Hands of Stone - Christian Giudice [107]
Leonard conceded to Panamanian journalist Juan Carlos Tapia the next morning at breakfast, in the company of Dundee, Arum and Elias Cordoba of the WBA that “Duran made me react like a man. Next time would be different.” Tapia believed that while Leonard knew he could win, Duran knew he would win. “After Leonard came back from the hospital, he told me that he lost the fight because he wanted to be more of a man than Duran,” said Tapia.
Most other observers agreed. “Duran was a classic example of the importance of thinking in boxing,” said boxing sage and acclaimed author Budd Schulberg. “I covered the first Leonard fight and Leonard was a great fighter who was in there fighting Duran’s fight, punching with him. He was doing everything wrong.”
A photo in Sports Illustrated encompassed the mood of adulation, jubilation and reward. Stuck in between Duran’s thumb, middle and index fingers, a wad of thick bills stood straight up as a wave of followers surrounded him at the press conference. Felicidad’s face was partially cut by the perforated edge of the photo, but her eyes were nestled somewhere in her lover’s slicked back hair. The couple had not yet married, but Duran had finally earned the respect of her family. She supported her future husband and understood a wife’s role in the process. Felicidad knew when to stay away before a fight and when to intervene in Roberto’s business.
“She came to almost all of the fights,” said Plomo. “She would always come by the end, when there was only one week left. She was a very nervous person. She used to sit on the last row, for she did not like to watch the fight. Once she realized he had won the fight, she would return. She was a very nervous person, and preferred not to be present when he was fighting. She used to remain at the gym until the moment they would announce the fight was about to start. Then she would leave without watching the fight itself.”
No doubt money would be spent recklessly in the coming hours, but the shirtless Duran was free, secure and wealthy. Leonard mourned in a grey and red Franklin warm-up, still a doe-eyed kid with his wife resting her head on his shoulder. Around him, his handlers talked prematurely about retirement.
“One Mother, One Tear, One Champion,” ran the headline in La Critica the next day.
Sixteen days later, Cleveland Denny, who had never recovered from being knocked unconscious on the undercard, died in hospital. He was twenty-four years old.
14
“No Peleo”
“Anyone told me Duran would quit, I’d spit in his eye.”
Ray Arcel, aged eighty-one
RAY LEONARD FIGURED it out while he was running on a beach in Hawaii. Pounding over the strip of soft sand between lapping waves and palm trees, he arranged his thoughts and came to terms with defeat.
Instead of heading home to heal after the Montreal war, Leonard had taken his family on vacation to Hawaii for two weeks’ thinking time. He took inventory of his life. So much had happened before, during and after the fight that he needed to let it all soak in. Only then would he make the decisions that mattered most. His family “was devastated,” he said. “My wife fainted. No one has ever seen me get hit like that or lose, so it was very traumatic. If you go back and watch the tapes you see people crying. My sister … they were all devastated.”
As his feet sank into the sand on his morning run, confusion, self-doubt and anger turned to burning desire. Duran had beaten him, insulted his wife, derided his masculinity, dashed his aura of invincibility and battered his ego. Yet