BATTLE OF THE BRAVES
30 years on from the original Superfight, we are still arguing about whether Sugar Ray REALLY beat Marvelous Marvin
THE first Superfight, for that was its title, took place 30 years ago this week and boxing’s blood brotherhood are still arguing about the result.
No one more so than Marvelous Marvin Hagler, whose epic defeat by Sugar Ray Leonard remains to this day one of the most disputed decisions in the history of the prize ring.
Ten years after that steamy night on the Las Vegas Strip, we met on a balmy evening in Rome. Hagler, settled by then into an acting career in Italy, arrived at the original Harry’s Bar on the Via Veneto accompanied by his white poodle.
He asked for a Peroni. The barman poured half of it into a steel bowl and set it down for the dog.
Hagler smiled: ‘Yes, before you ask, I still believe I beat Ray. I will always believe I won that fight.’
Five years ago I relayed that conversation to Leonard on a golf course in Los Angeles. He grinned: ‘I guess Marvin needs to believe that. But he should know he was a great champion. That’s why it meant even more for me just to beat him than it did to win the middleweight title.’
Even today, with hindsight, it depends on your preference. Brawn or brains? Brute force or brilliance? The pursuit of the kill or the noble art of self-defence?
Therein was the essence of a contest between iron will and silken skill which is remembered for its magnificence, not just its controversy.
Leonard was nobody’s poodle. In the analysis he came out on top of the fabulous four — himself, Hagler, Thomas Hearns and Roberto Duran — whose dazzling rivalry filled the void left in boxing after the Ali generation of great heavyweights.
But on April 6, 1987, in the 15,000-seat temporary arena they used to erect in the car park at the Caesars Palace casino for big fights, Sugar Ray was the underdog.
Hagler was to Leonard in the lighter weights what Sonny Liston had been to Muhammad Ali — the monster viewed by the world as unbeatable.
The comparison would have the same outcome: David defeating Goliath.
Hagler had been the undisputed world middleweight champion for seven years. Leonard had ruled at welterweight and light-middleweight.
Not only was Leonard the smaller but he was coming out of a five-year retirement — interrupted only once for a minor bout three years earlier — which had been enforced by a detached retina which required surgery.
A return to the ring had been furthest from his mind one year earlier as he sat down alongside actor Michael J Fox to watch Hagler struggle to beat John Mugabi.
‘We had a few beers,’ he says. ‘Then I find I’m watching Mugabi, of all people, outbox Hagler. I turned to Michael and told him I could beat Hagler.’
Fox said: ‘ Have another beer.’ Leonard answered: ‘Yes. But I know how to beat Hagler.’
It took him nine months to persuade the Marvelous one. As soon as Hagler agreed, Leonard played the first of his pack of clever cards. He accepted the lower purse.
When all the moneys were counted, Hagler would bank £16million, Leonard £10m. But in return the challenger for the WBC crown secured the choice of his favourite gloves (the 10 ounce Reyes), the size of the ring (a spacious 20- footer) and the number of rounds (12 instead of the then- customary 15-round championship distance).
WITH the announcement came a condemnation of Leonard’s medical clearance from legendary fight doctor Ferdie Pacheco. ‘ This match endangers Leonard’s eye-sight and his life,’ he said.
In the event, it would drive Hagler mad.
Leonard came out dancing and ducking from the first bell but also darting in and out to land an armoury of punches from a bewildering array of angles.
The awesome Hagler was left pawing at thin air, lunging and missing, scowling and cursing as the first four rounds flew into the bag for Leonard. Maybe the fifth as well, even though, as he slowed a little, Hagler began to catch up with his quarry on occasion.
The seventh, the first fully convincing session for the champion, ended with Leonard sagging against the ropes from a vicious left hook followed by a typical two-fisted Hagler bombardment.
Yet Leonard regrouped immediately, his elusive movement in the eighth so frustrating that Hagler growled: ‘Come on, slug.’ Leonard grinned: ‘No chance.’
The ninth was the monumental round required to hallmark this as the fight — as well as the upset — of the year.
Finally, Hagler trapped his quarry in a corner and looked close to the stoppage, only for Leonard to rock him with a quickfire combination as he skipped away and then rattle him again with a late flurry.
To the end, Hagler could not solve the Leonard puzzle, one which also vexed the judges.
The Hagler camp had insisted on replacing renowned English official Harry Gibbs, who they thought would favour Leonard the stylist, with Mexican Jose Guerra, who they expected to favour their slugger. That was a mistake. When Mr Gibbs watched a TV replay a fortnight later, he made Hagler the winner. Senor Guerra scored it 118110 to Leonard. That was an inconceivable calculation of a manifestly close fight.
The two other judges had it 115-113, Dave Moretti for Leonard and Lou Filippo in favour of Hagler.
Had the Gibbs card counted, Hagler would have been spared his agony and had no need to claim that Leonard, before his hand was raised, told him he had won.
Leonard refuted that statement and there could be no denying he had boxed a fight as brilliant as it was brave.
Who really won? For my money, and that of a majority of the US boxing writers, Leonard by a couple of points. As Jim Murray, the legendary Los Angeles Times scribe, put it: ‘ Leonard made him look like a guy chasing a bus. In snowshoes.’
Leonard’s was a victory for mind over muscle, sheer genius over raw power. And it was a victory for boxing.
A projected rematch never happened. Both men left that casino car park threatening to retire. Leonard could not resist coming back again, not once but twice more, before embracing the lifestyle of the Hollywood celebrity.
Hagler kept driving. To Italy. To a new life. A man and his dog putting as much time and distance as possible between himself and the perceived injustice which called time on his distinguished career.