Recently, I put together an article comparing the retention of power between past and present greats, Roberto Duran and Manny Pacquiao, respectively. In gathering my stats and watching a few DVDs of both fighters and a whole lot of YouTubes, I couldn’t help but feel the strong tug of nostalgia; not for Pacquiao, but for Duran. As you already know, I grew up Duran, and when I discovered “Hands of Stone,” I was stunned to discover that a professional fighter existed who shared my surname. I mean, it’s not like my last name was Smith or something too common so I thought I was hot sh*t, man. That is, until my maternal grandmother, Mary Jane, a woman of German descent, told me that “Duran” is a common Spanish name and may have been rooted in royalty.
The latter I wasn’t so certain of but I let her roll with it. She must’ve seen the disappointed look on my face when she said it was indeed a common name and threw in the “royalty” part to make her little Coyote feel special.
But that’s neither here or there. And back when I was but a mere pup, boxing was readily more accessible to the masses as it is today. And that was the best time to experience the primal force which was Roberto Duran. In this article, I’ll reflect on times of my life that “Manos de Piedra” defined by just stepping between the ropes.
Duran vs. Ken Buchanan (for the WBA lightweight title): Although this fight took place on June 26, 1972, when I was one year, two months and seven days old, I remember seeing it rebroadcast on television sometime in 1978 and being immediately confused as all hell. What confused me was Duran’s use of the nickname “Rocky,” emblazoned on cornermen’s jackets. My maternal grandfather was watching the program, as well, so I asked him if the guy on TV was the guy the movie was about (Naturally, I hadn’t seen the movie). Of course, he said no then told me that a lot of fighters had nicknames like that; explaining who Rockys Marciano and Graziano were. Grandpa then told me his nickname wasn’t more important than his surname: Duran. My seven-year old little mind damn near shut down. I immediately wanted to know everything about this strange little fighter and parked it right next to Grandpa on the plastic slip-covered couch and absorbed the fight.
Shortly after Duran-Buchanan: “He did WHAT?!” I asked in a tone uncharacteristic of one I would normally address my father with. “He knocked out a horse with one punch, I said!” spouted my father. And I believed him. It was at that moment when I knew it had to be something about the name and not so much to do with the natural storytelling abilities of American Indians. After all, the guy telling me this story was my dad. The same cat who told me how, when he was seven, an older Anglo bully was picking on him over his meager daily lunch of fry bread and mashed beans, so he threw the kid in a headlock and yanked his head clean off. All with a straight face, staring at me, daring me not to believe him…
Duran vs. Sugar Ray Leonard I, June 20, 1980: I was nine years old and it was summer. “The Empire Strikes Back” was JUST released but I didn’t get to go to a lot of movies when I was that young unless they were cop or horror flicks (which I’m genuinely grateful for today) at the Hi-Lite 30 Drive-In. My dad worked really hard and relaxed just as hard and that meant a lot of TV time was coming our way. Dad watched baseball and that bored me to tears but mainstream TV, hard and fast, touted the fight between Duran and the young, good-looking, golden boy (before the “Golden Boy” we all know today) named Sugar Ray. All I could think was “Duran’s gonna beat the poop outta this guy.” I told anyone who would listen about this fight and how Duran was going to win. Sure, I would get the obligatory “Yeah, but Sugar Ray’s young, undefeated AND won a gold medal in the Olympics. Ain’t no way Roberto Duran’s gonna win.” I didn’t care what anyone said. In fact, I was downright incensed by the assumption that this pretty boy who didn’t even want to fight professionally in the first place (from what I read at the time) was going to beat the short pants off my namesake.
When Duran did his job and won the close decision, I felt like I won a million bucks and was stranded in a comic book store. What pleasingly stunned me was Duran’s belligerent demeanor, post-fight. No sportsmanship. No manners. Duran swinging his arms in disgust and disdain for Leonard, while calling out Wilfred Benitez. Just smoldering angst that scared the sh*t out of me. It took me to my dad’s look when he told me about pulling the bully’s head off. I always wanted to be a good kid (primarily to not piss off my dad), but, as a kid who got picked on quite a bit for being a shrimpy, little bookworm, just knowing that two Durans of great and terrible power existed was enough for me to, perhaps, round out the Unholy Trinity.
Leonard vs. Duran II, November 25, 1980: Fourth grade was in full effect and winter was coming quick. Amid the football season (I didn’t watch), there was so much press about Duran meeting Leonard once again. A huge deal was made about the immediacy of the rematch. I didn’t see the big deal. I thought five months between matches was a lifetime. What I wasn’t aware of was Duran’s penchant for letting himself go between fights. Add to that that fact that I knew nothing about the intricacies of making weight and training camps and all the other good stuff any knowledgeable fight fan that isn’t a know-it-all nine-year old and you’ve got the proverbial ton-of-bricks I would be hit with when I learned who actually won that Goddamned fight.
I say “when I learned” because I didn’t actually get to watch the fight live. For one, the fight was on a Tuesday so I’m pretty certain “Too Close For Comfort” (which was new and allegedly hi-LAR-ious) was on. I had little pull as to what channel the TV was going to be on and I was too young to out and out say, “F**k Jim J. Bullock.” No matter. I knew Duran was going to work his magic once more and erase Leonard from boxing for good and I went to bed that night confident.
The following day was a nightmare, especially at the parent-teacher conference that evening. It was bad enough Duran quit. All I wanted to know was why. Why? Why on Earth would the toughest man in the world just up and quit? The evening’s sports recap showed Duran wave away Leonard with a gloved right hand as “Sugar Ray” sprinted to a corner to celebrate. Not gloat, but celebrate. He seemed as stunned as I was but I was still pissed at him and not Duran. I was pissed and in denial. What compounded my pissed-off-edness was my friends, who attended the PTC with their folks, at school. I’d like to think I could remember which one or ones that rubbed Duran’s loss in my face. Was it Terry Houser? Jim Rozell? Mickey Thomas or Troy Saldana? All I could remember was “Stomach cramps. Yeah, right,” and my abject embarrassment in defending Duran. Believing his excuse. I was a nine-year old wreck. And I took it out on poor Brian Janney; two years my senior. Brian cut me off at the pass when I was one block from making it home from school. He was a real piece of work at the time and picked on me like it was his job. He pushed me into a muddy ditch and I teed off and dropped him with my Marvel Super-Heroes lunch box. Then I got really angry when I noticed his head dented it. So I hit him again.
I wanted to hate Sugar Ray Leonard. I really did. Then I saw that damn 7-Up commercial that featured Leonard and Duran and their young sons all sharing sodas after each father gave the other the hairy eyeball; their little dopplegangers offering up carbonated olive branches. I asked my dad why on Earth this was happening. “Boxers don’t hate each other. They’re just doing a job,” Dad answered. “Baseball players don’t hate each other. They just go out and play and that’s it. That’s how you know wrestling is fake.” OK, I didn’t really get that last comment. If wrestling was fake, that means its participants didn’t really hate each other either. But I got the gist. And it made me really like Sugar Ray Leonard. In my eyes, he was a kind, forgiving man.
Duran vs. Davey Moore, June 16, 1983: Duran’s fights came and went, as far as Duran’s fights go. And they did. There was always a level of nervousness and uncertainty. The Wilfred Benitez and Kirkland Laing losses crushed me and the KO win over Pipino Cuevas lifted my spirits; albeit with a buttload of caution. It was summer again and I just bailed grade school. I was looking forward to a new school and a whole new opportunity for my favorite fighter to get his. But I was jaded. Although I wasn’t the bandwagon kind of fan, I knew enough from recent history that Duran’s relative inconsistency was enough to make any other fight fan I knew not care whether Duran was going to win or lose. I couldn’t even venture a guess as to whether or not Duran would beat the young WBA super welterweight titlist. I just wanted him to win so badly. It was his birthday, for Christ’s sake. If I couldn’t give him a present, maybe he could give himself one.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. As the fight progressed, that gradual elevation of happiness that Patton Oswalt talks about in “My Weakness is Strong” took hold. Even after the thumb in Moore’s eye. Round after round, Moore wilted and Duran seemingly became stronger. It was uncanny. Then again, Moore’s relative inexperience trumped his age advantage. Then in the seventh round, Duran connected straight and flush with a right hand. Clang! Splat (went Moore square on his ass). Moore’s right eye was badly swollen and Duran was batting him around like a sadistic cat who found a mouse with a death wish. This was one of the first times I really wanted a referee to stop a fight. Ernesto Magana wasn’t exactly making any quick moves and I was really starting to feel bad for Moore. In the eighth, Moore’s corner couldn’t take it anymore and quit because their man wouldn’t.
I was numb, man. Totally numb. Roberto Duran won another belt. On his birthday. The crowd exploded into a cacophony of “Happy Birthday” and the Panamanian cried. It was such a delightfully surreal moment for me because, although I was so happy for Duran, I was equally concerned for Moore, who took a frightful ass-kicking. I couldn’t help but admire the man, however. He didn’t quit. He wouldn’t quit. And I was 12 years old, in the middle of summer, with very few friends I could run to so I could blurt out the amazing happenings of that night. Man, did it feel good.
Marvelous Marvin Hagler vs. Duran, November 10, 1983: I was in seventh grade. I was getting rides to a brand-new school from the weird family on the corner. I was the St. Jude’s Hospital Math-a-Thon winning nerd with the combed-to-the-side hair and the striped polo shirt who loved books and Def Leppard. But, I was also a blue belt in Tae Kwon Do who promised I would become that third piece in the “Unholy Duran Trinity of Toughness,” which was a surprise to many jock-ish kids who thought I was an easy mark. When my mom and dad enrolled me in the Korean fighting art, I promised myself I would crack anyone in half who f**ked with me. Of course, I long stopped wiping out bullies with my lunch box but I still wanted to be the quiet one everyone had to worry about.
But I learned something from Duran, in this fight. Duran showed that calculated distance and counterpunching was just as effective as being a pressuring aggressor. Going into the 12th round, Duran was even winning by keeping the undisputed Middleweight Champion in lunge mode; making him often miss. But Hagler secured the final three rounds of the fight; successfully defending his championship but blemishing his record of stopping every opponent in every successful defense. Topping it all off, had the WBC (as well as the remaining WBA and IBF) changed their 15-to-12-rounds policy one year earlier (and not as a result of Duk Koo Kim’s tragic passing after fighting Ray Mancini), Duran would’ve added the Undisputed Middleweight Championship to his already legendary r?sum?. Despite Duran’s loss, I got inspired to be great in everything I did; whether it was art, playing my bass guitar, six-string, harmonica or earning another colored belt at Master Ted Kim’s Academy. I wanted to be a beast. I wanted to be a Coyote, win or lose.
Thomas Hearns vs. Duran, June 15, 1984: Another summer, another summer fight. This one, I had a terrible feeling about. Hearns, then the WBC super welterweight titleholder, had ridiculous height and reach advantages and a destructive right hand that was only matched by the magnitude of weakness his chin suffered from. Hearns’ reach paid dividends, early on; keeping Duran from squeezing in. Hearns dropped Duran twice; unintentionally sending “Hands of Stone” to the wrong corner at the close of the first round. The second round was hardly different. For me, seventh grade was barely over and, for Duran, the fight was almost over. Duran, try as he might, applied himself as much as possible, but fell victim to what may have been the most thunderous right hand I ever saw in my entire young, boxing-watching life. Clang! Splat. It was sick. As mortified as I was, in watching my hero drop like an anvil from a bridge, I begrudgingly respected “The Hitman” for getting his job done. In retrospect, I had to wonder if Duran even had any business in that ring with Hearns. This didn’t mean I could just forget about it. When my pals, Jeff Jacobson and Tim Helmer dragged me to go see “Beat Street” the next day, all I could think about was Duran hitting that canvas, face first.
Duran vs. Iran Barkley, February 24, 1989: I didn’t feel any older. I mean, I was 17 and smack dab in the middle of my senior year. I was pretty sure there was no getting the girl I was stuck-on-stupid for (my best pal’s sister, Debbie…who, today, happens to be my wife) my love affair with marijuana and Mad Dog 20/20 made all that heartache go away and her brother, fortunately, helped out with that therapy. I was going through sort of a confused patch during that time, knowing high school was almost over. I didn’t know what my future would hold. I had a ridiculous grocery store job, no girlfriend (at least the one I incessantly pined for) and was awaiting the loss of my contemporaries to the threat of an all-too short summer and higher education. I went from happy-go-lucky to crappy-go-f**k-you.
Duran-Barkley changed that, if not entirely. A Duran victory would’ve certainly taken off the edge of my angst and everything else went away, that winter day, in particular. I was a little nervous about the match-up due to Barkley’s connections to Davey Moore and Thomas Hearns; being friends with the former and knocking out the latter in the fight prior to facing Duran. What I got was pure boxing pleasure.
The pace both fighters embraced was enthralling. Barkley’s skills and power were fantastically executed and, for being 37 years old, Duran’s movement and counterpunching ability was just nuts. When Duran dropped “The Blade” with four consecutive shots, I damn near dropped from a heart attack. I was too young to die. Too young. And too handsome. Well, I was too young. When Michael Buffer finally announced Duran as the winner by split decision, I felt a wave of something I hadn’t experienced in a few months: happiness…well, maybe it was the weed. But I don’t think so. The next day, I popped the tape I recorded the fight on into my living room’s VCR and watched the fight all over again, stone sober, and, boy, did it feel so good. It might sound silly…but life had some promise. And I got past the ache of leaving my youth behind. But I still couldn’t solve the mystery of Tawny Kitaen and David Coverdale.
William Joppy vs. Duran, August 28, 1998: While in the era of toiling on the tail end of a crappy, second-shift job, I realized that Duran was on what should’ve been the tail end of his career. It wouldn’t be for another three years and that’s what made his very sad attempt against then-WBA middleweight titlist William Joppy, 20 years younger, even worse to process, even as I write this. Duran came in at 159 for the fight but it was a different kind of 159. It was broader; more slack. Slow. No longer, nor had he been for awhile, was Duran a pulse-pounding aggressor with slicing uppercuts, detonating straight right hands or tight, swiveling left hooks to the body. He turned into my dad, who happens to be one year Duran’s senior. Don’t take that wrong. I love my dad, but I wouldn’t wanna see him fight anyone 20 years younger than him.
And Joppy shouldn’t have even considered the fight. I never forget, after referee Joe Cortez stopped the fight in the third round, Duran dejectedly sitting in his corner while Joppy celebrated by climbing the opposite corner’s turnbuckles. Sure, Joppy checked on Duran and had a talk with him that came off as gracious but all I could think to myself was “Why isn’t Joppy just crying his eyes out (as I had been trying my best to stifle, myself)? Why the f**k is he so pleased with himself?” I was sick from watching it. Sick and angry. I wanted Duran to hang them up so badly and, at the same time, wanted Joppy to accept an asterisk on that part of his record. If he wouldn’t (and he didn’t), I’d pretty much hate on the guy and, at 27-years old, myself, I was really too mature to hate on anyone. It took five years for me to accept Joppy vs. Duran. Because it took five years for Joppy to face Bernard Hopkins for the real World Middleweight Championship, a little over a year after Duran officially retired. We all know what happened. Joppy got beaten by an older fighter who didn’t just beat him, but dragged it out. In other words, justice got served.
But that last loss didn’t leave me bitter for too long. I grew up Duran. I grew older Duran. I measured so many facets of my life to and with this man who reminded me so much of my father, despite their obvious ethnic disparities. Of course, Roberto Duran could never be a better role model to me than my own dad, who worked so hard to keep that roof over my head, the chow in my stomach and the clothes on my back. After all, Dad, my hero in reality, paid the bills that kept the power and the cable TV on, thus giving me the experience of Roberto Duran, my influence in being a killer in everything I set out to do.
Without them, I couldn’t be part of a perfectly Unholy Duran Trinity.
Questions? Comments? Complaints? Did I ever get tired of “Your last name is ‘Duran’?…as in ‘Duran Duran’?” Oh, please, don’t get me started…
