Hands of Stone - Christian Giudice [2]
The boxing scene in Panama is a story in itself, a gallery of memorable, glittering characters. Every gym tells a tale. One couldn’t go into the Papi Mendez Gym without seeing Celso Chavez Sr. in a corner cajoling a fighter while his son Celso Jr. wrapped the hands of another prospect. Look closely and there was the prince of Panamanian boxing, two-time lightweight champ Ismael “El Tigre” Laguna, playing dominoes with friends on a corner, or light-flyweight champ Roberto Vasquez knocking an opponent senseless in an El Maranon Gym. Dozens of boxing lifers greet people at the entrance to Panama’s most popular gym Jesus Master Gomez in Barraza, while Yeyo “El Mafia” Cortez and Franklin Bedoya reminisce at the Pedro Alcazar Gym in Curundu. Young fighters mimic two-time world champ Hilario Zapata’s squatting defensive style or Eusebio Pedroza’s brilliance off the ropes. They listen closely to caustic woman trainer Maria Toto as she barks instructions in a gym in San Miguelito, while others hone their skills in Panama Al Brown Gym in “the cradle of champions,” Colon. All the while, the sounds of “yab, yab, yab” filter through the heat. And no one in Panama would even know about boxing if it weren’t for the voice of the isthmus, Lo Mejor de Boxeo’s Juan Carlos Tapia, a man who spits quick-witted Tapiaisms at a feverish rate. Most of the twenty-three (at the time of writing) living world champs meet for reunions at local cards, while boxing wannabes throw combinations in the corners at amateur bouts. Sit down at fight night, grab a local Atlas beer or a bucket of ice with a bottle of Seco-Herrano, a chorizo meat kabob, and prepare for bedlam. You never know what might happen.
“I am Duran,” the man used to say after fights, as if the statement spoke for itself. Pure and simple, nothing more or less, just the exclamation that there was not another human on this earth like him. In the ring, there wasn’t. With his blend of skill and ferocity, the greased back hair and sharp beard, the man they called Cholo (for his mixed Indian heritage) had the best boxers of his generation against the ropes. Duran in full flow was a curious but riveting combination of in-your-face chaos and relentless beauty. As a person he lived just as freely, without caution.
Roberto Duran knows about pain. He knows what it’s like to make an opponent succumb before stepping foot in the ring. He knows, inside in his corazon, his heart, what it’s like to watch a man feel fear. For he did that with a look, one brazen, cocksure glance that had those same men trembling as they taped their hands or worked up a pre-fight sweat. He did it often, and with aplomb, stole men’s hearts without trying. That was Duran.
Roberto Duran knows about torture. He knows what it’s like to crowd a man, stick him in the ropes, rake his eyes with his beard, jumble his senses with a short hook, bust him below the belt, thumb him, break his will with a running right hand. He knows what it’s like to make a man cringe with every punch, break him down so thoroughly so that he would never return the same again. Some never recovered, and they saw that face, that beard, those eyes, and were reminded of the man every time they threw a punch, feinted, jabbed. It was Duran, that face, that look.
Roberto Duran knows about struggle. He knows what it’s like to spend his childhood finding ways to provide for his mother. He knows about living with nothing – and still reaching in his pocket to give to others. He knows about poverty, disease, sorrow – and how to dissolve tears with a smile. That’s Roberto Duran.
Roberto Duran knows about ecstasy. He knows the feeling of beating a man, an idea, a creation, a nation, to believe there wasn’t another human on earth who could challenge him. He knows what it’s like to hang through the ropes with tears rushing down, and hear an entire arena sing an anthem in his honor. He knows what it’s like to have an entire