THE LEONARD-DURAN FIGHT
By Added by Murray (May 09, 2008)
The Leonard-Duran Fight:
One of the boxing’s most confounding moments explained. The first time I saw machismo die a little came when, as a kid seated in the front row of the old Savoy Theatre in Washington, D.C., I saw John Wayne kiss a girl instead of his horse. The second time came when Robert Duran told the whole world to “kiss off” in the eighth round of his eighth round of his fight with Leonard.
Before that unmagic moment, it was thought that there were but four immutable laws which governed the universe: that the earth goes around the sun; That lawyers always get payed first; that every action has an equal and opposite reaction; And that Roberto Duran would have to be carried out on his shield, blood streaming out of his ears, before he would ever quit. Now you can stretch on of the above. It was an unthinkable act. As unthinkable as Ted Williams throwing away this bat with two strikes; as unthinkable as O.J Simpson, unable to find a hole, suddenly stopping and falling down; as unthinkable as Secretariat or Alydar quitting at the top of the stretch.
Here he was one moment the man who in another life would have but niches in his gun rather than knockout victims on his record; the toughest hombre on the barrio block; boxing’s noblest savage. And the next, a neaten man waving his hands in a cross between “Get lost” and “Something’s wrong.” But whose intentions were made perfectly clear by his repeated utterance of those deathless words “No mas, no mas,” which translate, into any language as “I give up!” What happened to turn the legendary “Manos de Piedra,” the man without a heart and the sneering model of male machismo into a quitter?
To understand the “Why,” first you must understand the “what.” Boxing is a sport where everything comes in tidy little packages, is labelled then is put away. When something is divorced from reality, as the boxing fan perceives it, then if the thwarts that desire to be pigeon-holed and filled away neatly. Boxing, more than any other sport – or human activity- puts full faith in its belief that the past is farther of the present. However in cases where there is no prologue, or is illegitimate, with no history to relay on, then the moment is memorable, at best; controversial, at worst. Take the case of the Tunney-Dempsey celebrated “Long count” or the Schmeling-Sharkey foul. Both were controversial because both pushed beyond expectable human experience and were inexplainable in any but new terms. In a sport rife with memorial and controversial moments, few, in forthcoming years, will rival the moment when Roberto Duran called out “No mas, no mas” and held out his hands. There was no past experience for the boxing crowd to call on. And without that predicate they must resort with possible answers to the perplexing question. “Why no matter how far fetched.
It soon became a field day for the so-called “expert”. And the Roshomon theory put into practise- a reference to classic 1950 Japanese movie in which four different people involved in a brutal rape and murder each give their own version of the crime. Each differing radically. So, too does Roberto Duran’s mysterious surrender become the subject now of a long laundry list of stories. They, too, differ radically. To many of the thousands of fans seated in the spacious Superdome-some, in the upper tiers, as far away as Hattisburg, Mississippi- and a large proportion of the millions watching on closed-circuit TV, the first thing which came to mind was the most popular three-letter word after “sex” the word “Fix.” But it was an unthinking, knee-jerk reaction, one neither thought nor worthy of those who rendered it; a simplistic response to their hurt at not seeing their hero win or, more deeply , the cynicism that pervades today’s society and thinks that all activities are preplanned to take advantage of them:
However while this writer will not deny that there have been such things as “fixes” in the history of The Sweet Science, this was not one of them. For what purpose? Money couldn’t have swayed Robert Duran, in as much as he was set for life even before the first Leonard match. And if, for argument’s sake , “the fix” was in, how could one have been executed more clumsily or more inelegantly than merely waving one’s gloves at 2:44 of the 8th round and crying out “No mas, no mas”? No it wasn’t a fix. But boxing is a sport that suffers fools- and their reasoning – gladly.
Nor does the real answer to the question “Why” lie in the spoon-fed-rationalizations that were handed out after the fight, all resolving around something called “Stomach cramps.” Hell, this was the same Duran who had fought the first Leonard fight with a bad liver and the flu. How could mere stomach cramps disable this man called “El Animal” by his followers? Especially when, supposedly rendered nolo contender by those same cramps in the ring only and hour and a half before Duran hosted a big post-fight “Victory” party, eating and drinking like any man who comports himself like Roberto Duran should- in an animalistic fashion. Most of the other theories are as airtight as domestic Swiss cheese. Take for instance the supposed excuse that Duran had ballooned up before his rematch with Leonard and has to take off mucho weight in a short period of time. Granted that Duran had over 33 pounds living the easy life he had merited by winning the tittle in the hard-fought fight five months previously and had to find short cuts to rid him of all vestiges of easy living. Those searching for answers came up with several, all revolving around those supposed shortcuts to reducing his weight: Romantics cited “hard training” others diuretics,” and some even had the indelicacy to mention cocaine as an appetite suppressant. None of these have even been brought up before, although Duran had continuously had to fight weight as well as opponents during much of his professional career. Why now? As a rationalization for the inexplainable behaviour of Duran at 2:44 of the 8th round, that’s why. But none bears up under the light of the reflection; none qualify as answers for Duran’s unfathomable act of quitting.
If these reasons don’t wash, then the answer must be found elsewhere. For, as Agatha Christie’s master sleuth Hercule Poirot was wont to say, “When a thing arranges itself so, one realizes that it must be so. If one does not find the reasons why it should not be so, (and) one only looks for reasons why it should not be so, then one is strengthened in one’s opinion.” Having looked at – and dismissed, for good reason – all the possible other answers, one is left to look at the only place left; Roberto Duran’s mind, one which apparently has more connecting locks than the Panama Canal.
All of which serves as a table-setting-albeit a long one-for the fight itself, billed as Stone verses Sugar,” it was the much awaited rematch of the Montreal bout which has already been heralded as the 12th greatest fight of all time in the recent Ring Magazine poll. Starting from the moment the bout was announced, Duran began to spew out his contempt for Leonard. “This time I will keel him,” he was to say time and time again, attempting to belittle the man he had beaten in Montreal. And, to punctate his remark, as well as his dislike for the man he called “a clown”, he would at times extend his middle finger in the half peace sign signature. Other times, just to vary the act, his wife would extend the same pleasantries to Leonard’s wife, Juanita. It was the family act, with all the subtlety of the community bedpan. Leonard, on the other hand, ignored his trainer-soon to become ex-trainer-Dave Jacob’s advice that such a rematch was “too soon” and that, instead of taking on Duran, he should take two warm-up fights. Eschewing the warm-up fights and Jacob as well, Leonard went into serious training to reserve the only defeat the crown that has come to defeat private property.
This time Leonard was determined, burning with the same intensity that had once burned deeply within the sole of Duran. He was also determined not to fight Duran’s fight, not to let Duran dictate his own private property. This time Leonard was determined, burning with the same intensity that had once burned deeply in the soul of Duran .He was also determined not to fight nor control the action. In short, Sugar Ray Leonard was prepared. Which is more than Roberto Duran could say.
As the countdown continued and the crowds began to congregate in New Orleans –well-wishers and hangers -on alike, including some of the some 81 Panamanians who followed Duran everywhere – something seemed to be missing. The live promoters blamed it on everything since thanksgiving to the football season. But a new element had been introduced to the equation: WBA champion Thomas Hearns. No longer could it be agreed without fear of a contradiction that the two best welterweights in the world were fighting in New Orleans the night of November the 22nd. However, at least one of the two best welterweights in the world showed up that night in the person of Sugar Ray Leonard. The other man, Roberto Duran, looked like he was just playing through.
If there was one omen that was to for tell the outcome of the fight, it came at 9:01 CST, before the fight actually started. For at the Panamanian national anthem was rendered, sounding for the entire world like the noise made by two piggy gypsy wagons rolling over their own violins. It’s not only failed to stir the hearts of the 12 Panamanian hangers on who had taken Duran’s corner as a beachhead, but stimulated them, as well as interpreter Luis Henriquez to talk to each other and to anyone else who could find at ringside. That was followed by boffo rendition of “America the beautiful” by Sugar Rays name sake, Ray Charles which was to do with Sugar Ray what Kate Smiths “God bless America” had done so many times before for the Philadelphia hockey flyers. Round one to Leonard – and the fight hadn’t even started.
Then came the opening bell. And Sugar Ray, wearing different coloured trunks than he had sported in Montreal – black and yellow – soon began to show that he came equipped with other new trappings, including a new battle plan. This time, instead of leaving a wake up call for round five, as he had in the first fight, he immediately moved out to the middle of the ring and landed the first punch – a left that caught Duran. After a brief moment when both tried out tentative left jabs, Duran put on one of his patented bulrushes, but Leonard, instead of standing in harm’s way and taking stick, moved quickly backwards, out of reach.
It was like that for most of the first two rounds. Leonard would move in, throw effective combinations, and then move out of the way as Duran came barrelling in. Occasionally, Leonard would catch Duran in the mid-section, coming under with uppercuts. But his battle plan seemed to be one of getting off first and his weapon seemed to be telling left jab, one that seldom missed. Duran would frequently respond by throwing his right – catching air most times at Leonard’s left almost as often – and an occasional sneer.
As round three began, Duran, who had missed more punches in the first two opuses than he had in his previous 15 rounds against Leonard, became much more aggressive. He began mauling Sugar Ray into the ropes. But this time, instead of Leonard standing his ground, he either tied up Duran, caught him coming in or spun him off and moved out of danger. This time the pattern was different. And Duran’s eyes began to tell more of the story than his fists as he stood in the middle of the ring, befuddled by the moth moving around the flame that burned within him, but never getting close enough to become scorched.
It was becoming woefully obvious to all but the most foolharty Duran supporter that Leonard, who had gone to school for 15 rounds in Montreal, was not putting ion some post graduate work – as well as some well-placed lefts. Instead of bullying Leonard to the ropes, Duran found himself shoved to the floor on one occasion, spun off on others and even suffered the ignominity of having his head pushed down, a la Ali, on several more.
And then there was Leonard’s movement of foot, something not seen since Fred last danced with Adele. By moving backwards and forwards, alternating direction and spinning Duran off continually - a strategy devised by trainer Angelo Dundee, who told Sugar Ray to “move ‘em, spin ‘em” – Leonard had Duran mesmerised. He followed Leonard’s movements with his eyes, much like a beginning student would follow a foot outline at Arthur Murray’s. And while he was watching, Duran was made to pay an entertainment tax, taking more than a few hard lefts to the nariz.
Between rounds five and six, Duran complained to Henriquez relayed the message to Duran’s manager, Carlos Eleta, seated at ringside. But before Eleta’s message, “can he go on?” was relayed back, the bell had rung. Duran had a good round, negating most of the concern for his welfare.
Then came round seven. One of the most memorable in the long history of the boxing. It started out with Duran landing the first punch of the round, for the first time in the fight. But that was to be the extent of his attack. For now Leonard, sensing that he “was in control”, as he later was to say, began taunting Duran, first stacking out his chin and then his tongue. Duran looks at him with disbelieving eyes, unsure of how to handle his new threat. For the man who had been through previous fights had met every threat head-on: punchers, runners, counters. But never taunters. And, if that wasn’t enough for “Stone”, he had yet to suffer one of the boxing’s most crushing and devastating psychological blows, a trick combination not un simular to a little kid ‘s throwing one snowball in the air and catching the other fellow looking at it with the second one, right in the face. Leonard wound up with a mocking copy of Kid Gavilan’s bolo punch. While Duran stood transfixed, Leonard popped him a good one with his left. It was humiliating. It was worse. The man who had fought 411 previous rounds was made to look like a novice; like the fool. And many at ringside laughed. It was enough to make a grown man cry. Or quit.
That was the moment when the seed began to take root. And grow. And haven taken change inspired Duran’s act of submission 16 seconds before the end of the eighth round. For that was the moment that Roberto Duran cried out, more in anguish and frustration than in resignation, “No mas, no mas.” It was as if he heard a mention of E.F. Hutton. Everything stopped. And with one contemptuous gesture, more of the I’m-going-to-take-my-ball-and-go home variety than I quit, Roberto Duran destroyed a part of his image and gave flight to the rumours that he had taken a dive. He hadn’t. He had merely proved that the body travels more easily than the mind.
It was a shame. A shame for Roberto Duran, whose 73 previous fights would be sub judged in memory to that one second when he cried out “No mas, no mas.” A shame that a magnificent performance by Sugar Ray Leonard had to be tarnished and that his victory would be less than complete. And a shame for the millions upon millions of people who idolised Roberto Duran, many of whom wouldn’t fill their bellies with food but had looked upon him as someone who could fill their souls with hope, the hope of machismo. “No mas.”
But even though Roberto was to say “I fight no more” immediately after the fight, the realization and the magnitude of what he had done to himself, to his image and to boxing with that one gesture had not yet set in. it soon did. And rather than go home to Panama, where he had been a demi-god, he retreated instead to Miami, where he hid in seclusion for eight days.
There his co-incidence-as well as his advice of his manager, Carlos Eleta- began to play on him. He would come back , he announced, and as a form of penance for his irrational act of telling everyone from Sugar Ray Leonard on down to “kiss off,” the world was not quite ready to tell Roberto to come back , to wipe the only stain off his now somewhat tarnished escutcheon. The president of Panama send Duran a telegram, which read, “You made Panama. You’re our idol. Come home.” Many others were to echo the worlds El Presidente.
For Robert Duran was a hero to millions, a living legend. And he must come back one “mas” time so that the permanent picture we keep of him in our mind’s eye is not the shameful picture of a man who waved his glove desultorily in the direction of his soon-to-be-conqueror, Sugar Ray Leonard- and by extension, in the direction of everyone who had ever lived vicariously through Duran’s seething machismo- but of the warrior he once gave flight and fancy to man’s machismo everywhere. The man Roberto Duran was in previous movies. For this he must come back. To be Roberto Duran again.
One of the boxing’s most confounding moments explained. The first time I saw machismo die a little came when, as a kid seated in the front row of the old Savoy Theatre in Washington, D.C., I saw John Wayne kiss a girl instead of his horse. The second time came when Robert Duran told the whole world to “kiss off” in the eighth round of his eighth round of his fight with Leonard.
Before that unmagic moment, it was thought that there were but four immutable laws which governed the universe: that the earth goes around the sun; That lawyers always get payed first; that every action has an equal and opposite reaction; And that Roberto Duran would have to be carried out on his shield, blood streaming out of his ears, before he would ever quit. Now you can stretch on of the above. It was an unthinkable act. As unthinkable as Ted Williams throwing away this bat with two strikes; as unthinkable as O.J Simpson, unable to find a hole, suddenly stopping and falling down; as unthinkable as Secretariat or Alydar quitting at the top of the stretch.
Here he was one moment the man who in another life would have but niches in his gun rather than knockout victims on his record; the toughest hombre on the barrio block; boxing’s noblest savage. And the next, a neaten man waving his hands in a cross between “Get lost” and “Something’s wrong.” But whose intentions were made perfectly clear by his repeated utterance of those deathless words “No mas, no mas,” which translate, into any language as “I give up!” What happened to turn the legendary “Manos de Piedra,” the man without a heart and the sneering model of male machismo into a quitter?
To understand the “Why,” first you must understand the “what.” Boxing is a sport where everything comes in tidy little packages, is labelled then is put away. When something is divorced from reality, as the boxing fan perceives it, then if the thwarts that desire to be pigeon-holed and filled away neatly. Boxing, more than any other sport – or human activity- puts full faith in its belief that the past is farther of the present. However in cases where there is no prologue, or is illegitimate, with no history to relay on, then the moment is memorable, at best; controversial, at worst. Take the case of the Tunney-Dempsey celebrated “Long count” or the Schmeling-Sharkey foul. Both were controversial because both pushed beyond expectable human experience and were inexplainable in any but new terms. In a sport rife with memorial and controversial moments, few, in forthcoming years, will rival the moment when Roberto Duran called out “No mas, no mas” and held out his hands. There was no past experience for the boxing crowd to call on. And without that predicate they must resort with possible answers to the perplexing question. “Why no matter how far fetched.
It soon became a field day for the so-called “expert”. And the Roshomon theory put into practise- a reference to classic 1950 Japanese movie in which four different people involved in a brutal rape and murder each give their own version of the crime. Each differing radically. So, too does Roberto Duran’s mysterious surrender become the subject now of a long laundry list of stories. They, too, differ radically. To many of the thousands of fans seated in the spacious Superdome-some, in the upper tiers, as far away as Hattisburg, Mississippi- and a large proportion of the millions watching on closed-circuit TV, the first thing which came to mind was the most popular three-letter word after “sex” the word “Fix.” But it was an unthinking, knee-jerk reaction, one neither thought nor worthy of those who rendered it; a simplistic response to their hurt at not seeing their hero win or, more deeply , the cynicism that pervades today’s society and thinks that all activities are preplanned to take advantage of them:
However while this writer will not deny that there have been such things as “fixes” in the history of The Sweet Science, this was not one of them. For what purpose? Money couldn’t have swayed Robert Duran, in as much as he was set for life even before the first Leonard match. And if, for argument’s sake , “the fix” was in, how could one have been executed more clumsily or more inelegantly than merely waving one’s gloves at 2:44 of the 8th round and crying out “No mas, no mas”? No it wasn’t a fix. But boxing is a sport that suffers fools- and their reasoning – gladly.
Nor does the real answer to the question “Why” lie in the spoon-fed-rationalizations that were handed out after the fight, all resolving around something called “Stomach cramps.” Hell, this was the same Duran who had fought the first Leonard fight with a bad liver and the flu. How could mere stomach cramps disable this man called “El Animal” by his followers? Especially when, supposedly rendered nolo contender by those same cramps in the ring only and hour and a half before Duran hosted a big post-fight “Victory” party, eating and drinking like any man who comports himself like Roberto Duran should- in an animalistic fashion. Most of the other theories are as airtight as domestic Swiss cheese. Take for instance the supposed excuse that Duran had ballooned up before his rematch with Leonard and has to take off mucho weight in a short period of time. Granted that Duran had over 33 pounds living the easy life he had merited by winning the tittle in the hard-fought fight five months previously and had to find short cuts to rid him of all vestiges of easy living. Those searching for answers came up with several, all revolving around those supposed shortcuts to reducing his weight: Romantics cited “hard training” others diuretics,” and some even had the indelicacy to mention cocaine as an appetite suppressant. None of these have even been brought up before, although Duran had continuously had to fight weight as well as opponents during much of his professional career. Why now? As a rationalization for the inexplainable behaviour of Duran at 2:44 of the 8th round, that’s why. But none bears up under the light of the reflection; none qualify as answers for Duran’s unfathomable act of quitting.
If these reasons don’t wash, then the answer must be found elsewhere. For, as Agatha Christie’s master sleuth Hercule Poirot was wont to say, “When a thing arranges itself so, one realizes that it must be so. If one does not find the reasons why it should not be so, (and) one only looks for reasons why it should not be so, then one is strengthened in one’s opinion.” Having looked at – and dismissed, for good reason – all the possible other answers, one is left to look at the only place left; Roberto Duran’s mind, one which apparently has more connecting locks than the Panama Canal.
All of which serves as a table-setting-albeit a long one-for the fight itself, billed as Stone verses Sugar,” it was the much awaited rematch of the Montreal bout which has already been heralded as the 12th greatest fight of all time in the recent Ring Magazine poll. Starting from the moment the bout was announced, Duran began to spew out his contempt for Leonard. “This time I will keel him,” he was to say time and time again, attempting to belittle the man he had beaten in Montreal. And, to punctate his remark, as well as his dislike for the man he called “a clown”, he would at times extend his middle finger in the half peace sign signature. Other times, just to vary the act, his wife would extend the same pleasantries to Leonard’s wife, Juanita. It was the family act, with all the subtlety of the community bedpan. Leonard, on the other hand, ignored his trainer-soon to become ex-trainer-Dave Jacob’s advice that such a rematch was “too soon” and that, instead of taking on Duran, he should take two warm-up fights. Eschewing the warm-up fights and Jacob as well, Leonard went into serious training to reserve the only defeat the crown that has come to defeat private property.
This time Leonard was determined, burning with the same intensity that had once burned deeply within the sole of Duran. He was also determined not to fight Duran’s fight, not to let Duran dictate his own private property. This time Leonard was determined, burning with the same intensity that had once burned deeply in the soul of Duran .He was also determined not to fight nor control the action. In short, Sugar Ray Leonard was prepared. Which is more than Roberto Duran could say.
As the countdown continued and the crowds began to congregate in New Orleans –well-wishers and hangers -on alike, including some of the some 81 Panamanians who followed Duran everywhere – something seemed to be missing. The live promoters blamed it on everything since thanksgiving to the football season. But a new element had been introduced to the equation: WBA champion Thomas Hearns. No longer could it be agreed without fear of a contradiction that the two best welterweights in the world were fighting in New Orleans the night of November the 22nd. However, at least one of the two best welterweights in the world showed up that night in the person of Sugar Ray Leonard. The other man, Roberto Duran, looked like he was just playing through.
If there was one omen that was to for tell the outcome of the fight, it came at 9:01 CST, before the fight actually started. For at the Panamanian national anthem was rendered, sounding for the entire world like the noise made by two piggy gypsy wagons rolling over their own violins. It’s not only failed to stir the hearts of the 12 Panamanian hangers on who had taken Duran’s corner as a beachhead, but stimulated them, as well as interpreter Luis Henriquez to talk to each other and to anyone else who could find at ringside. That was followed by boffo rendition of “America the beautiful” by Sugar Rays name sake, Ray Charles which was to do with Sugar Ray what Kate Smiths “God bless America” had done so many times before for the Philadelphia hockey flyers. Round one to Leonard – and the fight hadn’t even started.
Then came the opening bell. And Sugar Ray, wearing different coloured trunks than he had sported in Montreal – black and yellow – soon began to show that he came equipped with other new trappings, including a new battle plan. This time, instead of leaving a wake up call for round five, as he had in the first fight, he immediately moved out to the middle of the ring and landed the first punch – a left that caught Duran. After a brief moment when both tried out tentative left jabs, Duran put on one of his patented bulrushes, but Leonard, instead of standing in harm’s way and taking stick, moved quickly backwards, out of reach.
It was like that for most of the first two rounds. Leonard would move in, throw effective combinations, and then move out of the way as Duran came barrelling in. Occasionally, Leonard would catch Duran in the mid-section, coming under with uppercuts. But his battle plan seemed to be one of getting off first and his weapon seemed to be telling left jab, one that seldom missed. Duran would frequently respond by throwing his right – catching air most times at Leonard’s left almost as often – and an occasional sneer.
As round three began, Duran, who had missed more punches in the first two opuses than he had in his previous 15 rounds against Leonard, became much more aggressive. He began mauling Sugar Ray into the ropes. But this time, instead of Leonard standing his ground, he either tied up Duran, caught him coming in or spun him off and moved out of danger. This time the pattern was different. And Duran’s eyes began to tell more of the story than his fists as he stood in the middle of the ring, befuddled by the moth moving around the flame that burned within him, but never getting close enough to become scorched.
It was becoming woefully obvious to all but the most foolharty Duran supporter that Leonard, who had gone to school for 15 rounds in Montreal, was not putting ion some post graduate work – as well as some well-placed lefts. Instead of bullying Leonard to the ropes, Duran found himself shoved to the floor on one occasion, spun off on others and even suffered the ignominity of having his head pushed down, a la Ali, on several more.
And then there was Leonard’s movement of foot, something not seen since Fred last danced with Adele. By moving backwards and forwards, alternating direction and spinning Duran off continually - a strategy devised by trainer Angelo Dundee, who told Sugar Ray to “move ‘em, spin ‘em” – Leonard had Duran mesmerised. He followed Leonard’s movements with his eyes, much like a beginning student would follow a foot outline at Arthur Murray’s. And while he was watching, Duran was made to pay an entertainment tax, taking more than a few hard lefts to the nariz.
Between rounds five and six, Duran complained to Henriquez relayed the message to Duran’s manager, Carlos Eleta, seated at ringside. But before Eleta’s message, “can he go on?” was relayed back, the bell had rung. Duran had a good round, negating most of the concern for his welfare.
Then came round seven. One of the most memorable in the long history of the boxing. It started out with Duran landing the first punch of the round, for the first time in the fight. But that was to be the extent of his attack. For now Leonard, sensing that he “was in control”, as he later was to say, began taunting Duran, first stacking out his chin and then his tongue. Duran looks at him with disbelieving eyes, unsure of how to handle his new threat. For the man who had been through previous fights had met every threat head-on: punchers, runners, counters. But never taunters. And, if that wasn’t enough for “Stone”, he had yet to suffer one of the boxing’s most crushing and devastating psychological blows, a trick combination not un simular to a little kid ‘s throwing one snowball in the air and catching the other fellow looking at it with the second one, right in the face. Leonard wound up with a mocking copy of Kid Gavilan’s bolo punch. While Duran stood transfixed, Leonard popped him a good one with his left. It was humiliating. It was worse. The man who had fought 411 previous rounds was made to look like a novice; like the fool. And many at ringside laughed. It was enough to make a grown man cry. Or quit.
That was the moment when the seed began to take root. And grow. And haven taken change inspired Duran’s act of submission 16 seconds before the end of the eighth round. For that was the moment that Roberto Duran cried out, more in anguish and frustration than in resignation, “No mas, no mas.” It was as if he heard a mention of E.F. Hutton. Everything stopped. And with one contemptuous gesture, more of the I’m-going-to-take-my-ball-and-go home variety than I quit, Roberto Duran destroyed a part of his image and gave flight to the rumours that he had taken a dive. He hadn’t. He had merely proved that the body travels more easily than the mind.
It was a shame. A shame for Roberto Duran, whose 73 previous fights would be sub judged in memory to that one second when he cried out “No mas, no mas.” A shame that a magnificent performance by Sugar Ray Leonard had to be tarnished and that his victory would be less than complete. And a shame for the millions upon millions of people who idolised Roberto Duran, many of whom wouldn’t fill their bellies with food but had looked upon him as someone who could fill their souls with hope, the hope of machismo. “No mas.”
But even though Roberto was to say “I fight no more” immediately after the fight, the realization and the magnitude of what he had done to himself, to his image and to boxing with that one gesture had not yet set in. it soon did. And rather than go home to Panama, where he had been a demi-god, he retreated instead to Miami, where he hid in seclusion for eight days.
There his co-incidence-as well as his advice of his manager, Carlos Eleta- began to play on him. He would come back , he announced, and as a form of penance for his irrational act of telling everyone from Sugar Ray Leonard on down to “kiss off,” the world was not quite ready to tell Roberto to come back , to wipe the only stain off his now somewhat tarnished escutcheon. The president of Panama send Duran a telegram, which read, “You made Panama. You’re our idol. Come home.” Many others were to echo the worlds El Presidente.
For Robert Duran was a hero to millions, a living legend. And he must come back one “mas” time so that the permanent picture we keep of him in our mind’s eye is not the shameful picture of a man who waved his glove desultorily in the direction of his soon-to-be-conqueror, Sugar Ray Leonard- and by extension, in the direction of everyone who had ever lived vicariously through Duran’s seething machismo- but of the warrior he once gave flight and fancy to man’s machismo everywhere. The man Roberto Duran was in previous movies. For this he must come back. To be Roberto Duran again.
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