gestures, where he planned to strike me in the fight. Why wait any longer? I was ready to rumble right there on the street—no referee, no gloves, no handlers, no rules, nothing. I wanted the immediate gratification of knocking him to the ground. Luckily for Duran, I pulled myself together.

At the weigh-in, Duran was more crass than before, though it hardly seemed possible. He gestured to Juanita that after he was done fucking with me in the ring, he was going to fuck her. She was outraged. I somehow kept my emotions in check again. My chance to make him pay was coming soon enough.

I saw him when I was jogging before dawn. I saw him when I was pounding my sparring partners who wore T-shirts with his name printed on the front. I saw him when I was watching comedies on TV. I even saw him in my dreams. Never did another fighter penetrate my psychic space as much as Duran, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Each time I saw him, he was where he belonged, on the floor, and after dissecting hours of film, I knew precisely how to put him there: I would box him to death. That was the best way to get inside Duran’s head. The previous fighters who adopted a similar strategy were not able to make it work because they didn’t possess my fast hands and feet. Yet Edwin Viruet forced Duran to go the distance twice. Edwin Viruet!

I would shift from side to side, exploiting a five-inch reach advantage to score with the left jab, and not allow Duran to lure me inside with his assortment of dirty tricks—he utilized his head as a weapon, shoving it into an enemy’s chest—or establish any rhythm with his combinations. He was the only boxer I ever saw who used his head to hit the speed bag. I would steer clear of the ropes, where others were most vulnerable against his lunging attacks, and aim for the body—to go downstairs, as it’s called. The media, though, was off base when it described the contest as another classic duel between the slugger and the boxer. Duran was a better boxer than he was given credit for, slipping punches almost as well as Benitez. I would not make the same mistake.

As fight night edged closer, in late May and early June, my body gradually rounded into shape. Every morning at five, wearing combat boots, I jogged five miles around nearby Greenbelt Park, navigating a steep hill that we affectionately labeled Mount Motherfuck. Listening on the transistor to my favorite D.C. radio station, I was at peace, singing along, until, after a mile or two, I didn’t catch a single word or note. My mind was elsewhere, on Duran. I couldn’t wait to shut him up.

After breakfast, wonderfully prepared by my father, who I placed on the payroll, and a shower, I took tap-dancing lessons. I can’t recall what I was thinking at the time, but I must have figured that dancing would give me a little more flexibility in the ring. Around noon, I began my workouts in the basement of the Sheraton in New Carrollton, a few miles from Palmer Park. Roughly two hundred spectators paying one dollar apiece cheered me on as I did some sparring, hit the bags, and jumped rope. I hung out afterward to sign autographs.

A training camp must function as a single, cohesive unit, each member assigned a specific task, willing to sacrifice individual goals for the benefit of the only individual who mattered, the fighter, the one who would, presumably, keep employing them as long as the wins, and dollars, kept coming. That was not the case in this camp, and it couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

The problem was one I was quite familiar with: I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t tell one of Kenny’s friends or Roger’s friends or my friends that they couldn’t join us in Montreal. After all, this would be the biggest fight of my life. I might hesitate for a moment, but it was only to watch my brothers squirm.

Janks Morton was in charge. He tried to insulate me from the petty disputes, but the stories trickled back to me, as they always do in a small, enclosed environment, and interfered with my preparation for Duran. The last thing I needed was to hear about one of my boys asking to borrow a car or a few extra bucks. They couldn’t resist the nightlife an international city such as Montreal offered. It was almost impossible to get some of them, and that included Roger and Kenny, to cover the two-hour shifts guarding my hotel suite between ten P.M. and two A.M. The clubs were still open. They were thinking about dancing instead of Duran.

I watched none of the undercard, even though Roger was fighting. Fortunately, he managed to record a split ten-round decision over Clyde Gray. In another prelim, Gaetan Hart, a lightweight, took on Cleveland Denny, which would have received no attention except for the fact that Denny went into convulsions from the shots he took. Weeks later, Cleveland Denny was dead.

At around 10:45 P.M., while the boys escorted me toward the ring, it was clear that my eyes had told the truth again. All I could think about was how I wished that I were anywhere else in the world other than Olympic Stadium. I felt like grabbing the microphone and saying to the 46,000-plus spectators:

It was not as if I didn’t want to teach this son of a bitch a lesson for how he treated me and my wife. It was just that, at that very moment, everything felt wrong, and I knew I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I believe in biorhythms, and mine were extremely low that night. Some days, you get up on the wrong side of the bed and don’t feel sharp. The difference between other jobs and what I did for a living is that if a fighter is off his game, even by a slight margin, he will lose and probably get hurt. If the fight had been the next night, or any other night, I would have kicked Duran’s butt. But it wasn’t.

How could the fans be booing me, Sugar Ray Leonard, in of all places, Montreal, where I won the gold? Was it something I said, or didn’t say? Not knowing how to respond, I extended my hands, as if to assure them, Hey, I’m right here. I’m ready to fight.

I wish I could say that I was unfazed by the cold reception, that I was so focused on beating Duran I could block out everything else, as the truly disciplined athletes are able to do. I couldn’t. I was disturbed, confused, the fans getting inside my head just as Duran did, the fight no doubt lost before it had started. It was written that Duran had become a fan favorite for speaking a sentence or two of French whenever he appeared in public. He also wore “Bonjour, Montreal” on a T-shirt during workouts and kept up the PR campaign till the end, his supporters unfurling a flag of Quebec as Duran entered the ring. That explanation has never made sense to me, though it wouldn’t have hurt if I had spoken a few words of French.

So why did they boo? I’m not sure. Perhaps some of the Canadian fans, echoing my detractors in the States, felt I had become rich and famous too soon. Or perhaps there was a tendency to cheer for the underdog, which Duran was despite his résumé and reputation. The official line in Vegas was 3-2. Whatever the motivation, it added an obstacle I didn’t need to deal with in these tense moments. I had enough to deal with already.

Duran should be smiling, I thought, at how fate can turn dramatically for two poor kids, one from Palmer Park, the other from Panama, who both worked hard at their trade and would never have to work again if they so desired. Only later did it occur to me that Duran knew exactly what he was doing and that I should’ve been glaring at him. Instead, overwhelmed by the atmosphere, I stared at the large screen above the ring. I peered into the crowd, searching for comforting faces. I was bothered by the cold, damp air. My attention was everywhere—except where it needed to be.

The first round set the pace for the rest of the evening. Duran was the same as always, thrusting forward, almost recklessly, ready to die in the ring. Soon came the first hard punch, and I realized that “Hands of Stone” was no exaggeration. Each well-timed shot felt like a jackhammer being drilled into my skull, my teeth knocked back so hard I had to push them into place with my glove between rounds. I found myself in the trap I was determined to avoid, the ropes, Duran landing lefts and rights to the head and body, impressing the judges and fans.

The second round was worse. Duran caught me with a hook and right hand, and though I tried to indicate otherwise, it definitely did some damage. I may have acted my way out of trouble against Geraldo, but a seasoned pro such as Duran wasn’t easily fooled. The seconds couldn’t go by fast enough as he tried to end the fight right then. But I survived the round, and to show Duran, the judges, and the crowd that I was not deterred, I rose from my stool a full twenty seconds before the bell rang for round three. Looking back, it wasn’t the brightest idea. I could have used the extra rest.

Why was I so stupid? It was because I wanted to hurt Duran the way he hurt me and Juanita with his constant insults. Gaining revenge became almost as important as gaining victory, and I refused to change my tactics no matter what Angelo might have told me in the corner. I was too caught up in my own anger and pride to listen to the man who had saved Ali more than once, and could have saved me. I never gave him the chance.

As the fight wore on, it was becoming clear that Arcel had perhaps gotten inside the head of Carlos Padilla, the same ref who worked the Benitez fight. He had expressed concerns that Padilla, known for breaking up clinches between fighters prematurely, wouldn’t allow Duran to fight where he was most at home, in the trenches. In any case, Padilla compensated too much in the opposite direction. For as little as he broke us up, he might as well have taken a seat in the front row.

Still, I couldn’t blame Padilla. He wasn’t the one who kept retreating straight back toward the ropes instead of sliding to the right as Angelo had suggested, providing Duran enough room to advance a step or two and unload at a stationary target. If I had fought a more intelligent fight, nothing Padilla did, or did not do, would have made a difference. Yet I hung in there, and by the sixth round I was giving it to Duran as hard as he was giving it to me. If he was overlooked as a boxer, the same went for me as a slugger. Ask Andy Price. Ask Davey Boy Green. Ask Roberto Duran.

I was back in the fight, and there was still a long way to go. In the next several rounds I scored repeatedly while keeping Duran in the center of the ring. I also heard a more familiar sound—applause. Fans, whatever their rooting interest may be before a bout starts, appreciate a hard-fought contest, which both Duran and I were providing. With the courage I was displaying, they could see that I was not the pampered millionaire I was made out to be. The action, though, was too much for Juanita. She fainted into the arms of my sister Sharon during the eighth round. Juanita wasn’t used to seeing her husband get his face bashed in.

Despite my renewed determination, I didn’t come close to hurting Duran, which I needed to do to halt the momentum he had built in the first four rounds. I missed my target over and over, and when I did land a strong combination or two, he retaliated immediately with an effective flurry of his own. No one rocked me as hard in the body as he did. If anything, the hits he took made him counter with greater fury, as if he actually enjoyed the pain. Time, too, was becoming a factor as the bell sounded for round eleven. Unless I seized control of the fight, the decision would go to Duran and he would be the new champ. Yet, if there was any impulse to reverse course and box my way to the finish line, it was too late. I chose the wrong strategy and I was stuck with it.

The eleventh served up some of the fiercest combat of my career, the two of us going at each other as if everything were at stake, and I suppose it was. Roger shouted from the corner, “You’re the best in the world,” and I tried to prove it, hitting Duran with lefts and rights, but he stood his ground again. The slugfest continued during rounds twelve, thirteen, and fourteen, setting the stage for one last duel in the fifteenth.

My desire was there. Unfortunately, my power was not. During the waning seconds of the bout, Duran smirked. He was convinced the fight was his. When the bell rang, I walked toward him to touch gloves. He would have no part of it. Instead, he shouted at me in one final act of defiance:

Would they reward Duran for being the aggressor throughout the fight? Or would they abide by boxing’s unwritten rule that the champ must be knocked out or decisively outpointed to be stripped of his crown, neither of which took place? Within seconds, the ring, as it always does, filled up with handlers and boxing officials as everyone awaited the verdict.

I feared the worst. I knew what I had done right and what I had done wrong and felt the aches and pains from head to toe to know what Duran had done, and it was a great deal. Yet I couldn’t be certain of the outcome. Judges were human beings, with their own prejudices and flaws. They got it wrong many times.

I slowly walked back to the dressing room, a loser for the first time as a professional. I got dressed and left the stadium in no time. The sooner I abandoned the scene of the crime, the better. The boys told me I fought a courageous fight, but I didn’t want to hear a word. The best thing anyone could do at that moment was to be quiet.

At the hotel, a doctor came to my suite to draw blood from ruptured vessels in both ears. The pain was almost unbearable, the knots and contusions more grotesque than the injuries I sustained against Benitez. I was afraid that I’d have cauliflower ears for the rest of my life.

Over the ensuing days in Maryland, I put my own emotions aside to console others. Juanita was devastated. So was Roger and the rest of my family. Before the loss to Duran, they saw only one side of the boxing business. Seeing the other terrified them. It was not until a few days later, alone in my room, that I could experience the full impact of Montreal and sort out what it might mean.

I felt a deep sense of loss, as if a part of me had been taken away for good. I was certain I would defeat every opponent until there was none left, and then retire for real, on top, undefeated like Marciano, invincible forever. As it turned out, I was not invincible.

Equally disappointing was finding out that, contrary to the image I constantly tried to convey to the press and public, I was not a model of composure who saved his best for the sport’s grandest stages. The evidence was everywhere—from my juvenile responses to Duran’s antics to my inability to manage my training camp to my flawed strategy in the ring. The Duran fight was bigger than the Benitez fight, much bigger, and I hadn’t been ready for it.

I deserved credit as well. By standing my ground for fifteen rounds, I showed my critics a resilience, as Ali did against Frazier in 1971, that they didn’t think was in me. I proved I could punch and take one, too. And, despite fighting Duran’s fight, I came extremely close to winning. Once I got over the fog I was in during the first three or four rounds, I landed dozens of solid combinations to the head and body. If both Poletti and Gibbs had awarded me a single extra round, I would have been celebrating in Montreal, not Duran.

Would I permit the defeat to weaken my confidence and perhaps define me forever? A lot of fighters were never the same after their first loss. They cashed their checks and conquered their opponents, but that intangible quality that separated them from the pack was missing.