The Big Fight (36 page)

 

 

 

T
he night was a total disaster—and it started long before the opening bell.

For some unknown reason, my mom and dad and siblings were given seats about five rows from ringside, while Bern sat in the front row. My parents were never that far back for any of my fights. My mom, to no one's surprise, was furious and didn't hesitate to make her feelings known. Neither did my sister Bunny. I didn't see what took place, though from what I was told, Bunny attempted to slap Bern in the face, believing she had been responsible for the seating arrangement. She wasn't. It was J.D. who made the error. It didn't matter. When she couldn't get her way, Momma left and missed the whole fight.

I was having my own problems. The shots the doctor had given me in the calf made it go completely numb. I was going to have to fight on one leg. I also got concerned when Roger held his hands out for me to hit. I missed. I never missed.

Once the fight got under way, I didn't have a chance. Camacho was in total control, backing me into the ropes. I fell to the floor late in the first round, but it was the result of a shove.

In the second, I rallied a bit, landing a right jab to Camacho's nose and a right hook to his head. Perhaps there was hope for me yet. If I was not the fighter I once was, neither was he. In round three, though, that illusion disappeared in a hurry. Camacho nailed me with a left hook to the cheek and a right to the face. From then on, I was helpless, the end coming in the fifth. Camacho sent me to the deck early in the round and proceeded to throw about a dozen punches in a row before the ref, Joe Cortez, stopped it. Thank God he did. Lying flat on my back in the Atlantic City Convention Center would have been the worst possible way to end my boxing carrer. I was humbled enough as it was, requiring assistance to climb the two steps to the dais for the postfight press conference.

At least there would be no more comebacks. If losing to Norris did not do it, losing to Camacho would surely end any fantasies I might have had of recapturing my former glory. I could now attend the International Boxing Hall of Fame induction ceremony, scheduled, appropriately, for June, and be resigned to the fact that it was finally over.

Or could I? Within days, amazingly enough, I was busy plotting another comeback. I convinced myself that the loss to Camacho, like the one to Norris, was due to injuries, and to prove money wasn't the issue, I planned to donate the entire purse to charity. The problem was: Who would I fight? It couldn't be a bum. The public wouldn't pay the big bucks for the closed-circuit telecast, especially after the awful show I gave them against Camacho. Nor could it be a top-ten contender. No matter how motivated I might be, I'd be in no shape to take on anyone that good, not without another fight or two.

In the end, sanity, thank goodness, prevailed and nothing came of my plans. Prior to the Camacho fight, J.D. held discussions with people representing Oscar De La Hoya, the light welterweight champion, which were subsequently dropped. I was lucky I didn't beat Camacho. I can't begin to imagine what Oscar, still in his early twenties, would have done to a has-been like me. Yet as the months went by, the Camacho loss depressed me to no end.
You dumb fuck,
I kept asking myself,
how could you have been beaten so badly?
It was on my mind when I went to sleep and when I woke up. I kept searching for a way to fix it, even if that meant I'd have to get back in the ring.

I should have been happy. Bern and I were building a nice life for ourselves, excited by the arrival of our baby girl, Camille, in the fall of 1997, and then came a son, Daniel, three years later.

My new business ventures were moving along, too. In 2001, I launched a boxing promotional company in association with ESPN. In 2004, I was named the cohost, with Sylvester Stallone, of a new NBC reality series,
The Contender,
in which promising young fighters worked on their craft in hopes of becoming a world champion. The show put me back in the public eye. It also helped me finally get over the Camacho loss.

Then why, in the summer of 2006, was I on the set of
Live with Regis and Kelly
in New York with the most painful hangover I could remember? And why, on Christmas Eve of the year before, was I out cold, lying on my kitchen floor.

The answer, as Juanita and Bern had told me, is that I was still an alcoholic, and it was not the outcome of the Camacho fight I was anxious to fix by drinking. It was the events of a lifetime ago, before I became famous, when two men I trusted took advantage of me, and two parents I loved turned our house into a war zone. For years, I ran—to the gym, to cocaine, to the bottle, to other women, to anything or anyone that would make the pain disappear, which it did, though never for long.

That July, I finally stopped running. I looked at my eyes in the mirror, just as I did in the dressing room before my toughest fights. What I saw I had never seen before, eyes willing to admit I needed help, and before it was too late.

What made me stop? I'm not sure. Perhaps it was the argument I had a few days earlier with my son, Jarrel, now in his early twenties, who was living with us. He was playing loud music in his room and not following our rules. I asked him several times to stop. He didn't. Enough was enough. I told him he'd have to move out.

“You're trying to be a father but you've never been a father to me,” he said. “All you are is a fucking machine.”

Jarrel then threw me against the wall. I did what I always did when someone tried to push me around. I clenched my fists and got ready to pop him—until I stopped myself, thank God, remembering this was my own son. I walked out. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was a fucking machine.

I couldn't sleep the whole night. The next morning, I made a bunch of calls, and by the end of the week I was sitting in a conference room with about twenty strangers, attending my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

I stayed in the back row, my hat and shades on, head down, trying not to be noticed. It didn't work. Suddenly it was my turn to introduce myself.

“I'm Ray Leonard,” I said.

“Your first name is enough,” I was told.

I started over.

“I'm Ray,” I said.

Everyone laughed.

What I didn't say, however, and wouldn't say for months, was that I was an alcoholic. Being in the same room with these people was one thing. Saying the word was another. Yet I went back almost every day, and began to sense a change inside me. The urge to bury pain with a drink was still there, but I overcame it. Whenever I woke up depressed, a meeting instantly put me in a better mood. I knew I was not alone.

Eventually it became my turn to lead a meeting, and share my struggles with the others. Even then, when I finally did say the
A
word, I said it under my breath. The important thing is that I said it. I saw myself as who I am and will always be, an alcoholic.

B
eing sober for the last four years has helped me see a great deal. I see the pain I caused to those I cared about most, and who cared most about me. I blamed the alcohol or the cocaine or the character I created, Sugar Ray, as if I had nothing to do with him. I never blamed myself. Till now.

For years I felt pity for Roger and my closest friend, Derrik Holmes, for the drugs they consumed, which ruined much of their lives. I thought they were weak, but what made me any better? I was blessed in countless ways they never were, and still I fell apart. I beat Duran and Hearns and Hagler, but for the longest time I couldn't beat alcohol and cocaine. I wasn't strong. Not where it counted.

Now here I am, with a second chance to be the husband and father I never was to Juanita and my two older sons. I won't waste it.

I'll never be able to make up for the past, which I'm reminded of every time I gaze into the eyes of Ray Jr. or Jarrel when they watch the love I give to Camille and Daniel. I know what they're thinking:
Where was the love when
we
needed it?
I wish I had an explanation that would make them feel better. I don't. All I can do is be the best father I can to all my kids.

I spend a lot of time these days traveling around the world giving motivational speeches. People come because they remember me as Sugar Ray Leonard, but Sugar Ray is not who I am when I speak. I am Ray Leonard, father of four, survivor of drug and alcohol abuse, who found out what truly matters. I explain that while each of us faces enormous challenges every day, it's not the sins we commit that will define us. It's how we respond to them. If they are lucky, as I have been, they, too, will receive a second chance. I want to make sure they don't blow it, either.

People assume I was happy during my fighting days, and I often was—hanging out with the boys in training camp, studying films of my opponent, walking down the aisle toward the ring. There was no place I would rather have been. I think a lot about those times. When I watch any of my fights on television, I can recall precisely what I was thinking and feeling. I can be Sugar Ray.

Yet those times can't compare to the contentment in my soul at this stage of my life. I beat the toughest opponent of all, myself.

For that, no one awarded me a championship belt. No one put me on the cover of
Sports Illustrated.
And no one filled my head with lies about how superior I am. I am not superior. I never was. I was just blessed with skills our society values.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Sugar Ray. I know how fortunate I was to have him around. Because of him, I saw the world and was introduced to people I never would have met. I escaped the unfortunate fate that befell many of my friends.

Each time I go back for a visit, I'm reminded of how difficult their lives have been, and remain. Despite the progress the neighborhoods have made since I was a kid, there are still sections of town where nothing has changed, where there is no hope for a better tomorrow.

When I was fifteen, I was asked by a local reporter who I wanted to be when I grew up. I did not hesitate.

“I want to be special,” I said.

But when I think of Sugar Ray, I am most grateful for a reason that has nothing to do with money and fame.

He was there when I needed a place for my pain and anger. Without him, I can't begin to imagine how my life would have turned out. Because of Sugar Ray, I learned how to accept Ray.

When I look in the mirror, my eyes are warm, caring, at peace.

I had wanted to tell my real story for many years, but something always got in the way. Mostly, it was me. Before I could place my life in any kind of perspective, I needed to understand it myself, to better determine why I made the decisions I did, in and out of the ring, and to figure out what those choices said about who I was, and who I wanted to be. In the spring of 2008, liberated from the dangerous spell that alcohol and drugs had cast over me, my ideas and feelings became more focused, more authentic. It was time, at last, to embark on this most exciting journey.

I knew it would not be easy, that it would open up wounds I had preferred to bury, forever if possible. But I also knew I would never get on with the future if I didn't. The past was ugly. The past was filled with one lie after another. The past made me harbor deep shame and regret for all the people I hurt. Yet the past was mine, and it was my responsibility to claim it more fully as my own, whatever the consequences.

Once the memories flooded in, and they were hard to stop, I became humbled by the amount of family members and friends who've meant so much to me over the years. The list must begin, of course, with my mother and father, who allowed me the freedom to pursue my dream of capturing the Olympic gold medal. Even when the task appeared overwhelming, they did not back off in their belief in me for an instant. I never told them just how much I relied on their faith. Somehow I think they always knew. The same goes for my brothers and sisters. They were always in my corner.

Speaking of my corner, I was blessed with three dedicated men who conditioned me to win—Pepe Correa, Dave Jacobs, and Janks Morton. They put in hour after hour at the gym to help me became a champion. I'm very grateful, as well, for my relationship with Angelo Dundee, whose invaluable words in the corner during the first Hearns fight—“you're blowing it, son”—gave me a defining moment in boxing history. It was a fight I could have easily lost.

When I reflect on my fighting days, I owe a special gratitude to the proud men I fought, who were trying to earn a living just as I was, and to the trainers and managers who prepared them for battle. We were all in it together, even if we were trying to beat one another's brains in. I have run into quite a few of them since I retired, and after we share memories of our youth, we always walk off as friends and that means the world to me. Some of the men I fought have not been as lucky, the sport taking its toll on them as it always does. I pray their remaining days be as comfortable as possible.