Sportswriters visited the tiny state at this time to find out its secret. One noted that only the Brazilians’ passion for football compared with the Panamanians’ for boxing. “The Panamanians not only want to watch, they want to get in there and have a go themselves,” he wrote. “One only has to walk through the streets of Panama City’s shanty towns, the makeshift slums … to see evidence of their keenness. Contests are organized by the locals, and young boys, sometimes no older than ten years, stand in an imaginary roped square and slug it out.”
Many of the newest buildings were spacious gyms to accommodate the hordes of would-be fighters. Up to fifty boxing contests were held every week – as many as in the UK in a month. “The second oldest trade in Panama City, next to the prostitution, is that of the shoeshine boys,” wrote journalist Dave Fletcher. “These youngsters, usually between eight and fifteen years old, have enough foresight to realize that fighting is the only way to make a name for themselves. Many can be seen sparring amongst the bars and shops when custom is at a low ebb. Panama is one of the few places in the world where the term ‘hungry fighter’ can still be used literally. Although the standard of living is generally low, the average young Panamanian is generally fit, and obesity is considered to be a disease of the ‘Gringo.’ A Panamanian would think nothing of walking twenty miles in search of employment, or to say hello to friends in one of the neighboring villages.
“Many hundreds are employed in Panama City and take to selling drugs or pornography. It is the theory of some that boxing is a natural safety valve, through which the unemployed can release their depression. However, this theory is soon cast to the wind when one ventures to the more provincial parts of Panama, to the huts and shacks on the banana plantations where giant posters of Ismael Laguna, complete with crown, scorch in the midday sun, and where sacks of sweetcorn and grass are used as punchbags. Even the villagers of the Darien jungle province of Panama know the name Buchanan, which they pronounce ‘Bookanar.’”
Buchanan, however, was far from Carlos Eleta’s thoughts. Duran’s next proposed opponent was not the Scot but veteran former champion Carlos Ortiz. The bout was first intended to be a title defense in Panama but was then switched to a non-title bout – meaning Duran’s championship would not be at stake – over ten rounds, on the undercard of the Muhammad Ali–Floyd Patterson fight at Madison Square Garden that September. “Duran and I signed to fight,” said Ortiz. “We were supposed to fight in 1972, in Madison Square Garden. I don’t know what happened to him, but he ended up going back to Panama. He didn’t want to fight me. They saw that I was in good condition. They came down to see me at the Gramercy Park Gym where I was training at the time, and that I was training with middleweights at 138 pounds. It was a problem because I was in condition and then ten days before the bout, no one knew where he went. I found out he checked out of the hotel room and went back to Panama. He gave no excuses. He didn’t want to fight. But he was the champ, so he could do it.”
According to members of Duran’s camp, he had been diagnosed with bronchitis and had to return to Panama. “But he was not sick in reality,” admitted Plomo. “This was just to prevent him from fighting with Ortiz, who was a well qualified boxer and much loved as well. So after spending twenty-two days there, they did not let Duran fight, and we came back to Panama.”
“I couldn’t force him to fight me,” said a frustrated Ortiz. “That’s why I came back. I had to fight for the championship and prove again to myself that I could do it. I spent eight months training for the fight, fighting here and there, getting in shape. I was going to fight the champion, whether it was a title fight or an over-the-weight bout. As soon as I’d fight for the title, then I’d prove something to myself and quit. I think it was more of a managerial decision because Duran didn’t duck nobody. A real fighter doesn’t duck anybody. The ones who make decisions about the fights are the managers. They thought I was going to make a fool of Duran, and he’d be in trouble. If he looked bad, he’d have to fight again. They didn’t want that.
“I had that feeling inside of me that I could beat him, not that I would look good against him or make a good fight out of it but that I could beat him,” said Ortiz decades later. “I wouldn’t have signed for the fight if I couldn’t beat him. My comeback was that I was going to go as far as I could go. I got Buchanan, but it wasn’t my fight. Buchanan was far away from my mind, until they brought him up to me.
“When Duran went to Panama, the Garden was in deep trouble. If I didn’t fight, they were going to lose that date and a lot of money. So Teddy Brenner gave me the situation, he said, ‘Carlos, this is what’s going to happen. This is a problem. He’s not going to fight you. We are going to lose a lot of money because we already have publicity and the fight has to go on. I have a few kids that you would want to fight.’ I didn’t prepare for Buchanan; he meant nothing to me. I wanted to fight Duran. Once Duran left, that was it. When something you love goes away and you don’t have it no more, that’s how I felt when Duran left. I lost my passion. He didn’t have to tell me why he didn’t fight because that was his priority.”
Eleta was not the first manager to protect his investment. It was announced that Duran had a stomach upset, and Ken Buchanan stepped into his place as a late substitute on the Madison Square Garden bill. The Scot fought Ortiz on nine days’ notice, returning from a holiday to get in a few days’ sparring before the bout, and beat him easily, forcing the thirty-six-year-old former champion to retire at the end of the sixth round – for good.
Ortiz has an interesting insight into the competing merits of Laguna and Duran. “I think Laguna would have boxed the shit out of him. Laguna would have outboxed him and outpunched him. I don’t think he would have caught him because Laguna had a good chin, he was tall and had a good reach.”
It was next reported that Duran and Buchanan had signed contracts for a rematch in New York on October 20. However, Duran then claimed the Panamanian Government was insisting he made his first defense in his own country, and sought to put the bout off until the following year. In October 1972, it was reported that Buchanan had signed a new contract to challenge Duran at Madison Square Garden on November 17, and if Duran did not accept, he would be banned from boxing in New York.
DESPITE THE confusion around the proposed Ortiz and Buchanan bouts, Duran was enjoying the perks of being a champion. Thousands of admirers had been waiting to greet him at the Paitilla airport when he returned with the belt; he was now a national celebrity, and everyone clamored to be near him. After settling back home, he attended a night in his honor in Clara’s hometown. “They held an homage here in Guarare for Roberto,” said longtime fan and Guarare resident Lesbia Diaz. “Many people came from all the provinces.”
Since he was young, he had brought back his purse money to help his mother. Now, he was champion, all his promises were coming true. No longer did Clara have to cook and clean for the Americans in the Canal Zone.
“Momma, I do not want you to work anymore,” Duran told Clara.
“All right papa, I will not go on working then,” she responded.
By his side was a beautiful young girlfriend, Claudinette Felicidad Iglesias. She had an angelic face, an addictive smile, and long flowing hair that draped over her shoulders. Acccording to Clara, the couple met in their teens through Felicidad’s mother, who sold numbers, an illegal but widely tolerated street lottery. “They were very young,” said Toti. “They were still minors. The parents did not want Felicidad to go out with Duran because they were too young. And they did not want Roberto because they knew that he was a boxer and they believed boxers became crazy.”
Felicidad came from a relatively wealthy family. She was petite and pretty and Duran was smitten, but she was expected to find a suitor in her own social circle, not a poor boy from Chorrillo. Although Clara adored Felicidad and welcomed her into the family, the feelings were not reciprocated. “Duran lived at that time in Caledonia,” said Plomo. “There was a furniture shop called M
ontemarte. Duran’s apartment was right on top of this shop. On the other side of the street there were some shops. When Felicidad used to go past that place after school, Duran used to look at her and say, ‘I like that girl very much.’
“So I would tell him to go to her and to tell her something. But in the end, it was as if it had been destiny. One day Duran went downstairs to talk to her, the girl smiled at him, and right away they started talking, and went together walking and talking. That was the beginning of their love. But he had problems, because her parents, once Duran and Felicidad were already in love, opposed this relationship. Duran took Felicidad to where his mother was in Chorrillo, because he wanted to live together with her, but Felicidad’s parents accused him of having violated their daughter. They told all kind of stories about Duran. But Felicidad herself said she had agreed to becoming Duran’s woman because she was in love with him. Duran was arrested because of this, but he was later set free. Later on they got married, but they lived together before their marriage.
“After meeting her, Felicidad became his most important woman. Being a Panamanian man, as he was, he had several women, but always his home was with Felicidad.”
Although Duran had many girlfriends, none affected him like Felicidad or “Fula” as she was known. In 1972, after much coercion, she moved into his apartment in Caledonia. Their first son, Chavo, or Roberto Jr. was due to arrive later that year.
Instead of defending his title, in September and October of 1972 Duran took on two relatively easy opponents, Greg Potter and Lupe Ramirez, in non-title bouts. Potter, from Joplin, Missouri, was a college graduate and former US Navy champion, a stand-up boxer who had turned pro only a year before but had already gone the distance with both Carlos Ortiz – “a master,” said Potter – and the highly ranked Ruben Navarro. He was relaxing at home after the Navarro bout when his trainer called to say they’d been offered a short-notice, non-title fight against the new champion, whose scheduled opponent had pulled out. Potter trekked to Panama, where he suffered from diarrhea and was weakened when he climbed into the ring.
“It was a slugfest,” he remembered. “I went out and slugged with him and you don’t do that with Roberto Duran. As a young man he grew up on the streets and he shined shoes and had to fight from a young age to keep the money he made, and he had a lot of … the word that comes to mind is hate, built up in him. He was a vicious fighter. He was fighting when he came out of the corner.”
Potter was no match for the fired-up champion and was knocked out in the first round. He later gained a Masters in psychology and a PhD in counseling, and runs a practice counseling on personal performance and goal-achieving. He still recalls his opponent with rueful admiration. “I don’t remember a whole lot about his punch because he knocked me out in the first round. But I think he could hit pretty good.”
Lupe Ramirez, who had previously gone the distance with both the brilliant Antonio Cervantes and the hard-hitting Chango Carmona, was also blasted out in a single round.
Duran’s next opponent was a much stiffer test. Twenty-two-year-old Esteban DeJesus, from Puerto Rico, belonged with the best that his proud country had to offer. He came from the rowdy town of Carolina on the Atlantic coast, otherwise known as “El Pueblo de Las Tumbas Brazos,” or the Arm Hackers’ Town, for the natives’ predilection for violence, often involving machetes. It was also called “La Tierra de Gigantes,” Land of Giants, because it was home to a seven-foot-eleven-inch goliath called Don Felipe Birriel. Baseball hero Roberto Clemente was another celebrated Carolinan. Having survived such a dangerous place, DeJesus learned his trade in the rings of San Juan. An all-rounder who could box, move and punch, he went on to win the Puerto Rican lightweight title in New York’s Felt Forum. He had already boxed in the Garden and his last win had come just three weeks before the Duran bout. He boasted a 29-1 record, with eighteen knockouts to his credit, his only loss coming against WBA featherweight champion Antonio Gomez. DeJesus was the third-ranked lightweight in the world and he was sharp and ready.
Throughout his career, Duran would badmouth Puerto Ricans about how they couldn’t take a punch, and they would respond in kind. Both he and they seemed to enjoy the jingoistic rivalry between two small but proud Latin-American states, both of which lay in the long shadow of the USA. Added to that was the special intensity when Latin fighters face off with their countrymen at their back. “If a Latino man fights a non-Latino you can bet we’ll be rooting for the man who speaks Spanish,” said former world champion Jose Torres, himself a Puerto Rican. “But the rivalry doesn’t stop there. The competition between Latinos is even more exciting. You see, we know each other. We know how to intimidate each other. And we know how to resist it. But we are very dramatic in the process. Some of us even get violent, a luxury we seldom get off the gringo.”Added to that was Duran’s chilling intensity. “When I went up into the ring, I would look at them hard so they knew that I wasn’t just coming to play,” he said. “That’s why I would go out to kill them fast. My deal was always to win by knockout.”
But still enjoying his emotional championship victory over Buchanan, Duran had been criticized in the local press for over-celebrating and constant partying. He also had a complicated personal life. Despite his relationship with Felicidad, he had another gilfriend, Silvia, who would bear him a daughter called Dalia. She lived in the town of Puerto Armuelles, though she would later move to Miami, and Duran would drive over every weekend to see her. Two months before the DeJesus bout, he was driving his Volkwagen through the hills of Chiriqui when a rainstorm came down.
“I couldn’t see the road and either way there are hills,” remembered Duran. “I’m going really slow in the car, and I’m scared as hell. All of a sudden the lights come on and I step on the brakes. I’m going downhill. I picked up a hitchhiker on the way, going downhill and the car hits something, and I hit the steering wheel and I split my lip in two parts. The other guy hit the windshield. I get out of the car, I’m dizzy and my lip is open in two pieces.
“When I look up, I told the guy we have to get out of here, and I look down and I have a hole in my elbow. So I have a hole in my elbow and a split lip, and it takes five minutes to walk up the hill. When we get to the top of the hill, it stops raining. A car is coming, and it stops to ask me, ‘Duran what happened?’ I tell him what happened, and we go to a town called San Felix. And the doctor checks me and gives me stitches. His hand is shaking as he gives me stitches. I say, ‘Why is your hand shaking?’ And he said, ‘I’m afraid that you’re going to die here on me.’ By that time, people had heard that I had an accident and the hospital was full. He sews my elbow up. A friend of mine who was a major in David comes and picks me up. The doctor said I could have a couple drinks. When I get the drink, all the stitches break open again. I cover it up, and I went to New York to go fight with Esteban DeJesus.”
“Duran Injured in Car Mishap” announced the headline of an Associated Press report on September 15, 1972. “World lightweight champ Roberto Duran escaped serious injury in an automobile accident,” read the report. “Duran’s Volkswagen overturned. He was forced to brake suddenly when the car ahead of him slowed down without warning. Duran suffered a slight cut on his right elbow and lacerations of the face.” The report named Mariano Ramirez as the passenger.
“After the accident I go to New York because we took the fight with DeJesus,” said Duran. “I still have my open wound on my elbow. Carlos Eleta shouldn’t have sent me. He sent me up there to train for a month. If you really look at the fight the only thing that DeJesus did was knock me down in the first round. The only thing he did was hit me with that left hook. He never beat me. I saw the fight; he didn’t beat me. Remember he’s Puerto Rican, and lived between New York and Puerto Rico. Remember he’s always there, so to the Americans it was always more convenient to have him win there than a Panamanian who’s in Panama.”
Featherweight legends Willie Pep and Sandy Saddler were introduced before the fight, a premonitory meeti
ng of two of the great rivals in boxing. As they stood toe-to-toe for the introductions, DeJesus, 138, in blue trunks and white stripes, settled in at eye level to the five-foot-seven, 137½lb Duran. They were to compete over ten rounds, without the title at stake, on November 17, 1972.
Neither Duran nor DeJesus was willing to look at the other for more than a split second; their eyes focused on the canvas until they touched eight-ounce gloves to initiate battle. Puerto Rico had a history of great boxers and DeJesus wouldn’t always get the respect he deserved for his skills. “I was very surprised at the trouble that DeJesus gave Duran because I didn’t think he was a great fighter,” said fellow countryman Carlos Ortiz. “But when he fought Duran, he did a great job. He would hit Duran with that left hook.”
The punch would live in infamy. “That” left hook thrown by DeJesus would be the first punch to expose a chink in Duran’s style. The perfectly placed shot put Duran on his backside early in the first round. Never before in a pro bout had Duran felt the canvas against his back. Stunned more than hurt, he rose at the count of six, shaking his head as if to say, okay, I felt that, now I’m awake and you will pay. Duran’s gut reaction was immediately to attack, but wading in without caution against DeJesus was regrettable, as he absorbed more punishment before returning to his corner. All three men in Duran’s corner were in constant motion at the bell, sponging, massaging, exhorting, cajoling.
With confidence rising, the polished DeJesus opened the second with a right to Duran’s chest followed by a left hook to his head. He began to control the flow of the fight, breaking through Duran’s defense with another jaw-numbing left hook in round four that made Duran stumble and nearly fall. He struck again a round later as an off-balance Duran stumbled into another powerful hook and had to clinch. Not only was DeJesus out-muscling the Panamanian, but he was using one of his own signature moves against him: a faked left followed by a quick, hard right.
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