Hands of Stone - Christian Giudice [153]
And then there was Davey Moore. Moore was like a brother to Barkley. They had grown up together in the South Bronx, boxed as amateurs together, sparred with and supported each other as pros. But Duran had ruined Davey’s promising career. He was never the same after that brutal beating in New York, had gone into a decline, lost fights he should have won. In June 1988, in a freak accident, Moore left his car idling in reverse when he stepped out to open his garage door; the car backed up and crushed him to death in the driveway. He was twenty-eight years old.
Iran Barkley became Davey’s avenging angel. “If he thumbs me like he did to Davey, I’ll thumb him,” vowed Barkley. “If he bites me, I’ll bite him. If he kicks me, I’ll kick him. I’m gonna clear Davey’s name. This is a personal vendetta.”
Based on recent performances, Duran didn’t deserve a title fight, especially against a warrior as formidable as Barkley. But he still had marquee value and also the backing of WBC president Jose Sulaiman, who had often helped him in the past. Barkley’s management had also been convinced by Duran’s lacklustre showing against Jeff Lanas that while the veteran might stick around for a few rounds and make a fight of it, he had little chance of winning. They agreed to a defense of the title on February 24, 1989, in Atlantic City. Coming from the viscid heat of Panama, Duran would be forced to see his breath in the frigid New Jersey night.
Yet Duran could sense something, as he had with Hagler, Cuevas, and so many other hard men. He appeared not the least bit intimidated. “Barkley’s the one who’s going to have to worry,” he said calmly. “I’m going to prove I’m not finished.” Barkley’s wide-open, wade-in style was made for the older Duran, who now liked men to come to him rather than having to chase as he did in his youth. Barkley could be tagged and hurt, had taken punishment in the past and was technically clumsy. “The wind is old but it keeps blowing” was an old proverb Duran was fond of quoting. He believed that he knew too much for Barkley. He had been boxing professionally for twenty-one years. The consensus, however, was that Barkley was too big, too young, too tough and too strong.
Duran came into camp at a whopping 220 pounds, having put back on all the weight he had lost for the Lanas fight. Now handled by promoter Luis DeCubas, advisers Mike Acri and Jeff Levine, he went through hell in his Miami training camp. “He had to get back down to a hundred and fifty-six,” said DeCubas. “In sparring sessions he was getting the shit kicked out of him on a regular basis. Then, as he got down in weight, he would do the kicking. The reason we got the Barkley fight was because of the Jeff Lanas fight. Barkley saw Duran in that fight and thought it was going to be an easy fight for him.” Added Acri, “We were tough on him and I think he respected us for that reason. We would tell him he looked like shit when other people wouldn’t. But you had to stand up to the guy or he would run right over you.”
It had been close to two decades since Duran had overwhelmed Ken Buchanan and a long time since he had been the favorite in a title fight. Boxers of his magnitude rarely threw up so many contradictions. Arguably the greatest fighters of the Eighties were Leonard, Hearns, and Hagler. Hagler didn’t always fight with passion; Leonard had his detractors, who despised his showboating; Hearns could be hurt and knocked down. All three had their deficiencies but their careers did not have the extreme highs and lows of Duran’s. There were no Kirkland Laings or Robbie Sims on their records and they never neglected training. None had such a gap between their zenith and nadir. However, when Duran entered the ring, the audience knew they “were going to see a fight,” whether it was a good one or not. It wasn’t going to be a dance or a sideshow.
If Duran hadn’t sunk low in previous fights it wouldn’t have been what Gil Clancy called “a miracle” when Duran pasted Moore. To his credit, the fact that Duran