I was acutely aware of the peril of putting Ray in against a more physically imposing opponent. But it's always been my belief that easy victories can do as much harm as good. You don't learn. So we had to take the calculated risk of stepping up Ray's level of competition. Ray acquitted himself beautifully, winning a very physical fight with Geraldo and proving he was tough enough to tangle with natural middleweights.
Ray had answered my questions. He had matured physically, adding some weight so that he was now a solid 146 pounds. And mentally he had matured even faster, absorbing everything I tried to teach him—a little bit of Carmen Basilio, a touch of Ali, a shade of Willie Pastrano, and something of Ralph Dupas. And yet he was an original. He had his own style, a great change of pace, and tremendous speed. Jimmy Jacobs, who owned boxing's film library, said, "When you watch Leonard's fight films, you see a fighter who can throw combinations of four, five punches, missing you with the first two and knocking you out with the third."
And yet, even though veteran fight observer Cus D'Amato called Ray "the best finisher since Joe Louis," many in the fight racket were calling him "punchless." Punchless? The kid had twelve KOs in his twenty-one wins and he was called "punchless"? Come on! But these professional naysayers, many of whom could walk into a room filled with flowers and begin looking for the casket, had to find something wrong with every fighter. And for Sugar Ray, they wrote that while he was fast, "his speed took away from his punching power."
Maybe the reason the press downplayed Ray's skills and accomplishments had something to do with the fact that he had been anointed by Howard Cosell as the second coming of Muhammad Ali. And if Howard had said it, then it could be discounted at less than face value. One boxing writer, former light-heavyweight champion José Torres, said, "If there is a soul in our midst who thinks that Howard Cosell is a knowledgeable man of the sport of pugilism then it must be Howard Cosell." (Cosell was so disliked by sportswriters that when, in a voice sounding like a public prosecutor trying to nail a defendant for jaywalking to a life term, he bombastically proclaimed, "There are fewer great sports announcers than you think there are," one writer within earshot came back in an "Oh, please!" manner with, "Howard, there's one fewer than you think there is.") But Howard knew a superstar when he saw one, and he knew that Ray had the makings of one. "Forget it!" responded the pack of boxing writers who viewed Ray as just a made-for-TV phenomenon, unable to bring themselves to acknowledge that Leonard was as good as he was because that other medium, TV, had found him first.
But when Ray took out Tony Chiaverini in four and followed that with a knockout of North American Boxing Federation (NABF) champion Pete Ranzany in the same number of rounds and then put a exclamation point on his ability to punch with a one-round starching of Andy Price, the hard-boiled press finally came around, giving him his due. And, for lack of a more descriptive word, respect.
For Ray it had been like going to school. First he had to get through the elementary grades before graduating to the school of higher learning. Having passed through that with flying colors, he was now ready, only three years out of the amateurs, for his advanced schooling at the University of Fisticuffs against one of the professors of the "Sweet Science," the fighter who called himself "The Bible of Boxing"—Wilfred Benitez. The prize was the welterweight title.
A funny thing—not funny ha-ha, but funny absurd—happened to me on the way to the Benitez fight for the welterweight championship. I almost didn't make it to Ray's corner.
Just before Ray fought Floyd Mayweather Sr. in August 1978, I received what was tantamount to a "Dear John" letter from Ray's attorney, Mike Trainer, which read, in part: "I am concerned by the lack of time and effort you've put into Sugar Ray. As the second highest paid person in the organization we all expected more. To date your involvement has consisted of arriving approximately two days before a fight, meeting with the press, and working Ray's corner at fight time. More was expected of you. We must adjust your compensation so that it is more in line with your duties." I particularly liked the "sincerely" at the bottom.
It all read like an elaborate practical joke. I couldn't even begin to understand the depth of such idiotic remarks. How the hell did he know what went into the training of a fighter? He was a lawyer, one who admitted he "didn't know that much about boxing," and now he was accusing me of everything but overstaying my coffee break. Didn't he know that I had handpicked each and every one of Ray's opponents? Taken a fight apart like a watchmaker a clock, putting the pieces back together again and devising a strategy that would enable Ray to win? Improvised last-minute strategic changes? And advised him in the corner between rounds on how to carry out my instructions? Obviously Trainer had no understanding whatsoever of what trainers did or how valuable they were.
And what would he know about the little things a trainer does? It takes a lot of effort to make things look so effortless. Like going to the arena the day before a fight and looking at the location of the dressing room to see how far it is to the ring. And if there is no john in the dressing room, seeing how far it is to the closest available one. Little things like that, but important all the same because you want to get rid of the strangeness before a fight and make everything run smoothly. As a trainer, you have to think of everything or you don't think at all.
Mike Trainer had no clue. Nor did he care. This was the kind of man who would fake a sneeze when the collection plate came around. His only measuring stick was the amount of time spent and the dollar value of that time. That struck me as somewhat like the lawyer who, when asked by his client his opinion on a legal matter, went out of the room and came back in five minutes with the answer and a bill for $500.25. Asked by the client what the quarter was for, the lawyer answered that it was for looking up the answer to the question and the $500 was for knowing where to look it up. The same thing with a trainer. It's not just doing your day-to-day job, being yoked to the gym, it's the knowledge, the experience, and the expertise that a trainer acquires over years of practicing his craft and how he applies it.
Trainer further trivialized both me and my craft by treating me like some nine-to-fiver who punches a time clock like a lawyer fills in a timesheet. He wanted me to be with Ray every minute of every day. Only my wife gets that. What was I supposed to do? Open up the gym every morning and count the towels? Make sure the bags were hung up properly? Dave Anderson of the New York Times had once called me "the Michelangelo of boxing." Had Mike Trainer been around while Michelangelo was painting the Sistine Chapel, he probably would have had the great painter take his scaffolding home with him every night after he had finished that day's work and reconstruct the scaffolding the next morning before he started in again.
Oh, I knew all the things Trainer told the press to justify his desire to break the contract—things like: "Angelo was pushing himself to the front a little too much." And, "He was letting other people give him too much credit for matchmaking and career guidance that he knew he wasn't responsible for." All of which rang as phony as a sitcom laugh. When someone starts talking about the principle of the thing, it's all about the money. And that's what this was all about: the money, now that Ray had become an ATM machine.
When I had signed the contract Trainer had drawn up I agreed to receive 15 percent. At that time that was 15 percent of nothing. I took a flyer on how things would turn out. Who knew? One punch could end his career. And with his fragile hands, who could be sure that after only one, two, or three fights Ray's hands, or some other injury, wouldn't end his career? I had gambled on Ray's formidable talent and on my abilities. That had been okay when Ray was making $40,000 a fight and my take had been $6,000. But now, with visions of big-money fights dancing in their heads and the possibility of making money that hadn't even been printed yet, I was thought to be expensive and Trainer & Co. wanted to void the contract. How do you like them apples? They were shaking the tree for surplus money, and I was the one they were shaking out.
Now my mother had taught me to be "nice." She
always had a pot of coffee on the stove in case visitors dropped by and was always the first to take food to shut-ins. "It doesn't cost anything to be nice" was her motto. It was something I tried to carry with me all my life. Gene Kilroy once said of me, "If you told Angelo that Charles Manson was a bad guy, Angie would say, 'Well there's one or two things about him that aren't so bad.' " So it was that it took me a month to reply to Trainer's insulting letter, nicely pointing out to him that I believed I was doing a great job with Ray and that my value was not to be dictated by other people's opinions but by the fact that Ray was unbeaten and coming along, growing with every fight. Furthermore, I expected to be paid what had been promised in the contract.
Trainer's reply was laughable, his letter stating, "Unfortunately, Ray Leonard's win-loss record is not the only measure of your performance." Can you believe that? What would have happened if he had been beaten? Trainer would probably have had me tried for a hanging offense.
For the next year-plus the contract dispute continued to simmer as Trainer continued to prod me—not gentle prods, mind you, but elbow-poking ones. With more important things to do, like focusing on the things that could win Ray's fights, I hired a lawyer to communicate with Trainer. But Trainer wouldn't answer my lawyer's calls or letters, only calling me to snarl, "Quit badgering me ... get him off me." It was less a communications divide than no communications at all. So much for trying to resolve the matter amicably.
And so it dragged on. Needless to say, the dispute hardly created a harmonious relationship with the Leonard camp or with Trainer. In fact, whenever I was around Trainer I would suddenly develop a fierce desire to be lonesome and avoid him. The one time we talked about the contract, he told me that Ray Leonard Inc. would agree to pay me 15 percent of the fight proceeds as long as Sugar Ray "chose to let me appear in the corner." What was that? If Ray wanted me in his corner, why not leave well enough alone? And if he didn't, why not come right out and say it? I couldn't believe that Ray was behind all this. It had to be Trainer.
The whole thing finally came to a head before one of Ray's fights, I think it was the Johnny Gant fight. I was in the dressing room with Ray, Janks Morton, Ollie Dunlop, Dave Jacobs, J. D. Brown, and the entire Leonard team, minus Mike Trainer. Then Trainer walked in, sucking all of the air out of the room. Holding a yellow piece of paper, he came up to me and said, "Ray doesn't want any long-term contracts." I looked at him, looked at the paper, and said nothing. He almost crammed the piece of paper down my throat, bullying me where persuasion would not work, and told me, "Just sign this ... it's okay ... sign it or you're out of here!"
While I had hoped to avoid such a scene, he had obviously chosen the dressing room for a showdown, stage-managing the whole thing so that he could pressure me with his "or else" ultimatum while everyone was there to witness it. Their staring-at-ceiling-tiles silence gave tacit approval to his breaking the contract. He had me at a disadvantage and was pushing me to sign that piece of yellow paper releasing Ray and Ray Leonard Inc. from any long-term obligation to me, substituting a fight-to-fight contract and a cap on my earnings. And so while everyone stood around shuffling their feet and clearing their throats, under compulsion I did the only thing I could, I signed the damned paper.
Almost immediately after I signed the piece of yellow paper, Ray came over and said, "It'll be alright." Then he gave me a "You're the greatest" hug, one he held so long I was afraid rumors about the two of us would start. I could feel a circle of sadness in his hug as if he knew he could have stood up for me and didn't, instead passively acquiescing to Trainer's chicanery. I have always wondered why he didn't step forward and say something, just as Muhammad Ali had to promoter Don King when he told King to "leave Angie alone." Instead, Ray chose to second Trainer's actions.
Everyone in the boxing community said I should sue Trainer and Ray Leonard Inc. for forcing me to sign under duress. But I didn't want to make a fuss. After all, I hadn't built Ray up only to tear him down. And a nasty legal battle, letting the public in on our private affairs, would have done that. It would have hurt Ray, and I couldn't do that.
As for Mike Trainer, his very name still gives me a problem! It's always been my policy that if I don't have anything nice to say about someone I don't say anything at all. So instead of saying anything derogatory about Trainer, I'll let the words of my old friend, publicist Irving Rudd, speak for me. Rudd once said, "How can you work for that putz? He's the worst son-of-a-bitch alive."
Well, maybe not the worst, but I'd put him in the competition and bet on him. It's a guarantee we won't be exchanging cards at Christmas time.
But as I look back, I wish Ray had said something, anything, and stood up for me. I have always liked him and always will, but that I'll never understand.
A few months after my confrontation with Trainer the situation lightened up. I had an all-new two-year contract, albeit one with a cap on my future earnings, and Ray, as a way of reaching out to me, came down to Miami to visit Helen and me. When he returned home he sent me the following note:
Hello Buddies,
Just a few lines to say things are going well, and I am very happy to say that not only have I found the world's greatest manager and wife but two dynamite friends.
Love Ya!
The Next World Champ, Sugar Ray
How could you not like a kid like that? It restored my faith in Ray. We were once again a team, the same team that had come this far together and now had a chance to fulfill his promise to become "The Next World Champ," although Mike Trainer had broken the trust between us somewhat. The only thing that stood in the way was the current welterweight champ: Wilfred Benitez.
Wilfred Benitez was a slick, sleek fighter, well-nigh impossible to hit. A turnaround right-hander who fought with his feet spread wide apart, Benitez was a throwback to fighters of old who, with great head and body movement, could offer up their heads as bait and then, bending and bobbing to evade their opponents' punches, almost as if by radar, make you miss and counter with catlike springiness. An ambidextrous counter-puncher, Benitez was most effective with what Carlos Palomino called a "sneaky" right hand.
Benitez had become boxing's youngest-ever champion when, at the tender age of seventeen, his face still a stranger to the razor, he had beaten the legendary junior welterweight champ Antonio "Kid Pambele" Cervantes. After three successful defenses, Benitez had vacated the junior welterweight title to campaign as a full-fledged welterweight, winning the world welterweight title in January 1979.
But despite Benitez's 37–0–1 record, the fight mob had installed Sugar Ray as a 3–1 favorite. There was no way they should have made Sugar Ray the favorite. And not a 3–1 favorite. You had to respect Benitez's experience and skill. The only reason I could think of was that almost from the night he had turned pro, Sugar Ray had been acclaimed by the TV networks and accepted by the boxing public as the greatest thing since "The Greatest" himself, Muhammad Ali. Hey, Ray had been on TV more than Archie Bunker and was someone with charisma, what I call "IT." He was not just another of boxing's flavor of the month, but boxing's new poster boy.
Dave Condon of the Chicago Tribune had another reason for the odds favoring Sugar Ray, writing, "The oddsmakers may feel that Sugar Ray has the edge because Angelo Dundee is in his corner. The boxing and betting fraternities, which sometimes have a working agreement, do not forget that Ali became heavyweight champion because Dundee shoved him out of the corner back into that 1964 fracas with Sonny Liston." I was flattered that someone suggested that Sugar Ray had an edge because I was working with him. But as I've said time and time again, it isn't me but the guy in the ring who wins. Hey, I'm only as good as the guy who answers the bell.
No matter what the odds were, I still thought that this fight was a coin toss. Sugar Ray was in against another potential all-time great, in many ways a mirror image of Ray—and, yes, using another of boxing's overused phrases, "the best man" would win.
The fight itself was almost a finishing school for box
ing, an instructional lesson in how to box. From the moment both climbed into the ring, you knew it was going to be less a war than a chess match between two grandmasters, each intent upon leaving his own indelible stamp of greatness on the outcome. There was Benitez drinking in the cheers of the crowd, bowing to each of the four corners while Ray was holding his arms aloft in his familiar victory pose. Then they squared off in a staredown worthy of the word, Benitez shamelessly posturing with an air of self-absorption bordering on arrogance while Ray, standing nose-to-nose with Benitez, stared back with unblinking eyes affecting his own "I can" attitude. As Ray would later say, "He won that round."
The two fought with the same confidence, Leonard continually pumping his left jab in Benitez's face while remaining wary of Benitez's "sneaky" right. For two rounds, while I continued to holler, "Use the left, Ray, the left," Leonard peppered Benitez with that schoolbook jab of his, bringing tears to the eyes of Benitez and tears of joy to mine. Toward the end of the third round, Ray knocked the squared-up and off-balance Benitez down with a cross between a left jab and a left hook. Benitez arose, more embarrassed than hurt, smiling to himself as much as to the crowd.
But if Ray was going to school, constantly learning, so, too, was Benitez who sometimes made lighting-quick moves, making Ray look foolish by slipping under his big right-hand bombs and countering on the inside. By the sixth round—a round in which the two collided with freight-train force, leaving Leonard dazed and Benitez's forehead bloodied—Benitez began to lose his eight months of ring rust and started landing right-hand leads to Leonard's head. Despite Benitez's twenty-three knockouts, he still had the reputation of not having enough power "to break an egg"—again, credit Palomino. But he was connecting with what Ray called "some dynamite shots," one of which rocked Ray in the seventh.
My View from the Corner Page 29
