"That's when Ray became Sugar," said Dunlap. "He didn't want to be a world champion. He wanted to be a superstar."
In early 1982, Leonard scheduled a couple of tune-ups until a bout with Hagler or a rematch with Hearns could be arranged. Hagler, at this time, had defended his middleweight title three times, with relative ease. He was 27, in his mid-prime, and respected by aficionados for his old-school professionalism. A former construction worker, Hagler hailed from Brockton, Mass., the gritty mill town put on the map by former heavyweight champion Rocky Marciano.
Geography and sensibility stamped Hagler as blue collar. Early in his career he pushed wheelbarrows of fresh cement to make ends meet. One day he lost control of an overloaded wheelbarrow, flipped it, and had to clean up the mess. When he returned to the cement mixer, he asked for a lighter load. "Don't let these muscles fool you," Hagler said, as his co-workers roared.
To the larger public he was a bit of a puzzle, however. Though his shaved head and chiseled physique had become familiar on the ambitious young cable channel, HBO, he was rarely seen on network TV and was yet to be featured in closed-circuit theaters.
His credo, "destruct and destroy," was alliterative, catchy, and expressive of his clinical approach to mayhem, as was his reaction to blood in the ring. "It turns me on," Hagler said. "The monster comes out."
Both intrigued and repelled, the public kept its distance. Hagler brooded over his lesser celebrity, and envied Leonard his prominence and outsized paydays. He imagined that if he defeated Leonard, those things would come to him.
(c) Angie Carlino
Marvelous Marvin Hagler's shaved head and chiseled physique struck fear in opponents.
In February Leonard was in Reno, Nevada, for a bout with journeyman Bruce Finch. He kissed towels monogrammed with his initials and threw them to girls who watched his workouts - one almost fainted. "Leonard is like the Beatles," a publicist said. Then he knocked out Finch in three rounds and pocketed $1.5 million.
But when life imitates Hollywood - as Leonard's - it compels drama. In May Leonard was in Buffalo to fight another journeyman, Roger Stafford, when he experienced difficulty with his left eye. He was diagnosed with a partially detached retina and on May 15, 1982, underwent surgery at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. Breathtakingly sudden, his future in boxing was uncertain, and Leonard stepped into the role of Hamlet.
Chapter 2
1982: Bait
Leonard sunk a hook - of the bait-and-tackle variety - into Hagler on the night of November 9, 1982. Whether it was the first hook is debatable, and certainly it wasn't the last, but it was sharp, intentionally cruel, and in the end it may have been the one that stuck deepest in Hagler's craw.
"A Night With Sugar Ray Leonard" was a press conference, a tribute, and a fund-raiser - a weird hybrid Leonard had arranged at Baltimore Civic Center to announce whether he would continue to be, or not to be, a boxer. That was the question, and it had hung over his head since his surgery for a detached retina on May 15.
Hagler, who flew in from his Massachusetts home, was there, as quarry and dupe. Cosell was there, as emcee, and Ali was there, as an unwitting example of what could become of Leonard if he quit too late. Entertainer Wayne Newton was in the house. Moreover, the public was invited, at $2 a head, with the proceeds pledged to summer jobs for Baltimore youth. Nobody could remember a public figure throwing open a press conference and charging admission.
Leonard had used its fund-raising mission as a reason to withhold his decision. The greater the suspense, the larger the crowd would be at the Civic Center, chosen because it had been the site of his pro debut in February 1977. More to the point, he craved the melodrama and attention, and so he artfully teased media and public in the weeks before the event. After Dr. Ronald Michels, the surgeon who repaired his eye, had declared it fit for the ring, Leonard was free to dangle both options.
Weeks earlier, Hagler, in Provincetown to prepare for an Oct. 30 bout, had been annoyed with Leonard's tease. "I'm tired of hearing Ray's name," said Hagler. "I'm getting to a point where I'm starting to really dislike this man. Because he's playing on the public, and the people can't see it."
Nonetheless, Leonard, as part of HBO's broadcasting team for Hagler's bout against Fulgencio Obelmejias in San Remo, Italy, kept it up. I was at San Remo for the Boston Globe, and buttonholed Leonard before the bout at Teatro Ariston.
"I can't wait for Nov. 9, if you get what I mean," he said. "Then I'll be done with this once and for all. I never said I was fighting Hagler, although some people thought I said something like that. Somebody said Marvin Hagler needs my help. He doesn't need my help. If anything, I would fight him because I wanted another title."
His comments were ambiguous, and later in the evening he was no clearer. After Hagler knocked out his opponent in the 5th round, Leonard interviewed him on air. "You don't want to quit until you come into Marvin's corner," Hagler said, amiably. They laughed about the money they could make - $15 million was projected for Leonard - at which point Leonard looked into the camera and said, "Mike, sign me up."
The next day the Washington Post picked up another of Leonard's remarks from a wire service: "His fight with Obel convinced me I am too light and too small to fight him." Four days later the Post caught up with him at the National Aquarium in Baltimore, where he had agreed to become the "honorary parent" of a stingray. "I have defeated so many monsters I feel like David and Goliath," Leonard said. "I killed all the giants but Marvelous Marvin. He would be a great triumph."
A bewildered sports media tried to stay abreast of the story, but each day seemed to bring a new and contradictory hint, dropped to a different reporter. "Leonard gives everyone good reason to believe whatever they want to believe," wrote Dave Kindred of the Post.
The public was kept guessing, as Leonard intended. On the evening of Nov. 9 an estimated 7,500 fans paid their way into the arena. Some paid $100 for "VIP" seats close to the ring.
Privately, Leonard was under pressure from his family - his wife and mother were insistent - and associates to retire. He was financially set, they argued, and boxing was too dangerous. Plenty of recent evidence supported their case.
Willie Classen, a 28-year-old journeyman middleweight, had died on November 28, 1979, two days before Leonard's first title bout, a knockout victim of Wilford Scypion at Madison Square Garden. Three more fighters died in a three-week period preceding Leonard's wedding in January 1980, including a 13-year-old amateur in West Virginia who had fought three matches in a single day without headgear.
Then, in June 1980, as fans filed into Montreal's Olympic Stadium for the first Leonard-Duran match, two Canadian lightweights squared off in a preliminary bout. Leonard, who was in his dressing room, did not see the match between Cleveland Denny and Gaetan Hart. This was their third meeting, each having beaten the other once. Through nine rounds and two minutes of the final round their rivalry remained virtually on even terms. In the final minute, inexplicably and without warning, Denny wilted. For about 20 seconds Denny absorbed a powerful and incessant pounding - film would show him taking 12 hard punches to the head in a seven-second span. Hart later described the final blows as "a right that made his eyes roll followed by a left hook." The referee, later criticized for waiting too long, stopped the bout with 12 seconds remaining as Denny slumped to the canvas, unconscious.
"Hart's fists had driven Denny's tongue down his throat and ruptured blood vessels in his head," a Montreal sportswriter wrote.
Denny, a 24-year-old native of Guyana, died 17 days later, leaving a wife and infant son. Except for its high visibility, Denny's death was grimly typical. Since the end of World War II the sport had averaged 12.4 deaths per year. Most resulted from the short-term effects of cerebral hemorrhage on the surface of the brain, known as subdural hematoma. In such deaths swelling and impaired blood flow deprived the brain of oxygen, compressed the brain stem, and caused unconsciousness and coma. Beyond the deaths were countless numbers of punch-drunk fo
rmer boxers who suffered from memory loss, speech impairment, unsteady gait, tremors, and episodes of confusion and depression. Former heavyweight champion Joe Louis had been a textbook case, until his death in 1981, and now Ali was on his way toward becoming one.
Another high-profile death occurred on November 5, 1980, 20 days before the Leonard-Duran rematch. Bantamweight Johnny Owen of England, knocked out by champion Lupe Pintor in a September 19 title bout, succumbed in a Los Angeles hospital. Owen, British journalist Hugh McIlvanney wrote, was a desperately shy 24-year-old who had never kissed a girl and had found his only means of expression in a boxing ring. "It is his tragedy that he found himself articulate in such a dangerous language," wrote McIlvanney.
Five deaths occurred in 1982 before Leonard's November press conference, while another fighter, a Nigerian featherweight named Young Ali, lay in a coma after being knocked out by Barry McGuigan in England, soon to succumb. The British Medical Association called for boxing to be outlawed in England, where the sport was spawned in the 18th century.
These ghosts, then, provided a Greek chorus to Leonard's unfolding drama. Voices from the living were heard, too. Harold Weston Jr., a former welterweight contender, had suffered a detached retina in a 1979 bout. Though it had been surgically repaired, Weston was unable to obtain a license to fight in New York because his surgeon had told officials boxing posed "considerable risk" to his eyesight. Weston retired and became assistant matchmaker at Madison Square Garden. "I want this in big bold letters - I advise Ray Leonard not to fight anymore," Weston said after Leonard's surgery. "If he don't quit I'll go up there and beat him with a stick."
"An Evening With Sugar Ray Leonard," a columnist wrote, was rather like Leonard's fights - a slow start that built toward a heroic finish. A highlight film was shown, as Cosell provided commentary and the crowd cheered Leonard's victories over Wilfredo Benitez, Roberto Duran, Ayub Kalule, and Hearns. Ali, in words slurred but mirthful, talked about the traits he shared with Leonard - shuffling, dancing, and good looks. "Boxers have been known to be ugly but we are pretty," Ali said, patting Leonard on his smooth unmarked cheeks." He suggested that if Leonard returned to the ring he "might become the greatest ever."
Hagler's introduction was politely applauded. The tuxedo-clad middleweight champion, shaved skull burnished, climbed through the ropes, hugged Leonard, and took the microphone. Earlier Leonard had struggled to hold back tears, but now he was still and watchful. Hagler's comments verged from awkward to tone-deaf. He cautioned Leonard against ending up like Joe Louis, and added, "Ali, sorry." Leonard appeared oblivious to Hagler's faux pas, so intent was his concentration. After Hagler others spoke, including Wayne Newton, who told a tepid joke about being part Native American.
At last it was Leonard's turn. His post-surgery role as Hamlet had come to its climax. He played it with conviction, as he gestured and moved about the ring, paced his delivery, made eye contact with his invited guests and audience, and built suspense. He talked of beauty, and how, in his eyes, everyone important to him was beautiful.
"Very few people get a second chance to visualize how beautiful the world really is," Leonard said. "I had the blessing to be able to see again."
Beauty is a parent, a son, an advisor, an attorney, a manager, and a trainer, he said. All were present - Cicero and Getha Leonard, Ray Jr., Janks Morton, Mike Trainer, Ollie Dunlap, Angelo Dundee - and all were beautiful as seen through his restored vision. He looked at his wife, Juanita, seated at ringside.
"Beauty is a woman, a woman who deals with criticism society has made, and stands behind you no matter what."
Slowly, Leonard drifted toward the corner closest to where Hagler was seated.
"In one second I'll tell you what I will do."
The audience held its breath. Leonard gazed upon Hagler, whose tongue flicked across his lower lip as his rugged face tilted upward.
"A fight with this great man, this great champion, would be one of the greatest fights in the history of boxing."
Applause. He was going to do it.
"Talk about money; talkin' Fort Knox."
More applause. Cheers.
He was at the ropes now, a finger pointed at Hagler.
"And this is the only man who can make that possible - Marvelous Marvin Hagler."
The fight of the century!
"But unfortunately, it'll never happen."
Huh?
"Thank you and God bless you all."
There was a moment of confusion. Had Leonard meant he would not fight at all, or not fight Hagler? The question was shouted from outside the ring.
"No, that's it, that's it," Leonard said.
Historian and journalist Bert Sugar recalled how, at that instant, Hagler's face fell. "He had sat there all night, smiling," Sugar recalled. "And all of sudden, like those two Grecian figures of comedy and drama, it dropped."
Another journalist in attendance, Steve Farhood, recalled thinking that Leonard had humiliated Hagler.
"Here's Marvin sitting like an obedient dog and he gets shunted aside," Farhood said.
Hagler moved toward the nearest exit. "I think he'll fight again," Hagler told a TV reporter.
If the audience and Hagler had been caught by surprise, Leonard's confidantes were not. They knew he had given Sports Illustrated his decision a week earlier, and that the story would hit the stands the next day.
Nearly 20 years later, Leonard reflected on his exquisite tease of Hagler.
"Was it cold to have him there, knowing full well that I was going to say no," Leonard said, in an interview with ESPN. "Yeah, it was pretty cold. But was it smart to have him there? Yes, it was smart to have him there, because that was kind of the start of this whole Hagler-Leonard thing that made it what it was in '87."
At the time, Leonard recalled, he had not known for certain he would fight Hagler. But he must have had a premonition, based on his response when asked if the invitation to Hagler had been a "taunt."
"A little bit - a little bit," Leonard said. "I just wanted to create that drama, that intrigue. I did that."
Chapter 3
1973: Million Dollar Smile
They first intersected in the old mill town of Lowell, Mass., at the national Golden Gloves tournament, in March 1973. Neither laid a glove on the other, with Leonard at 132 pounds, and Hagler at 156. Still, their alchemy of opposites was sparked, and their tale set in motion.
Leonard was noticed for his smile, a dazzling beam of wholesome seduction. A reporter for the Lowell Sun wrote:
Ray Leonard's million dollar smile has helped carry him into the 132-pound National Golden Gloves championship final tonight.
The Washington DC boxer will square off against Hilmer Kenty of Columbus, and if his teeth are in good working order it could be a cakewalk for Mr. Leonard.
"My mouth is my main weapon," proclaimed the 16-year-old Parkdale High student. "I psych my opponents out by smiling at them. They don't know what to make of it."
Leonard has grinned his way to an impressive 35-2 record including one KO and 3 decisions in the current National Tournament.
Leonard beat Kenty in a decision for his first major national title.
On the same page the Lowell Sun ran another story, about Hagler after his loss in the 156-pound semifinal to Dale Grant of Salt Lake City. Earlier in the tournament, reporter Rick Harrison had coined the moniker "Marvelous Marvin" in print. Now Harrison described Hagler, 18, alone in the locker room, as he dressed slowly and dejectedly.
One could hardly blame Hagler if he didn't want to talk to anyone at all. But that isn't Marvin's style, as he discussed the bitter setback openly.
"I wanted that national title too bad. I wanted to win so much I think I tried too hard," stated the Brockton resident.
Hagler went on to say that he could have beaten Grant with "a little more time" and that next year he would "be back." But his optimism did not override the sense of gloom and frustration. For the first time, the adjective "bitter" and
Hagler were joined in print.
Leonard and Hagler did not speak to one another, though they likely caught one another's eye. Hagler had defeated one of Leonard's teammates in an early round, and later, in the locker room, had consoled the tearful young man. The Lowell Sun articles had run on the same page. If either boxer had read the story about himself, he could not have missed the other. Hagler almost certainly would have made note of Leonard winning the 132-pound title.
Ollie Dunlap, Leonard's longtime administrator, believes Hagler had his eyes on Leonard from the start of the tournament.
"This was Marvin's home turf but Ray was getting all the pub - all the reporters migrated over to Ray in the gym - and it really bothered Marvin," Dunlap said.
Leonard was 16, and already a wily rascal. Indeed, just the summer before, he had fibbed about his age and affiliation in two failed attempts to make the 1972 Olympic team.
More than most his age, he knew who he was and where he was going. He was a celebrity at Parkdale High. He was the fifth child of Cicero and Getha Leonard, who owned a one-story ranch on Barlowe Road in Palmer Park, Md., just outside Washington, D.C. He was the boyfriend of Juanita Wilkinson, the cute 15-year-old who lived five blocks away and was pregnant.
He was the boxer who smiled in the ring. Until, that is, he took aim at his opponent's head. Out of the ring he affected a similar duality. He was polite and good-natured, unless he was crossed or doubted - then he was cold, judgmental and abrupt. Once, returning from an out-of-state tournament, he was told another boy had been telephoning Juanita. He cornered the boy at the recreation center, next to the jukebox, snapped off a left hook, and opened a seven-stitch gash. The center's director, Ollie Dunlap, suspended him for a month.
Sorcery at Caesars: Sugar Ray's Marvelous Fight Page 2
