“He wasn’t always into the women that much. He knew how to take advantage of celebrity but all fighters do. He wouldn’t have sex with Felicidad three or four weeks before a fight. He was too disciplined. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of women wanted to have sex with him but they weren’t flocking to him like he was Oscar De La Hoya or even Hector Camacho.”
HAD THE TWO met at night in a New York ghetto, it would have been the streetfight of all time. The Stone and the Blade. No guns or knives. Just a black gangbanger from the South Bronx and a ferocious Cholo who once beat five men in a brawl.
For all the talk about how badass Duran had once been, no one intimidated like Iran Barkley. Six feet and 160 pounds of pent-up rage, he was Ronnie Lott coming over the middle on an unsuspected wideout; he was Fred Williamson without the ’fro, with Jim Brown’s scowl. Barkley didn’t defeat people; he fucked them up royally. He was a ghetto nightmare who had run with the Black Spades, a ferocious street gang that numbered hiphop pioneer Afrika Bambaataa among its former recruits. When bored of watching the local drug dealers, Barkley and his crew would “go around beating people up, stabbing them and hitting people with lead pipes.” Barkley was so menacing he might have forced some of Duran’s backup in Chorrillo to get backup.
He had finished a job on Thomas Hearns that Duran couldn’t even start. Cut badly above both eyes and behind on points, Barkley had blazed back in round three to floor Hearns twice and stop him in a sensational war in June 1988 to take the WBC middleweight title. “I don’t care about the cuts because I didn’t have time to bleed,” said Barkley afterwards. His destruction of the Hit Man was a reminder that slowly the great fighters of the Eighties were falling to combustible young talents. As Barkley watched Hearns topple from a left hook, he stood over him and banged him with another right hand, as if trying to send him through the canvas. One legend was down, another was next. The people who once feared Duran could now look across the ring and see a bigger, meaner version in black trunks.
And then there was Davey Moore. Moore was like a brother to Barkley. They had grown up together in the South Bronx, boxed as amateurs together, sparred with and supported each other as pros. But Duran had ruined Davey’s promising career. He was never the same after that brutal beating in New York, had gone into a decline, lost fights he should have won. In June 1988, in a freak accident, Moore left his car idling in reverse when he stepped out to open his garage door; the car backed up and crushed him to death in the driveway. He was twenty-eight years old.
Iran Barkley became Davey’s avenging angel. “If he thumbs me like he did to Davey, I’ll thumb him,” vowed Barkley. “If he bites me, I’ll bite him. If he kicks me, I’ll kick him. I’m gonna clear Davey’s name. This is a personal vendetta.”
Based on recent performances, Duran didn’t deserve a title fight, especially against a warrior as formidable as Barkley. But he still had marquee value and also the backing of WBC president Jose Sulaiman, who had often helped him in the past. Barkley’s management had also been convinced by Duran’s lacklustre showing against Jeff Lanas that while the veteran might stick around for a few rounds and make a fight of it, he had little chance of winning. They agreed to a defense of the title on February 24, 1989, in Atlantic City. Coming from the viscid heat of Panama, Duran would be forced to see his breath in the frigid New Jersey night.
Yet Duran could sense something, as he had with Hagler, Cuevas, and so many other hard men. He appeared not the least bit intimidated. “Barkley’s the one who’s going to have to worry,” he said calmly. “I’m going to prove I’m not finished.” Barkley’s wide-open, wade-in style was made for the older Duran, who now liked men to come to him rather than having to chase as he did in his youth. Barkley could be tagged and hurt, had taken punishment in the past and was technically clumsy. “The wind is old but it keeps blowing” was an old proverb Duran was fond of quoting. He believed that he knew too much for Barkley. He had been boxing professionally for twenty-one years. The consensus, however, was that Barkley was too big, too young, too tough and too strong.
Duran came into camp at a whopping 220 pounds, having put back on all the weight he had lost for the Lanas fight. Now handled by promoter Luis DeCubas, advisers Mike Acri and Jeff Levine, he went through hell in his Miami training camp. “He had to get back down to a hundred and fifty-six,” said DeCubas. “In sparring sessions he was getting the shit kicked out of him on a regular basis. Then, as he got down in weight, he would do the kicking. The reason we got the Barkley fight was because of the Jeff Lanas fight. Barkley saw Duran in that fight and thought it was going to be an easy fight for him.” Added Acri, “We were tough on him and I think he respected us for that reason. We would tell him he looked like shit when other people wouldn’t. But you had to stand up to the guy or he would run right over you.”
It had been close to two decades since Duran had overwhelmed Ken Buchanan and a long time since he had been the favorite in a title fight. Boxers of his magnitude rarely threw up so many contradictions. Arguably the greatest fighters of the Eighties were Leonard, Hearns, and Hagler. Hagler didn’t always fight with passion; Leonard had his detractors, who despised his showboating; Hearns could be hurt and knocked down. All three had their deficiencies but their careers did not have the extreme highs and lows of Duran’s. There were no Kirkland Laings or Robbie Sims on their records and they never neglected training. None had such a gap between their zenith and nadir. However, when Duran entered the ring, the audience knew they “were going to see a fight,” whether it was a good one or not. It wasn’t going to be a dance or a sideshow.
If Duran hadn’t sunk low in previous fights it wouldn’t have been what Gil Clancy called “a miracle” when Duran pasted Moore. To his credit, the fact that Duran made his debut in 1968 and still had it in the ring was a miracle of sorts. He could have retired a legend after the first Leonard fight nine years earlier. As he kept on fighting, the audience kept guessing, not because they wanted to but because Duran prefaced every comeback with failure. But Duran didn’t see it as failure. To him, each loss was just another fight where he hadn’t trained properly and he’d make it up somewhere down the line. There would always be another fight. It was like he enjoyed creating doubt so he could dissolve it.
Duran was at home in Miami, similar in climate and atmosphere to Panama City but without the endless throng of fans. He had a house there and friends, and he trained hard. Among his sparring partners was cruiserweight Leroy Heavens. According to childhood friend “Chapparro” Pinzon, who described himself as Duran’s valet, Heavens refused to step back into the ring after one brutal four-round session, complaining of pains all over his body.
Certainly his passion, and anger, seemed to have returned. By earning $350,000 to Barkley’s $500,000, Duran felt he wasn’t getting the respect he deserved. “Another rumor spread that I was burned out and finished,” said Duran. “I started again to train, and I was going to teach all these Panamanians and shut the press up that talks a lot of shit here in Panama. I inspired myself. I had a fight with Spada [and] I left and found a new manager in Carl Hibbard. Then I get the fight with Iran Barkley, that’s the toughest man to show the Panamanian public. When I fought with Davey Moore, the people weren’t on my side. I’m sitting there thinking I had to be champion again.”
The people’s doubts fired up Duran. The less supportive they were, the more determined he became. Yet what Duran called the “rumor” of him being burned out was, as far as anyone could tell, reality. Ray Arcel said that the Panamanian people didn’t like losers. Barkley could be his final vindication.
Members of Duran’s camp needed to spice things up. Was it possible that the death of Moore could work as motivation for both fighters? “There were a lot of things said like this was payback for Davey Moore, who had just died before the bout,” said DeCubas. “It got personal and we tried to get Duran psyched up.” It worked. Duran was pumped. “I heard what Barkley said, he said he was going to avenge the defeat of Davey Mo
ore. I tell Plomo, ‘This motherfucker acts as if I killed Davey Moore. But this one I am going to kill. Wait.’”
In the locker room before the fight, Duran burned. “You should have seen him,” said Mike Acri. “He was just sitting there, rocking back and forth chanting Barkley’s name. He was so focused. The morning of the fight, Duran was eating breakfast and he just kept saying, ‘I feel like fighting tonight. I feel like fighting tonight.’”
A 3-1 underdog by fight time, Duran couldn’t go in there and brawl with Barkley. At least, that wasn’t the strategy. Three punches had served Duran especially well in his career: the straight right, the left hook (often thrown after faking the right and sliding over) and the uppercut, a devastating weapon on the inside and he could throw it from all angles. He would have to land all of those patented shots while avoiding Barkley’s booming hooks. Speed and stealth would blunt the Blade. “I was sparring with this guy who was really fast and tried to pummel me. His name was Carlos Montero and he later fought with me,” recalled Duran. “He was really fast, didn’t know nothing but I couldn’t keep my eyes off him because he would hit me. He was really quick. I’m ready now when I see Iran Barkley. I just look at him and I just tell Plomo, ‘This black guy is really big dude. But don’t worry Plomo. No te preocupes. I’m going to make him eat punches.’ And that’s what I did. I beat him. I shut the Panamanian public’s mouth.”
Years later Barkley would downplay the claim of exacting revenge for Moore’s defeat. “Everybody built that fight up like it was a grudge match for my best friend Davey Moore, who got destroyed by Duran,” said Barkley. “Sure, I was revenging his thing, but also for me. It was for him, but it was more that he was inside of my spirit fighting with me.”
While Duran (84-7, 64 KOs) came in at 156¼ pounds, Barkley (25-4, 16 KOs) weighed at 164 on his first try, then returned moments later to make 160. Rumors had a member of the Duran camp playing games with the scale as Barkley somehow dropped four pounds in a minute. Barkley noted that his goal was to finish off the legends. “This is personal,” he said. “His people have no respect for me so I have no respect for him.”
The fight was the same weekend that Frank Bruno challenged Mike Tyson in Las Vegas and many of the leading sportswriters were forced to choose between the still-great Tyson or the once-great Duran. Most chose Vegas. Then a sudden snowstorm on the eve of the Atlantic City fight buried the Boardwalk under a foot of snow and closed down the city, as the frigid New Jersey shore in winter housed locals in casinos and bars. It lent a funereal atmosphere to the build-up. Even the Greyhound buses ferrying in the daily slots players were cancelled. Many fight fans sat it out in the popular Irish Pub, the only bar open twenty-four hours, where fight debates dragged on over lager and the famous crabcake sandwiches.
“Barkley was a tough kid, but he wasn’t great by any sense of the imagination. I gave Roberto a shot going into that fight,” said Bert Sugar. “I had a choice of going to the Saturday night fight Bruno-Tyson or the Friday night here, and I chose Vegas. We sat in a tent watching it and I thought I just made the wrong plane. I particularly thought that when Bruno came into the ring crossing himself twenty times. [Duran] was an echo of boxing past.”
If stature meant anything, Barkley had all but won the bout before Panama’s National Anthem. He stood six feet one, weighed 159 pounds to Duran’s 156¼ and had a six-inch advantage in reach. Duran was unlikely to beat him from the outside and to get inside meant risking Barkley’s pounding hooks. And then there was age: Duran was thirty-seven, with the wear and tear of twenty-one years as a boxer.
It was the kind of night where the inside of a boxing event actually guaranteed warmth. The only reason to be outside was to get to your car or a cab. High-rollers took their comp’d tickets to see Duran one more time; others who knew nothing about the sport could at least recognize the name and the reputation.
As Duran walked to the ring, many felt it was the last time they would see this great champion. Even his son Chavo was scared. Barkley looked bigger than ever as the combatants faced each other, bathed in sweat, for the pre-fight instructions. Referee Joe Cortez called for a reluctant Barkley to touch gloves.
“Iran, c’mon. Shake hands.”
Duran stood and waited.
Starting the fight, Duran moved to his left, and felt his way around the twenty-foot ring. Barkley loomed forward like a nightclub bouncer keeping a troublemaker out of his club. Despite controlling a good portion of the three minutes, Barkley was shaken at the end of the round when Duran landed an overhand right that forced him to back-pedal to safety. Not in serious danger, Barkley smiled to the crowd, the grin of a boxer who got hit with a punch that he knew he shouldn’t have. What should have been his New York crowd started chanting “Doo-ran” after the bell, but Barkley didn’t seem fazed. He had his supporters too. “Duran was a legend so you could expect half of Panama to show up,” Barkley said. “Half of the Dominican Republic and blacks from everywhere came to see me and we sold this place out.”
Duran found his faithful short left hook off the ropes, overhand right, then clinch, to be effective. The right hand, held high for protection, slowly dropped down by his chest as the fight progressed. Duran’s mouthpiece showed early in the fight, a worrying sign that a boxer is gasping, but he knew how to pace himself. He came off the ropes in a fury in the fourth round and hit back with ferocity for the first time. The sudden ambush elicited a brief return to his youth. There is someone in front of me who will push me one last time. In him, I see myself, my power.
Duran tripled up his right hands in the fifth and appeared invigorated in the sixth, while the Blade concentrated on a consistent body attack. Between rounds white healing cream was smeared on Barkley’s eye. In the opposite corner, Plomo sponged Duran’s face hard. Another man massaged his stomach. Duran was already looking through them, listening to his own instincts rather than his cornermen. “The big thing was how Duran changed his game plan during the fight,” said DeCubas. “The original plan was to turn Barkley, make him move and never let him get set. But the canvas was so thick that Duran had to stay in the trenches with him and go into the eye of the tornado.”
Barkley doubled up on a left hook and stunned Roberto late in the seventh round. Duran stuck his chest out as Cortez jumped between the fighters at the bell, then Plomo entered and nudged him back to the corner. Neither boxer was backing down.
This one is for Davey. Barkley nearly laid to rest Davey Moore’s ghost with a brilliant left hook in the eighth round. It caught Duran walking in and spun him around like a shotputter, his glove brushing the canvas, then his body contorted away from his opponent. Duran’s army of fans fell silent. Barkley stood for a moment, astonished his foe was still on his feet, then stormed in throwing right uppercuts and left hooks to the body. He raised his hand as the round ended. The crowd booed him but he had won the round and was gaining the edge.
“Barkley threw a punch at my chin, and I moved so Barkley would miss. I slipped and I ended up looking at the ring,” recalled Duran. “When I looked up Barkley hit me in the neck. He thought that he had me in a bad state but he didn’t have me dizzy. When I got back to the corner, Plomo said, ‘What the hell’s wrong?’ I said, ‘No Plomo, I went to go maneuver around and he hits me square in the throat.’ He asked if I was dizzy and I told him what the hell dizzy was. ‘Clean these gloves, I’m going to beat this black guy.’ I inspired myself from within. I told him, ‘You’re too strong for me; you’re too tall for me; but I know more than you.’”
Barkley’s left eye was by now a slit covered by bumps. Still, as the tenth closed Barkley’s left hook had proven to be just as effective as Duran’s right hand. Then Duran came back. Having tasted a left hook early in round eleven, Barkley got nailed late in the round with a right hand that froze him for a glancing left hook and another solid right that sent him to the canvas. Referee Cortez was over him counting away as he stared into Barkley’s squinting eyes. Rolling on his back, Barkley pushed himsel
f up by the count of five as Roberto waited patiently to begin his celebration. With twenty-five seconds left for Duran to finish him off, the shots didn’t come fluidly enough and Barkley hung on, though partially blinded and stumbling.
The legions of fans who had made the snowy trek were on their feet. It had been a caustic eleven rounds of give-and-take. The final stanza began with a Duran left hook on the inside; Barkley responded with an uppercut. Both knew that they needed a strong finish, and with no charades they fought till the end. As the bell rang, Duran in typical style jutted his jaw in the middle of the ring as if to ask for more.
Plomo embraced him at the bell, then Duran hugged Barkley and told him in broken English, “Man, you very good, very strong.” Propelling himself closer to the crowd from the top rope, Duran signaled for approval. “Next time I fight Leonard I will be in a lot better shape. I love you Panama! I like you Miami. I like you United States.” He looked up and pointed his fist to the sky in relief and exultation. And as the scores were about to be read to the crowd, there was no indication that this was the last time Duran would truly be young again.
As the hubbub fell silent, the verdict was announced. The official scorecards showed a split decision: 118-112 and 116-112 for Duran, against 116-113 for Barkley. At thirty-seven years and eight months, Duran was the oldest fighter to win a world title since Bob Fitzsimmons in 1903.
“People thought I was crazy to put Duran in there,” said DeCubas. “When he won that fight, I had put him with the greatest warriors of all time. Barkley told me that the left hook he hit Duran with would have knocked down a wall. People look at me crazy when I say that at thirty-seven years old … and fighting a full-fledged middleweight was the greatest sports accomplishment of all time.”
Hands of Stone Page 34
