‘I don’t box any more, I don’t box any more’

Press, 28 November 1980, Page 26

‘I don’t box any more, I don’t box any more’

Bv

TOM CALLAHAN,

of the

“Washington Star,” through NZPA.

Humiliation more than hurt, it had to be. Cramps can't be the reason. Broken ribs wouldn’t be enough. Of all the possible results anyone imagined, this was the only one that was unimaginable. This was the only one that was impossible. Roberto Duran quit. It was so unthinkable, it was bizarre. Almost lost in the shock of it was how supreme Sugar Ray Leonard has been for seven rounds, plus 2min 445. Ray sensed this afterward. He almost cried out for proper credit, but needn’t have. In a sense, the last full round, the seventh, was also a public call to please look and see, look at what I am doing to the great Duran and see how great I am. If you hadn’t been noticing, take a look at this

and how about that and have you ever seen anything like it before? Yes. Duran waved him off, no more demonstrations using me. “I don’t box any more, I don’t box any more.” The Mexican referee, Octavio Meyran, whispered “why?” and the word grew and grew and it’s still growing. “No more, no more.” By the seventh, Leonard convinced himself Duran couldn’t hit him and, in setting out to convince the judges and everyone else, he never could have guessed how thoroughly he was convincing Duran.

From the beginning of the fight, there appeared to be only one detail Ray had to check out.

The ropes. He had to find out about fighting at the ropes, but eagerly set

about it. Throughout the Panamanian anthem, the fighters bobbed on their toes up and down. Since everyone else was standing motionless out of respect, they seemed to be dancing to the salsa music together.

But something was wrong. They had changed places or something. The wrong one was leading or something. Wait a minute. Roberto was the one in the red, white and blue. Ray was the one in black, coal black right down to the socks. When the salsa beat slowed and Ray Charles picked it up with “America the Beautiful,” his namesake, Ray Charles Leonard, rocked beside the blind singerand smiled almost beatifically.

You looked at those two and swore both of them could see things no-one else dreamed.

The ropes. It was simple. Last time in Montreal, Duran crashed through Leonard at the ropes. This time, Ray timed a good shot for every arrival at the ropes. Leonard first of all drew out the trip to the ropes with a boxing travelogue, dancing in and out, mostly

around — then,usually counter-clockwise. For all the trouble it took to manoeuvre Leonard to the ropes. Duran was beaten to every, first punch thrown there. Just one, but it was enough. He couldn’t get it. The

hook he might sink Into Leonard’s belly wasn’t that bad, but it didn't even get him even, and before he could flurry, Ray could tie him up or even spin him around. He couldn't get through.

By the third round, one of them knew the ropes and one was learning.

They smiled as though they were enjoying it. Ray found his combinations could work in the very first round. He tested his flicking left jab in the second. He won both rounds. Maybe Leonard wiggled away in the third in the

celebration of a knowledge settling in. Maybe the fourth, when the matador almost feinted the bull through the ropes, was even. Maybe the fifth, when the matador was pushed-not-gored to the ground, was close. Ray hopped up quickly and dusted the resin off the seat of those black pants. „ But the fifth round was the last one in which he took the roundabout way to the ropes. Shall we drop by the ropes? You tvant to visit the ropes? Let’s go to the ropes. He ’ enjoyed beating Duran to that first punch, and no more tying him up, either. That seventh wasn’t a round. It was a medley of Muhammad Ali’s greatest hits. The bolo. The shuffle. The shimmy. Don’t get the idea he wasn’t scoring, just clowning. Every now and then,

when Duran came too close to the performance, Ray stuck him, a righthand lead, a left, another right, double up on the right. Roberto moved away and Leonard performed some more. Each time Duran closed in again, Sugar’s teeth gritted — no, his whole mouth puckered — and he landed punches. HLs command was such that Ray stood perfectly straight with his knees together and his hands at his sides and stuck his chin out. He rolled his shoulders like a vamp. When Roberto reached out, Ray lashed out. It wasn’t that Duran was hit harder than he can stand, just more often than he can stand, just more ridiculously than he could stand. Cramps? Beaten by a

lunch of a steak-and-a-half and two large orange juices at Charlie’s Steak House? No. f’l am retiring from boxing. I’m not going to fight any more.’’) • Bad steaks don’t retire great fighters. “Don’t knock him down,” bcseeched Leonard, champion of the . world again and champion in. every way on Wednesday. “How come no one can’t just accept that I beat Roberto Duran? I don’t knock Roberto Duran. I still respect him because I think he still was one of the greatest pound-for-pound. “I hope the people of Panama still respect him,” Ray said tellingly. If he didn’t win, Duran had said he couldn’t go home to his people. That was an exaggeration. But, oh God, what will he tell them?