The Big Fight

Juanita and I flew to Honolulu in July. I needed to recuperate from the disappointment in Montreal, and the same went for her. She felt the sting of losing perhaps as much as I did, and was hoping I’d retire. We had more money in the bank than we could ever spend—the total earnings from the Duran bout would exceed $10 million—and my faculties were still intact. She was afraid, and with good cause, that I might one day end up like many in my profession who hung around a year or two too long, the next payday too tempting to turn down. Better to leave a year or two too soon.

There was no sparring in the gym. No watching reels of old fight films. And, most gratifying for her, no “dates” with any of the boys tagging along. For once, Juanita and I could act as two newlyweds in our early twenties. With Ray Jr. back in Maryland, we could enjoy a real honeymoon.

Maybe Juanita was right. Maybe it was time to leave boxing. Our nest egg would not be worth a dime if I was limited, mentally or physically. And what kind of father would I be to little Ray as he grew up? There was so much I wanted to teach him. I was supposed to take care of him, not the other way around.

The money would not be anywhere near the same as I could make in the ring, but we’d survive. I could work as a boxing analyst on television, sitting in my tuxedo, hobnobbing with the network executives, watching others put their hides on the line. Come to think of it, that sounded pretty good. I’d done a few broadcasts for CBS since turning professional and got a kick out of it. I could tell the viewers how a boxer thinks and what he fears.

Another option was acting. Madison Avenue, which had shown no interest after the Olympics, now pictured me as the unique black pitchman who could appeal to whites and blacks of all classes. The paternity suit was long forgotten.

Beginning in the late 1970s, I appeared in a number of national television spots, none more popular than the campaign launched by 7UP, featuring the country’s most successful young athletes, for which I was guaranteed $100,000. I fancied myself to be a fine actor, but Ray Jr. was, without a doubt, the star of the show. The spot, which lasted thirty seconds, started with us in matching white trunks hitting the speed bags, with the jingle “Feelin’ 7UP” playing in the background. We shadowboxed in front of a mirror and took a long sip of the soft drink.

My future on the small screen, despite the loss to Duran, was filled with possibilities, and there was also the big screen. I wouldn’t be the first athlete to make the transition to Hollywood.

On our second day in Hawaii, I went for what I assumed would be a leisurely jog on the beach. Just because I wasn’t in training didn’t mean I’d let my body fall apart. I never went more than a week without engaging in some manner of exercise. That’s why my weight stayed between 145 and 155 and why I didn’t need to go on any rigorous program after a fight was made. I ran again the next day, and the day after that. During each run, and along the strip of shops and restaurants in lively Waikiki Beach, I was greeted by tourists telling me that I deserved the decision against Duran, and that if I’d fought my fight, it would have been no contest. I thanked them for their kind words and hurried back to our suite to see Juanita and resume our long-overdue holiday.

One afternoon, on day five or six, I left Juanita on the beach for a few minutes and went upstairs to our suite. When I got there, the large mirror in the bathroom caught my attention. I approached it, taking in my reflection. Without thinking, I began to shadowbox, slowly at first. I watched my fists reach for their target. I watched my muscles tighten with each punch I threw. I watched my feet dance in circles. I sensed sweat across my brow, on my upper lip. Closing my eyes, I felt my hands go faster and faster. I opened my eyes. They were alive in a way they never were in Montreal. I was Sugar Ray. They wanted another crack at Duran. They wanted the crown that had been taken away. The aches and pains from the beating I absorbed were long gone. So were the beatings I gave myself, day after day, for fighting him toe-to-toe. I put an end to any thoughts of retirement and plotted a course for revenge.

Of course, Juanita knew. She always knew. She knew before I knew. If I was deceiving myself by the jogs on the beach, I was not fooling her. The disappointment was all over her face, the tears forming before I could finish my sentence.

As usual, I was too self-absorbed to console her. My mind was already on Duran, not her. Nor did she try to talk me out of it. She’d been around me long enough to know there was nothing she or anyone else could do when I made up my mind. I was as stubborn as my mother.

Money was one reason. Money always was, given my upbringing. I could never put enough away. I would also need to make more deposits in Ray the bank, as the pleas for a “loan” weren’t about to go away. Everyone knew how much I made in the Duran fight. It didn’t matter that I lost. Giving them handouts to cope with the latest emergency still beat a confrontation.

But money was not the overriding reason. If I never fought again, if my final appearance in the ring turned out to be my only loss as a professional, I would soon be forgotten, or, worse, ridiculed for walking away at the age of twenty-four. I’d never be able to live with myself.

Mike was fully on board with the idea of a rematch, as were Janks, Angelo, and the rest of my team. Why wouldn’t they be? Another big fight meant another big check for everyone. There was only one valuable member who was opposed to a second Duran bout, and that was Dave Jacobs.

By this stage, Jake had become quite bitter. He felt overshadowed by Angelo and it was easy to see why. Angelo received more credit for my growth as a professional, and more money. His name appeared in every newspaper and magazine article about me while few reporters gave Jake the due he deserved. From the day I walked into the Palmer Park Recreation Center as a scrawny, shy kid with the silly John L. Sullivan pose until the Olympics six years later, nobody worked with me as diligently as Dave Jacobs did. Without his guidance and dedication, there would have been no gold medal and no pro career. I would have retired at the ripe old age of fourteen.

During the first few years after I turned pro, Jake didn’t come to me with any concerns over money, or his reduced authority, though I had heard from others in the camp how he felt. I decided to say nothing about it, hoping that time, and the success of the whole team, would make him reflect on his good fortune. Most trainers spent a lifetime in hot, smelly gymnasiums without grooming a champion or earning any real money. If he learned to accept his role, Jake would make a bundle.

While I empathized with his anger, he failed to grasp the big picture. Angelo raised my stature beyond any level Jake could ever help me attain. Jake was a good trainer, but he was a novice in the highstakes world of professional boxing, and with the clock ticking, as it does for every fighter, I could not afford for him to learn on the job. Mike Trainer was a novice, too, but he learned fast. Dave Jacobs was no Mike Trainer.

After the Benitez fight, Jake approached me with his complaints. We agreed to give Jake enough to keep him around though it seemed just a matter of time before his discontent would resurface.

I went to see him shortly after I got back from Hawaii. Once we met in person, I figured, he would not be able to resist the chance for payback against Duran, whom he disliked nearly as much as I did. He knew what I did wrong in Montreal and would make sure it didn’t happen again.

By the “system,” I presumed he was referring to the boxing establishment, which did not approve of the way Mike Trainer did business, by shutting out the middlemen who were normally given a healthy percentage of the profits for doing, in many cases, absolutely nothing. In Jake’s opinion, that was why I had been denied the victory the first time and why the result would be the same if the second fight also went the distance. I could see his point, but I did not go to his house to engage in a long debate over the amount of corruption in professional boxing.

Jake started to cry but the tears didn’t make him any less adamant. He would not be a party to a rematch with Duran—not without a tune-up or two, and that was not going to happen.

Once Jake was off the team, I didn’t look back. I only looked forward, to Duran. When asked by the reporters about Jake’s departure, I was quoted as saying there was, thankfully, “one less check” to write. Sounds very insensitive, doesn’t it? That’s because I was furious, and when I set out to hurt someone’s feelings, I can attack with words as mightily as I can with punches, and I rarely miss my target.

To this day, I am convinced the system had nothing to do with Jake’s decision to bolt. He was seething, understandably, over his lack of authority. He had been demoted to third string behind Angelo and Janks, and this was his way to prove he didn’t need me. I brought him back for the Hagler fight in 1987 and several others, but our relationship was never the same after the breakup.

The task for Mike Trainer was to get a deal done with Duran’s people as fast as possible. The rush was not due to any impatience on our part, although I was getting a little sick of being introduced as the former welterweight champion of the world. I still don’t like hearing that word today when I give motivational speeches around the country. I prefer to be called, simply, the champ.

Contrary to what fans might have assumed, once I dealt with the initial disappointment of losing to Duran, I wasn’t in a constant state of despair. The urgency stemmed from the belief that the sooner we fought him, the better our chances of winning. Returning to Panama after the fight, Duran was greeted as a greater hero than ever. I was invited to attend the celebration but declined. I was not about to watch Roberto Duran show off the championship belt, my belt, as thousands of his countrymen cheered. For him the party never ended and that was a problem. In no time, Duran, who gained a lot of weight between fights, was at 180 pounds and climbing. If he were a stock, I would have purchased a thousand shares. Losing the necessary fat to slim down to the 147-pound welterweight limit would clearly affect his stamina.

Mike’s job was tougher than it was the first time. The leverage we enjoyed as the champ during the negotiations for the duel in Montreal firmly belonged to Duran’s promoter, Don King, and you could bet King was not going to waste it. The man never left a dime on the bargaining table.

But Mike was no pushover, either. He used his power—I was still the bigger draw in the all-important area of closed-circuit TV—to secure for me a guaranteed $7 million, only $1 million less than Duran’s purse. Better yet, the match was to be staged at the Superdome in New Orleans on November 25, just five months after our meeting in Montreal. Rematches between the top fighters have been known to take much longer to arrange. In the late twenties, for example, a full year passed between the two Jack Dempsey vs. Gene Tunney fights. Whoever wins the original bout might squeeze in an extra payday or two against unranked opponents who pose no viable threat. The public might not approve but it’s a privilege the champ has earned and a reason why winning the first time is critical. You call the shots.

I thought it was the most ridiculous idea ever when Mike informed me of the company’s suggestion. Duran and I in the same spot, with no one around to keep us from killing each other? The animosity between us was not contrived. It was real and it wasn’t going away anytime soon. And with 7UP’s representatives asking for Ray Jr. to appear in the commercial again, I was not about to tolerate Duran making obscene gestures in front of my six-year-old. He insulted my wife whenever he saw her. Why would I expect him to be any less vulgar toward my son?

There was nothing to worry about. Duran, who looked as if he hadn’t missed too many meals, could not have been more professional and polite during the entire shoot. He treated Ray Jr. as if he were his own son, who also appeared in the commercial. The boys got along superbly.

As I worked out and dissected footage of the first fight, my conclusions came swiftly, and decisively: I’d better make dramatic changes or history would repeat itself in New Orleans. More would be on the line than at any point in my career. A second loss to Duran might shatter my self-esteem, and box office appeal. Juanita wouldn’t have to ask me to retire.

For starters, I could not afford to be overwhelmed again by the spectacle. By the time my attention was where it should’ve been in Montreal, on Duran, it was too late. He’d already seized control of the fight with his aggression in the first few rounds. In the minds of the judges, I was constantly on the defensive, and that was no way to retain my crown. No matter how effective I might be in countering his vicious attacks, and connecting with my own, for the duration of the fight, the initial impression was almost impossible to override.

Another change I set out to make was to do what Ronald Reagan promised the American people he would do to the federal government if he was elected president in November—trim the fat from my bloated entourage. No longer would I give in to the pleas of my brothers for their homeys to be part of camp in Maryland and hit the road with us for the final weeks, especially with the fight being staged in the Big Easy. The boys would have held a Mardi Gras celebration of their own, and guess who would have paid the bill.

To be fair, I could have said no to any one of them at any moment, but I didn’t, and the reason was because surrounding myself with as many people as possible fed an already oversized ego. I believed the clippings about my invincibility and wanted everybody to share in the glory of my next, most impressive conquest. If I could have afforded it, I would have put the entire population of Palmer Park on a caravan of buses to Canada. As I prepared for New Orleans, humbled at last, it was important to remember the most recent clippings, which weren’t nearly as flattering—DURAN BEATS LEONARD! I cut my entourage from several dozen to roughly half that size, leaving behind, as they say in government, any nonessential personnel. The Gipper would have been pleased.

A more disciplined mental approach and leaner team weren’t sufficient. The most pivotal changes needed to take place inside the ropes. In Montreal, I proved to the critics that I would not back off for an instant. There was no reason to prove it again. I was desperate for a real victory, not a moral one.

I would fight my fight, not Duran’s. That didn’t mean I would run in circles for the entire night to stay out of his reach. That’s not how the challenger seizes the crown from the champion. It meant I’d maneuver from side to side and not back up in a straight line. The objective was to keep the action toward the center of the canvas, which I did not do often enough the first time, and if I did catch myself on the ropes, I’d spin off.

I also worked on refining my uppercuts. The way Duran went after me at close range, he left himself exposed to that particular weapon. I was glad to find out that the ring at the Superdome—21 feet by 21 feet—would be larger than the one in Olympic Stadium. The more room, the easier I could operate on the perimeter. I sparred fewer rounds per workout than I had in the past, and took a day off here and there. There was no point in peaking too soon and burning out.

Another critical adjustment was to be ready for Duran’s dirty tactics, which was why sparring partners proficient in mauling were brought to camp. Leading the group was Dale Staley, the James Dean look-alike I beat as an amateur in the early 1970s. Staley was proud of his reputation, referring to himself as “the American Assassin.” He was disqualified twice for biting his opponent. Although I didn’t necessarily agree with his style of combat, with my career in the balance, I was not about to seize the moral high ground. I would have put Andre the Giant on the payroll if he could help me neutralize Duran. Staley, who idolized Duran, got the best of me for a while, but once I figured out his unorthodox moves, I slapped him around, fighting dirty for probably the first time. I must admit it felt quite satisfying to take him down at his own game.

Several days before the rematch, Mike Trainer, believing I needed more instruction in spinning off the ropes, suggested that Angelo and Janks conduct a closed workout with me. No one respected Mike’s intelligence more than I did. Yet my first thought was: What does a white attorney from Bethesda know about prizefighting? Plenty, it turned out. He knew a great deal about psychology as well, selling the whole idea to Angelo by making it appear to be a publicity stunt. Mike knew Angelo wouldn’t be able to resist the extra attention once we told the press they couldn’t attend, and he was right. Then, as long as we were in the ring, Mike asked him to show me a few techniques. The key was to make the initial move the moment I sensed the bottom strand of the ropes brushing against my calf. I also worked on pushing Duran off me whenever he tried to use his head as a weapon.

“Ray, you got to embarrass Duran,” he told me. “When you do, he will lose trust in himself and you will have him. Duran has to always be the macho man. Make fun of him, and he will not know how to handle it.”

I didn’t pay much attention to his suggestion. I loved Roger but he was a drug addict who threw away a promising career. Make fun of Duran? The man was a killer. The fact that Roger suggested the idea proved he was almost as crazy as Duran. Yet over the next few days, I saw my brother try out a series of unusual moves in the ring, including the bolo punch first made famous decades earlier by welterweight champion Kid Gavilan. Before too long, I found myself experimenting with similar playful gestures. Roger had clearly gotten inside my head. I was not sure that was a good thing.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

Almost 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.