Hands of Stone - Christian Giudice [12]
Roberto loved it, however, and soon had his first amateur bout under Medina’s tutelage. The details have been lost to history but he could have been no more than nine years old, and the result was controversial. “He lost his first fight,” said Medina, “but the spectators protested the decision because he had even knocked down his opponent.” Toti concurred. “He lost his first fight because the arbiter was the boxer’s father. Roberto knocked him down three times but the fight was given to the other one.”
His mother, who remembered her sister Gladys initiating her son into boxing, was the last to know of her son’s new pursuit. “One night a person came to see me and told me Roberto was going to fight that night in El Maranon Stadium,” said Clara. “I then said, ‘Oh, my God. This is not what I want for him.’ But when I realized this was the sport he liked, I let him stay there. I used to make promises to the Virgen del Carmen but I also cried a lot. This was not what I wanted for him. He was a vivacious kid. I remember when he had a fight at the Maranon. Roberto was winning but when the referee decided to give the fight to his rival, Roberto gave the referee a terrible punch.”
Roberto began to leave Chaflan and the old crowd behind and to adopt a discipline beyond anything he had learned in random street brawls. Unlike the streets, boxing demanded dedication, precision and self-sacrifice and was an unforgiving, often brutal master. Battered faces and bruised minds were the lot of ex-boxers, even good ones, and most ended their careers as poor as they had started. The veteran Medina was still intending to box himself and couldn’t divide his time equally between his own career and training youngsters. Instead, Roberto found a trainer who would become like family. In boxing, relationships come apart like worn Velcro. Trainers once treated like family become dispensable and loyalty in the corner counts for nothing in the end. Everything in boxing, from the hiring and firing of friends to the hoarding of that last penny, is a transaction and the old adage “It’s just business” is as common as a pair of wraps in the fight game. Wads of bills displace family; empty promises dissolve friendships.
But when Duran met Nestor “Plomo” Quinones, a former amateur boxer, a longtime bond was forged. In his signature driver’s cap, Plomo (which translates as “lead” or “bullet,” a relic of his days as a pistol-toting detective) was becoming one of Panama’s best trainers. A man with a warm handshake, expressive eyes and a slow, cautious manner, he filled space …
Some individuals can signify emotion through their reactions without saying a word. By reading Plomo’s eyes it is easy to see satisfaction when they dart approvingly eyeing money, or disappointment when they sag with his cheeks when the proposition doesn’t fit with him. In both instances, the translations are succinct even to the foreigner. Plomo no longer forges ahead. The man enters space as milk fills a glass, slow and with caution. Plomo slithers around the gym like a lazy snake, his life, health and money have dissolved in accordance with Duran’s. With his cap, cocked in a manner that makes him simultaneously appear old, innocuous and totally exasperated by life, Plomo greets people with a nod of the head from across the room.
“There were fights between clubs from Chorrillo, Maranon, and I think I was fighting out of the Club Cincuentenario,” recalled Duran. “One day I go to the Maranon Gym and I see Plomo and tell him I want him to be my trainer because at the time I didn’t have anyone to train me. Plomo wouldn’t pay any attention to me because I was just a kid. He weighed me with clothing and all and I was ninety-five pounds.”
Quinones did not want to take on Duran right away, not only because of his age but also because he questioned whether one so young would stick it out. “Medina