My View from the Corner

by Angelo Dundee

  One moment here was the toughest hombre on the boxing block, boxing's noblest savage. And the next, wildly out of character, he was a beaten man, waving his hands in a cross between "get lost" and "your mother wears army boots." What had happened to turn the sneering model of machismo, the legendary Manos de Piedras into a quitter?

  There were so many different theories as to why Duran had quit it is almost a case of "you pays your money and take your choice." And most of the choices were more expansive than plausible, because nothing about it was plausible. Ray Arcel, Duran's cotrainer, scratched his head and said, "This is the last guy in the world I would ever have thought this would happen to." He didn't have any reason why. One who did was Duran's cotrainer Freddie Brown, who carried blarney off its feet by venturing that Duran had stomach cramps—that it was something he ate, something he later admitted he had concocted. Baloney! To me it was a similar situation to the first Clay-Liston fight in which Ali had gotten to Liston psychologically. Ray was playing with Duran, making him look silly, humiliating him, and nobody had ever handled Duran that way before.

  Duran may have explained the unexplainable years later when he said, "Leonard is from the United States ... they let him do anything he wants. They let him clown around; they let him make a show." And to Duran that was the greatest insult, both to his machismo and to his sport—a sport he believed was a battle between two men for fistic supremacy, no more, no less. To Duran, Ray Leonard had demeaned the sport, not him.

  As for what he said to Meyran, it definitely was not the two words he would forever be tarred and feathered with: No mas. That was somebody else's interpretation of what he said, probably Howard Cosell's, who was broadcasting the fight. In anguish and in English, what I heard him say was "I fight no more." That was it. Twice. But from the look on his face he probably meant those words to mean something along the lines of "I came in here to fight and if he's not fighting, then I'm not. Screw it!"

  Whatever the reasons for Duran's actions, it was a shame. A shame that this living legend would forever be remembered for this one moment more than for his previous seventy-two fights. And it was a shame his macho image was now in tatters. For Roberto Duran was no quitter. He was a noble warrior who had been turned ignoble by someone who dared to challenge his machismo.

  It was also a shame for Ray who, having been denied the ultimate satisfaction of destroying Duran, never getting the full credit he deserved for his magnificent performance. After all, it had been Ray who had outboxed Duran. It had been Ray who had controlled Duran. And it had been Ray who had made Duran quit. But his victory was tarnished in the minds of many by Duran's "quitting," several suspecting the bizarre way in which the fight had ended was only a prelude to a third bout between the two. Many in the press put a negative spin on Ray's win discounting it as a win over, and here I quote one, "a fat, over-the-hill Duran." Ray bristled at such criticism, feeling that it "threw all the happiness out the window."

  A full appreciation of Ray's talents and achievements would have to wait until his fight with Tommy Hearns.

  SIXTEEN

  Hearns, Retirement—and a "Marvelous" Comeback

  Copyright © 2008 by Angelo Dundee and Bert Randolph Sugar Click here for terms of use.

  Three months before Sugar Ray Leonard's return-bout victory over Roberto Duran, Tommy Hearns had scored a devastating two-round knockout of Pipino Cuevas to win the World Boxing Association (WBA) welterweight belt. Now, with Ray wearing the World Boxing Council's WBC hardware and Tommy the WBA's, it was a given the two would fight a showdown for the unification of the title. Everywhere you went you could hear people talking about—no, demanding—such a showdown. But hey, I only went to places where people talked boxing anyway. It was what we call in boxing a "natural."

  But even while the two camps were dotting the i's and crossing the t's on the contracts for the inevitable showdown, there was still some business to attend to: a defense of Ray's WBC title against Larry Bonds at the Carrier Dome in Syracuse. Now at most prefight press conferences you usually see the makings of a grudge match with the two fighters confronting one another with a lot of saber-rattling, saying something or other about how each is going to beat the other's brains out. Only this time, instead of faking a punch or spouting the usual prefight palaver, there was Larry Bonds coming over to Ray with some eight-by-ten glossies for Ray to sign. As he made his way over, publicist Irving Rudd, catching sight of him, ran over and hollered, "Bonds, put those goddamn pictures away right now! Are you crazy?" And with that Bonds, getting the message, quickly put away the pictures. Ray had only a little more trouble disposing of Bonds than Bonds had of the pictures, TKOing him in ten rounds.

  Finally, after some serious pull-me-push-you negotiations, the contracts for a September 1981 showdown between Leonard and Hearns were signed with more than enough money involved to ensure that everyone who had a cut of the pie would soon have his own unlisted tax bracket. However, before the ultimate matchup the two were scheduled to fight in a doubleheader against different opponents in "tune-up" fights as part of the buildup for the fight itself, a calculated showcase to hype the closed-circuit gate.

  Here it must be pointed out that there is no written guarantee a "tune-up" will go according to plan. Many is the time a planned-for fight has been derailed by just such a tune-up. Take Jackie Cranford who had been penciled in as a potential opponent for Joe Louis only to lose his chance when he lost a ten-rounder to Gino Buonvino. Or more recently, when Tommy Morrison, guaranteed an opportunity against Lennox Lewis, took on Michael Bentt in a "tune-up" and lost both his bout and his chance in one round.

  For their tune-ups Hearns pulled nondescript welterweight Pablo Baez who possessed a somewhat less-than-sterling record of eleven wins and nine losses. Ray, having drawn the short straw, got undefeated junior middleweight champ Ayub Kalule. As advertised, Tommy did his part, sending Baez to the showers in less than his promised fifteen minutes of fame, KO'ing him in four. Ray, however, found his tune-up no such walk in the park and had to go nine hard-fought rounds before dispatching Kalule.

  With the tune-up fights behind us, it was time to prepare for the fight itself, one called "The Showdown" and being ballyhooed as yet another "Fight of the Century"—as if we hadn't run out of centuries and were working on some century way into the future. Three months to train and to break down the other's strengths and weakness, although by this time each camp knew almost every little thing there was to know about the other fighter, having studied him almost every step and punch along the way.

  Physically, Hearns was as tall as a church steeple, his 6' 1" frame topped by a heavy upper body poised atop a 30-inch waist and spindly praying mantis–like legs with no rump to speak of, all of which gave the look of a fighting machine on stilts. But his most dominant physical characteristic was his gangly arms. With the wingspan of a small airplane, his 78-inch reach was longer than all but four heavyweight champions, with huge ham hock–like fists the Armour Packing Co. would have been proud of.

  It was that reach and those fists that had produced thirty knockouts in his thirty-two fights, a 94 percent slugging average, and earned him the nickname the "Hit Man" as well as the reputation of being invincible. But scouring the list of those who stood on the side of the undertaker after having faced Tommy, you could see that it was dotted with many names that read more like toe tags than fighters except for one Class A fighter—Pipino Cuevas. And it was his two-round knockout of Cuevas that had earned Hearns his fame. But hey, my guys had faced so-called "invincibles" before. Muhammad Ali fought George Foreman, who went into the fight with thirty-seven KOs of his forty opponents. Earlier, as Cassius Clay, Ali faced Sonny Liston, who had 25 KOs in his thirty-six fights. So it was nothing new to me. I just had to devise a strategy to offset that power, a strategy that would have my guy play checkers with Tommy and keep him one move ahead of by putting moves on Hearns he'd never seen before.

  Looking at films of Tommy's fights, it was evident he was at hi
s most dangerous at long range. He mastered smaller fighters—and who in the welterweight division wasn't?—by being able to take one step back with his right leg and still set up, forcing his smaller opponents backward with that long left jab of his, keeping them at the end of his punches. He threw that left at one speed, covering his opponent's left eye, and then would come back with that grenade of a right of his at a faster speed. And sometimes he would wave that gangly left arm of his in a hypnotic movement, throwing his opponent's timing off and making it difficult, if not impossible, to step inside where Tommy's long arms put him at a disadvantage.

  But Tommy was programmed. He always started his offense with the same feint. And when he did, Ray would be prepared to move inside where the balance of power was all Ray's, being better coordinated and able to get off quicker, especially with his left hook. While Tommy could hit solidly from the outside, he was always off-balance and flat-footed when he missed and could be hit, his defense not the greatest. He always fought off-balance, even having trouble skipping rope and hitting the speed bag. I fully believed that Ray could use that lack of balance to get inside and outmaneuver him.

  Put it all together and I not only thought Ray would make the "Hit Man" the "Hittee Man," but that Ray would knock out the knockout puncher. And because Ray could take a helluva punch I didn't give Tommy much of a chance of KO'ing Ray.

  But if I had made a study of Tommy, so too had Tommy's trainer, Emanuel Steward, made a study of Ray. Manny went back a long way with Ray, all the way back to Ray's days as an amateur when Ray had trained at Manny's Kronk Gym in Detroit for the National Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) finals. It was here that he had won the gym nickname "Superbad" for what Manny called his "dazzling speed" and "great power."

  Manny also had known Tommy since he was a skinny ten-year-old fifty-five-pounder who would go on to win 155 amateur fights, only 12 of those by knockouts. As an alternate battle plan, Manny devised a strategy to use the boxing skills Tommy had shown as an amateur, long before he had taught Tommy to "set down" on his punches, and to box if he had to in order to keep Ray on the outside. It was that alternate plan Tommy gave voice to when he told the media, "It will come as a surprise when Ray finds out I can box as well as punch."

  But, as I was to find out later, there was one thing Manny hadn't planned on. And that was Tommy running twice a day to make weight. Steward was now afraid that the extra roadwork would drain Hearns and that his slender, twig-like pins wouldn't hold up through the fifteen-round fight.

  You could see the effects of Tommy's attempt to make weight at the weigh-in. He looked emaciated. When he stepped on the scale he came in at a surprising 145 pounds, two pounds below the welterweight limit. Taking one look at Hearns's skeletal form, Ray said, "He looks like one of those starving people you see on posters from Ethiopia." To me he looked slat-thin and gaunt, as if he had nothing.

  But looks can be deceiving, as we would soon find out.

  At 7:30 P.M. on Wednesday, September 16, 1981, the temperature was the usual Las Vegas hot, about 100 degrees in the desert twilight but even hotter under the lights inside the canopied ring sitting atop the asphalt paving behind Caesars Palace. (Most natives of Las Vegas try to explain away the heat by saying it's dry heat, but then again, so's a microwave.) The temperature was heated even more by Tommy Hearns's withering evil-eye "look" cast through a half-shrouded gaze in the direction of Ray as he entered the ring. It was a "look" that had cowed many an opponent even before the first punch had been thrown.

  But Ray wouldn't give Tommy the satisfaction of looking his way. Instead, he was totally focused on his mission, spelled out on the back of his robe: Deliverance. Stripping the word of its fig leaf it was merely an expression of Ray's desire to gain what actor Rodney Dangerfield would call "respect"—not just from his hard-hitting opponent but from the hardboiled sportswriters who had discounted his accomplishments, particularly his win over Roberto Duran. Ray had even been sold short by the betting fans who had bought into Tommy's so-called "invincibility" and made him the 6½–5 favorite. But Ray had great belief in himself and in what he had to do to prove himself to all the doubting Thomases, Richards, and Harrys, and he couldn't have cared less about Tommy's "look."

  Even before the echo of the opening bell had died down, it was evident the two had read the other's playbook as they engaged more in a chess match than a boxing match. Tommy's heavyweight reach controlled what little action there was as Ray constantly moved away, slip-sliding backward—always one step in front of that jab. The closest Tommy got to Ray came at the very end of the round when Ray put his glove on Tommy's head and disdainfully pushed it, and Tommy retaliated with a crisp right to the chops after the bell. Referee Davey Pearl put a quick end to such extracurricular activities, and Ray turned to his corner, wiggling his hips as he walked back to it, while Tommy pointed a glove at Ray and flashed another malevolent "look" in his direction.

  The second round was more of the same, sort of a form of fistic filibustering, as Ray circled the stationary Hearns like a mongoose in an attempt to tire out the man who had gone more than four rounds only eight times in his thirty-two-fight career—fitting, as Hearns had chosen to be introduced by his alternate nickname, "The Motor City Cobra." Partial to a single orthodoxy, Tommy just stood there throwing out his long left all the while prospecting for an opening to land that crushing right of his, which had skewered thirty previous opponents. But Hearns was unable to strike up even a waving acquaintance with Ray.

  For two rounds Tommy's style made great demands on Ray. It was like trying to take cheese from a set mousetrap. Every time Ray tried to get inside Tommy's 4½-inch-longer reach, he was met with a wicked jab. And all it had gotten him was a mouse under his left eye. It was now time to step up the action.

  Exhorting Ray to "go out there and get him," I pushed him out of the corner for the third. But as he went out to take the fight to Tommy, Ray stepped into the path of one of Tommy's rights. And surprise of surprises, he didn't even blink. Now Ray knew he could take anything Tommy threw and stood his ground, swapping shots. For the first time Ray scored with his own right as Hearns, momentarily confused by Ray's quick hands and agility, went into retreat. At the bell a confident Ray raised his hands over his head. He now knew he would win, not merely that he could.

  Rounds Four and Five mirrored the first two, sandwiched around Ray's third, with Hearns pecking away at Ray's angry-looking eye, looking for a way to break Ray down. But one thing was different. Ray, unable to reach Hearns to the head, was quietly moving inside with shots to the body. Still, they were rounds for Hearns. Barely. But something had to be done to alter the course of the fight, so before Round Six I exhorted Ray, "Come on, let's get this guy."

  Now for the first time Ray was crowding Tommy, moving inside, looking for Tommy to make a mistake. I shouted as loud as I could—which for those who don't know me, was not very loud because of my high-pitched voice—"Speed ... Ray ... speed." Ray turned it on, catching Tommy with a right over his low-held left and then a left over his equally low-held right. Now I changed my tune, screaming, "The left hook ... the left hook." And there it was, coming abruptly out of nowhere, threading the needle over Tommy's too slowly brought back right. Suddenly, the fight turned over on its back as for the first time in his career Tommy was hurt. He reeled backward under a barrage of blows. Numbered among them was a hard left hook to Hearns's unprotected rib cage, causing him to grimace in pain, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  The dynamics of the fight had changed. Once the pursuer, Hearns was now the pursued, as well as the boxer as he tried to fend off Ray. And Ray was now the puncher as he rattled more left hooks off Tommy's jaw than Hearns had been hit with in his previous thirty-two fights combined. Throughout the seventh Ray continued to penetrate the would-be defense of Hearns, landing left hooks from in close as the crowd began to chant, "Sugar Ray ... Sugar Ray." Unable to keep the swarming Leonard off, Hearns merely grappled to keep Ray away.
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br />   At the end of the round Hearns staggered off on legs that were strangers to each other, heading somewhere in the vague direction of his corner, much the worse for wear. Ray, too, looked weary, breathing heavily from his prolonged fungo practice and saying, "I had him. ..."

  The eighth was more of the same, but you could see Ray's attack winding down even as the crowd continued to chant and we exhorted him from the corner, "Box, Ray ... body, Ray." Hearns, trying desperately to stem the tide that was all Ray, attempted to catch Ray with a right. But, as the round wound down to a close with Ray swarming in, he took off on his bicycle, throwing out his long left in a getaway manner.

  Tommy returned to his corner just one punch away from "Queer Street," a condition hardly lost on his trainer, Manny Steward, who was doing anything and everything he could to bring his fighter out of it—including shouting at him, "If you're not going to fight, I'm going to stop it." Finally, grasping at any straw to stay the inevitable, Steward said, "Let's go back to the amateur days." And with that, beginning in the ninth, Tommy reverted to his amateur style, the style that had enabled him to win 155 fights. Suddenly gone were his attempts to gain leverage by leaning in. Gone, too, were his flat-footed attempts at a knockout. But also gone was the stationary target Ray had found so inviting for the previous three rounds. In its place was a master boxer, one who was giving Ray angles, slipping his punches, and taking advantage of his 78-inch reach to jab, jab, jab—welting up Ray's damaged eye, which was now beginning to impair his vision.