PREFACE

My eyes never lie.

They were open wide, staring back at me in the mirror of the dressing room at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. Those eyes would reveal which of the two dueling personalities would enter the ring as I took on the most intimidating opponent of my career, Marvin Hagler. It was nearly seven o’clock on the night of April 6, 1987, the opening bell only about an hour away.

Would it be Sugar Ray Leonard, the star of numerous conquests in the past, an American hero since capturing the gold medal in Montreal more than a decade earlier, the anointed heir to the throne vacated by Muhammad Ali? Sugar Ray was resilient, fearless, unwilling to accept failure. The smile and innocence of a child, which made him a hit on TV, would be gone, replaced in the ring by a man filled with rage he did not understand, determined to cause great harm to another.

Or would it be Ray Leonard, the part-time boxer at the age of thirty, whose best was well behind him, his days and nights wasted on fights that never made the headlines, fights he lost over and over, to alcohol and cocaine and depression? This was a man full of fear and self-pity, blaming everyone but the person most responsible for his fate—himself.

In the room, with no one around, I kept my eyes glued on the eyes in the mirror. They were alive, probing, big, like flashlights. I looked at the muscles in my shoulders, my arms. They were cut, defined, powerful.

I began to slowly shadowbox, watching my legs, then my eyes, back to my legs, then my eyes again. Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! I threw a left, a right, another left, another right. Sweat dripped down my forehead, my breathing heavier.

There was a knock at the door to let me know it was time. I didn’t say a word. I took one last look at my eyes. I recognized them. They were Sugar Ray’s.

I walked out. Surrounded by my trainer, Angelo Dundee, bodyguard James Anderson, brothers Roger and Kenny, and about a dozen others, I started the familiar procession down the aisle, a strange and special ritual unlike any other in sports, cheered on by the hungry masses out for blood, marching toward glory or shame or, worse, death. During the several minutes it took to reach the ropes, I remained unscathed, as did Hagler, our bodies honed from months of sparring and running to be ready for this one momentous night. Soon we would be unscathed no more, both forced to pay the dues for the brutal profession we had chosen, or, as many of us in the Sweet Science prefer to believe, had chosen us.

I proceeded as slowly as possible, savoring the feelings I had not experienced in almost three years, since I defeated Kevin Howard and retired again, this time, I assumed, for good. Howard, nowhere near the fighter I was, knocked me to the canvas in the fourth round. I got up right away, more humiliated than hurt, and summoned enough will to prevail in the ninth. But my heart was not in the fight game anymore, and if one is not committed, disaster is certain to strike. Lacking the motivation wasn’t a problem against Hagler. From the moment I decided in the spring of 1986 to take him on, I was sure of one thing: I wanted to tear the man apart.

The odds were heavily against me, and why wouldn’t they be? Boxing was filled with proud warriors who came out of retirement only to discover that they should have stayed away forever, their skills never the same after the long layoff, the saddest example being the legendary Joe Louis, the hero to my father and millions of African Americans, beaten eventually by a much younger Rocky Marciano in 1951. I knew I would be assuming the same risk as the others before me, and not only to my body. At stake at Caesars was something just as important—my reputation. When I first retired as a pro in 1982, I prided myself on being the rare exception in my sport, the fighter wise enough to get out before it became too late. If I was whipped by Hagler, a very real possibility—he hadn’t lost in eleven years—I would join the long list of disgraced ex- champions, leaving one lasting, pathetic image for the public I worked endlessly to impress.

Over the previous five years, I spent less than twenty-seven minutes in the ring while Hagler took on eight opponents (fifty-seven rounds) during the same period. While I trained more vigorously for Hagler than for any prior opponent—I sparred for well over two hundred rounds—no amount of effort on the speed bag, the heavy bag, jumping rope, and running could compare to an actual fight against a man coming from the opposite corner whose prime objective is to inflict as much damage as is humanly possible. My sparring partners never let up. They had careers they were hoping to build.

In training camp at Hilton Head, South Carolina, I felt in control of myself and the surroundings. There was a plan I stuck to every day. On fight night in Las Vegas, I felt in control again, but didn’t know if the plan would work. A fighter never knows till the bell rings.

There was also the injury to my left eye, which had led to the initial retirement. The official diagnosis was a partially detached retina, which could have left me, if the doctors did not operate as soon as they did, blinded in that eye for life.

The possibility of reinjuring the eye was on my mind during the Howard bout and in the months leading up to the encounter with Hagler. What if I thought about the eye again, if for only an instant, during the fight itself? Marvin Hagler was no Kevin Howard. He said if I was “foolish” enough to take him on, he was “foolish enough to rip” my eye out. He meant it.

Hagler’s bravado didn’t frighten me, though it did get to my family, who were already alarmed enough to begin with. They never actually came out and shared their concerns for my safety, yet I saw the look in their eyes, just as I saw it among the members of my camp. They were afraid I might get seriously hurt. Nobody was more ferocious during the 1980s than Hagler. In 1981, he gave Mustafa Hamsho such a thorough pounding that he required fifty-five stitches to plug the cuts in his skin.

Perhaps more worried than anyone were members of the Nevada State Athletic Commission, which held jurisdiction over the bout. Not every state gave a license to a fighter with a detached retina. If my eye suffered permanent damage, the commissioners, picked by the governor, would be the ones dealing with the fallout. To protect itself, the commission asked me to take one final exam. I wasn’t crazy about the burning sensation caused by the drops the doctors put in my eyes to dilate them, but I agreed. I had come too far over the past eleven months to let the opportunity slip away. I passed the exam. The fight was on.

It was just after eight p.m. As the challenger, I was the first to climb under the ropes.

Wearing a short, Elvis-style white jacket, I received a warm reception from the fans and enjoyed every second of it. Life after boxing can be rewarding in many ways, but nothing comes close to the sound of applause, and any ex-fighter who claims he doesn’t miss it is lying. Hagler was next, starting his procession down the aisle, the familiar scowl planted firmly on his face, accompanied by “War,” the anti–Vietnam War anthem from the late sixties.

What was he thinking? Did this most macho of fighting men have any doubts of his own? Did he worry about a different Hagler showing up on this, the most important night of his career? We all attempt to hide what’s most vulnerable about us. Perhaps Hagler’s fierceness was related to something equally frightened within the man himself.

At first, Hagler wasn’t sure about fighting me. After I went public in May 1986 with my decision to challenge him, he took several months to offer his response.

What did Hagler need to prove? He owned the middleweight belt and was recognized by the press and fans as the toughest pound-for-pound fighter on the planet. What else could he possibly gain by beating a has- been like me? On the other hand, he could lose everything and perhaps never get a chance to redeem himself. Yet what Hagler did not own was true stardom, and the only way he could attain it was to expose me, in his view, for the fraud I had always been, the slick, made-for-TV package who stole the spotlight that should have been his.

I did the commercials. I appeared on the talk shows. I made millions while Hagler, for much of his career, risked his life for thousands. These slights, as well as the promise of making at least $10 million, were why, in the summer of 1986, he accepted my challenge. He would put an end to the Sugar Ray Leonard hype machine, once and for all.

I came up with a plan as I waited for him. Since the fight was made official I had worked on messing with Hagler’s psyche, and here was one more chance. I wanted to know which Hagler I would be facing, the invincible one or the insecure one. After he entered the ring and received his ovation, every bit as generous as mine, I slowly glided toward his general direction, shuffling my feet and shadowboxing. As I crept closer, I began to think like a choreographer on Broadway, carefully plotting my steps.

The two of us were soon only a few feet apart, headed for a certain collision. If Hagler backed off to avoid me, I kept thinking, I would win the fight. If we bumped into each other, I would lose. He was the champion defending his turf and I was daring to take it away. It went back to the code in the hood, where the strongest person on the streets stood his ground against any threat.

It was a matter of respect: Did Marvin Hagler respect me or not? It then dawned on me: He was not going to move. I screwed up and I was going to pay the price.

Please fuckin’ turn, I thought. Now!

At the last possible second, he did, darting to the side to avoid contact while I did not budge one inch. I was relieved. Hagler was mine.

We met in the center of the ring for referee Richard Steele’s instructions. I looked down at the canvas, not at Hagler. I was in my zone and did not want to be disturbed.

We retreated to our respective corners, soaking up the final words of wisdom from the boxing lifers who had done everything they could to prepare us for the moment, which was only seconds away. It was now up to the two of us, half-naked and half-scared, ready to kill or be killed.

The bell rang.