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guy in the ring,” said former pro Mario Molo. “[He] never tried to knock me out in practice. He tried to learn and I would learn also. We both became better boxers. He tried to teach me while boxing me.” Molo, who later fell on hard times, can still be seen at boxing shows in Panama. “Mario Molo was one of the first sparrings we used,” said Plomo. “He would last longer [than others]. In general, they were not able to resist Duran’s blow during training much of the time. To Duran training time was like real fight time. ‘Hit me hard because I will hit you hard back,’ he used to say. He did not mind who it was, his brother or anyone. He used to request that the other hit as strong as if it were the real fight. This is what I call to train thoroughly. This is good work.”

EVERY SO often, the streetfighter in Roberto Duran reappeared. He found it hard to stay out of trouble. Even with Carlos Eleta by his side and with his potential unfolding in the ring, Duran wasn’t guaranteed a free pass with the law. “When I was still living out of the hotel, there were three big bars: Atlas, Ranchero and Balboa,” Duran recalled. “They all played music. My mom’s friend worked in a restaurant called El Limite. We used to invite my mom to eat where her friend worked. Once, I went to a dance and my mom’s friend was discussing something with another person. I intervened, but they started fighting. I tried to separate them, but I feel somebody’s hands on my neck from behind. I got him and I flipped him; he tried to stand up and I hit him. The man tried to get up again and I punched him.”

The police arrived as Duran was working the guy over. “Four guards fell on top of me. I was taken to jail that night in front of a judge named Belillo, who adored the policemen. We saw the judge, that son of a bitch, I hope he dies of cancer, and the other guy said that he was stopping the fight and that I hit him. Then he said that he was a policeman and he had tried to show me his badge. The judge wouldn’t let me talk. So I was sent to a jail called Cárcel Modelo, where they only sent the most violent criminals.”

Cárcel Modelo translates, apparently without irony, as Model Jail. An ugly, four-story block, it was built in 1925 in Panama City to house approximately 250 inmates. When Duran arrived there, it held over 1,000 men in appalling conditions. Cells built for three men now contained up to fifteen and prisoners awaiting trial were often kept for interminable periods. Torture, particularly of political detainess, was widely believed to take place there.

Duran found himself in a cell with men even more intimidating than himself. “There were two people: a Peruvian wrestler and a huge black man who looked like he killed somebody. The jail was called la preventiva [a system of remand where prisoners considered a serious risk are incarcerated before trial], where the very bad people went. When someone new arrived, they made all of the inmates line up. There were cells on both sides, and as I was walking inside, the prisoners started shouting, ‘Here comes a new one.’ They would take all the prisoners out and make them stand on a line. I heard them shouting, ‘Here comes fresh meat.’ At that time I was already boxing, with Eleta consolidating it. When the inmates saw me, they knew me. They all asked me, ‘What are you doing here? What are you doing Duran?’”

Despite his minor celebrity, in jail he was just another face. Duran knew he was in danger every minute he stayed in la preventiva. All his life, Duran had fought his way out of problems, and he always hit first. Now he was among desperate people who didn’t care who he was, and his fists meant nothing. For the first time he could remember, Duran needed protection. Luckily he found someone who would watch his back.

“We had to sleep on the floor,” said Duran. “The inmates gave me cardboard, another gave me a pillow and another one gave me a blanket. Later, some guy started to stare at me, a white guy, and he got closer and he told me he was Taras Bulba, the Peruvian wrestler. He told me he had lots of jewelry