Hands of Stone - Christian Giudice [106]
As the fighters again returned to their corners between rounds, both had bumps under their eyes, with Duran’s blackening slightly. Yet Leonard just couldn’t snatch the momentum. A pattern had developed. Even when Leonard pot-shotted Duran from distance in the thirteenth, he couldn’t stop the Panamanian from bouncing off the ropes with a furious return rally. Leonard returned fire and landed a flurry in the final ten seconds of the round, an eye-catching tactic that would sneak him rounds throughout his career. Yet even when Leonard won rounds, it felt like Duran’s show.
On his stool before the start of the fourteenth round, Duran saw Angelo Dundee point over at him and whisper in Leonard’s ear. Duran responded with a wave of a glove, urging Leonard to come forward. “Ray was fighting the wrong fight,” said Dundee. “When he was coming back to the corner, I pleaded with him to stick and move more. But Duran would get him into a corner and trap him.”
After a relatively quiet fourteenth round, Padilla brought them together for the most important three minutes of their boxing lives. Neither fighter could afford to coast, yet Duran did not charge out as he had for most the fight. He now fired punches not in combination but individually, as if he owned the fight, content to make Leonard miss. He must have felt he had the decision in the bag.
As the final bell sounded, Leonard raised his arms, but instead of the customary embrace Duran spurned him with a shove. “When he went to shake my hand, I told him to ‘get the hell out of here, you shit. You know you’re shit.’ I demonstrated to the American public that their idol wasn’t worth five cents,” said Duran. Was it the best moment of his career? “Of course. He was the man. He was the greatest thing that America had. He was an idol, a hero. To beat a hero, I became a bigger hero.”
Duran whirled around the ring like a con released from solitary confinement, then jumped high in the air. I did it. You, Ray Leonard, are mierda.
Before he headed back to wait for the final decision, Duran remembered something one of his enemies had said to him. Wilfred Benitez had been screaming obscentities at him the entire match. He broke free from Ray Arcel’s arms, pointed at the watching Benitez and grabbed his crotch. His cornerman picked him up and held him high in the air. Even with a welt purpling under his left eye, Duran knew there was only one outcome. The half smile on Leonard’s face suggested he knew too. The judges concurred.
Although the bout was originally scored a split decision in several newspaper reports the next day, it was later reversed: Judge Harry Gibbs of England had it 145-144 for Duran, Angelo Poletti (Italy) scored it a draw at 147-all, and Raymond Baldeyrou (France) had Duran 146-144. Poletti came under considerable scrutiny after it was learned that he scored ten rounds even.
Leonard knew it was extremely close but he also knew “just by the ambience of the evening” that the decision would not go his way. Duran had called out Leonard in front of La Casa de Piedra, and had won. “Eleta gave me about a million to fight Leonard but I just went and fought,” said Duran. “That’s all I ever did. People even said that Leonard was made by the television. I made myself by myself inside the ring. That’s why Leonard was afraid.”
Duran later unbuckled his WBC belt, a green plastic affair made by Adidas, and handed it to gnarled old Freddie Brown. “Es tuya, te la has ganado.” “This is yours. I won this for you.”
In Panama, a party began. In Guarare, a whole town rejoiced.
Throughout the bout, Clara Samaniego had closed her eyes, wished away the brujos, clung to her faith like a child’s blanket and waited for the result. She sat with a reporter from