Playboy Interview: Sugar Ray Leonard

In his November 1975 "Playboy Interview," Muhammad Ali predicted that after he retired, no fighter would ever again earn as much as $5,000,000 for a single bout, and most ring observers agreed with him. They couldn't have foreseen that boxing in America would enjoy such a tremendous resurgence that by the end of the Seventies, a welter-weight named Sugar Ray Leonard would be pulling down purses twice the size of Ali's largest.

Much of the nation's heightened interest in boxing can be traced to the performance of America's 1976 Olympic team. In Montreal that summer, five U. S. boxers walked off with gold medals, and all of them eventually turned professional. Since then, Leo Randolph and Howard Davis have both been ranked among the top five fighters in their respective junior-featherweight and lightweight divisions: the feckless Leon Spinks briefly held the World Boxing Association heavyweight championship after decisioning Ali; and his brother Michael is the current W.B.A. light-heavyweight champion.

The fifth gold medalist on that team, Ray Leonard, was its most fluid and stylish boxer, but he had no intention of fighting for a living. Instead, Leonard announced his retirement from boxing and returned home to Palmer Park, Maryland. He had planned to enter the University of Maryland, but several months after the Olympics, he changed his mind--and turned pro.

Leonard's first professional fight, a sixround decision over one Luis Vega, was televised nationally by CBS, and for his efforts, Leonard received $10,000--the most money ever paid to a debuting pro pugilist up to then. In the next two years, Leonard ran up 24 consecutive victories, and on November 30, 1979, he won the World Boxing Council welterweight championship with a 15th-round TKO of Wilfred Benitez. After winning against Davey "Boy" Green, he then lost a close 15-round decision to Roberto Dwran in June 1980; but five months later, he avenged his only professional defeat--and regained his title--when Duran, apparently unhurt, quit cold in the eighth round of their rematch. Last June, Leonard won the W.B.A. junior-middleweight title by knocking out Ayub Kalule; and in September, he became the undisputed welterweight champion of the world by stopping W.B.A. titleholder Thomas Hearns in the 14th round of their fight. All told, Leonard had fought four champions five times in 22 months. In addition to being the riskiest ring odyssey in boxing annals, it was the most rewarding. Leonard earned $1,000,000 for dethroning Benitez, $2,500,000 for KO'ing Kalule, $17,000,000 for his two fights with Duran and nearly $12,000,000 for beating Hearns. Even before Ali retired, Leonard had become the biggest box-office attraction in boxing history.

The reasons behind Leonard's popularity are easy to understand. Clean-cut and unfailingly polite, he combines the looks of an altar boy with the speed and striking power of a cobra. He turns 26 on May 17 and is at least a year away from reaching his potential, but boxing experts are already complaining that no one on the horizon seems remotely capable of testing him for either of his titles. To put it more succinctly, Sugar Ray Leonard is in a class by himself.

To interview the young champion, Playboy sentLawrence Linderman(who conducted Ali's 1975 "Playboy Interview," among others) to meet with Leonard in Scottsdale, Arizona, where the boxer was training for his recent title defense against Bruce Finch. Linderman reports:

"Although the Finch fight--an easy three-round knockout for Leonard--was held in Reno, Nevada, Leonard did all of his training for it (save the last two weeks) in Scottsdale, a quiet resort town just outside Phoenix. He chose to train in Scottsdale because it's a lot more placid than Reno, and it's also a much better place for a family vacation. Leonard doesn't like to be separated from his wife and son, and both were with him at the hotel when I turned up.

"It was difficult for me to avoid comparing Leonard with Muhammad Ali. Ali, for example, had a large and boisterous retinue, members of which weren't above pulling out a .38 and firing several shots in the air just for the hell of it. Aside from his sparring partners, Leonard had only two employees with him in Scottsdale: his trainer, Janks Morton, and Ollie Dunlap, a former Michigan State football player who functions as his chargé d'affaires. Both men had worked with Leonard when he began boxing, at the Oakcrest Community Center near Palmer Park, Maryland.

"On my first morning in Scottsdale, I had breakfast with Leonard's lawyer, Michael Trainer, who'd stopped off to visit with his only client. A 41-year-old who works out of Silver Spring, Maryland, Trainer is Leonard's de facto manager and has put together a series of astute business moves that have enabled Leonard to become his own promoter. Trainer told me how he goes about signing up Leonard's opponents.

"'I just ask them how much money they want to fight Ray,' he said. 'When Tommy Hearns's people told me they'd be happy with $5,000,000, I said fine. I knew Ray could bring back more than twice that for himself, and he deserved it. Ray has the drawing power to make any major opponent rich overnight.'

"After talking with Trainer, it was time to meet Leonard. The champion stands 5'10" tall and was already within a pound or two of his fighting weight of 147. Unlike most boxers I've met, Leonard carries himself so casually that you'd never know that he was a fighter.

"When he gets near a ring, however, he undergoes a startling transformation. When I went to watch him work out, the quiet, reticent young man I'd spoken with the day before had somehow become a regal, imperious figure who was every inch a champion. A very poised champion: At his workouts, Leonard addresses the crowd, makes sure children in the audience are seated close to the ring and always spends a few minutes mingling among them.

"His sparring sessions are crisp and often fascinating to observe. Leonard is so lightning fast that one morning he nailed a sparring partner with several left jabs and then tagged his adversary with a right hand that he threw behind his back. (It was delivered the same way a semipro softball pitcher would wing one in behind the back, and if you think the crowd was stunned, you should have seen his sparring partner's reaction.) Leonard ends his workouts with a showy, rope-skipping routine done to an uptempo version of 'Sweet Georgia Brown,' and his footwork's a lot fancier than anything you'll ever see on 'Soul Train.'

"After one of our taping sessions, I went to dinner with Dunlap, Leonard and his wife and their eight-year-old son, Ray, Jr. Juanita Leonard, 25, is a beautiful woman who's as candid and open as her husband. Their child has the family's sharpest sense of humor, is remarkably unspoiled and, all in all, is a sheer delight. If you get the idea that I like these people, you're right. You would, too.

"Still, I wasn't about to let that deter me from throwing whatever journalistic punches I felt I had to. Before starting the interview, it seemed to me that Leonard, like O. J. Simpson, had become less preoccupied with his sport than with becoming a corporate symbol. That provided the opening question."

Playboy: You've been a media hero ever since you won an Olympic gold medal in Montreal, but lately you've been referring to yourself as "a marketable commodity"--and people are starting to think that, outside the ring, Ray Leonard is now as carefully packaged a product as those he endorses. Are they wrong?

Leonard: Sure they are. To me, becoming a marketable commodity meant only that I couldn't be stereotyped the way boxers always have been. Boxers were always considered illiterate and I wanted to break through that barrier, and I came along at a time when that was possible. When I turned pro, Muhammad Ali was laying back and I was able to fill up an area that was empty. Ali had a major impact on me, because he was a guy who said, "Hey, don't just look at me as a fighter. I'm a great entertainer, a great personality, and I can help sell a product."

Playboy: Do you consider yourself a great entertainer and a great personality?

Leonard: Well, I think at least 45 percent of my success has to do with my personality, because until I came along, the big money in boxing always stayed in the heavyweight division. I also think I bring a form of entertainment into the ring and into the gym, to the point where a mother will feel it's OK to bring her little daughter to watch me work out. Those kinds of things pretty much came to me from Ali and what he exemplified as an athlete and as a man. Ali's belief in himself was also something I picked up on, and it's become my own philosophy: If you don't believe in yourself, no one else will. Without realizing it, Ali put that belief in me, and it's carried me through major fights when no one but myself thought I could beat guys like Tommy Hearns or Roberto Duran.

Playboy: You may be selling your fans short. In fact, we're still surprised that you believed that most of the public wanted to see you lose to Hearns, or so you stated at a prefight press conference. Why did you feel that way?

Leonard: I think that was a misconception. When I said people wanted to see me lose, I meant only certain people--people in the boxing establishment. I apologize to the public if they thought I felt they were against me.

Playboy: Why would the boxing establishment want to see you defeated?

Leonard: Because of what I stand for. I'm a free agent and I haven't allowed any promoters to have exclusive options on my fights, mainly because I don't think I need a promoter. That's never really happened before, but I always thought I could promote myself, and I've pretty much been able to do it. Although others tend to say they deserve credit for making various fights as big as they were, title bouts like Ray Leonard vs. Tommy Hearns or Ray Leonard vs. Roberto Duran didn't need to be promoted. They were natural match-ups that the public wanted to see. I've also never believed in tying myself up in a long-range contract, and I've been very outspoken on that subject. You know, a lot of young fighters come from low-income families, and if you flash a few thousand dollars in front of a young, naïve guy, he's gonna take it--and I don't blame him for taking it, because money's hard to come by nowadays. What happens, though, is that a young prospect usually doesn't have an attorney to go over the contract he signs with a manager and a promoter, so he can wind up signing his life away. People in boxing don't like to hear me talk about that, and I think they've tried to get back at me for it.

Playboy: In what way?

Leonard: Champions don't lose close fights, but that doesn't seem to apply to me. If Roberto Duran had been the champion in our first fight and we'd switched places, he would have maintained his title; I didn't. In a close fight--and the Hearns fight was close--the last three rounds are usually the deciding factor, especially when a championship is at stake. Well, I really came on strong in the 13th round, and it's a good thing I knocked Tommy out in the 14th round, because, according to the judges' score cards, there was no other way I could have won the fight. I mean, I could have knocked Hearns down 20 times in the 15th round and I still would have lost the fight! There were only three rounds in that bout that weren't close--the sixth, the seventh and the 13th--and in all of them, I hurt Tommy and had him in real trouble. The judges scored those rounds ten points for me, nine for Hearns, the same way they scored the close rounds Tommy had won. After the fight, a reporter went up to one of the judges and said, "Sugar Ray won those rounds big--how could you give Hearns nine points for them?" The judge said, "What's the matter, is that little brat complaining?" That tells me something--that I've got to go in there and do a job early.

Playboy: Did you intend to do that against Hearns?

Leonard: No. Basically, I planned to move, dance, make Tommy mad and capitalize on his mistakes. Tommy's taller than me and has a reach advantage, but I knew that my speed--mainly lateral movement--would be a major factor in annihilating him. In other words, I wanted to hit him and not be there when he went to hit me back. I tested Tommy in the sense of daring him to throw that big bomb, that big right hand; and after a while, he knew that if he threw that punch, I wasn't going to be there--and he was gonna pay for it when I countered. Tommy even said so after the fight. Somebody asked him why he stopped throwing right hands and he said, "I didn't want to throw my right anymore because Ray wasn't there."

Playboy: Before meeting you, Hearns was undefeated and had knocked out 30 of his 32 opponents. He was regarded as such a heavy hitter that most boxing experts didn't disagree when his manager, Emanuel Steward, said, "If Thomas lands his right on Ray's chin, he'll turn Ray's lights out with one switch. It'll be like a fuse box blowing in a house." Did that worry you?

Leonard: It didn't faze me at all. I didn't have any doubts whatsoever about beating Tommy Hearns; it was just a matter of what round and how devastating it was going to be. Tommy's credentials were very strong, but I'd experienced being hurt, I'd experienced speed and I'd experienced going against guys capable of fighting different ways. I felt I had the psychological advantage, mainly because I'd been there before. I also knew full well that Hearns had never really been tested and that when I hit him, I'd take something from him.

Playboy: What made you so sure Hearns couldn't put you away with one shot?

Leonard: Well, I just couldn't imagine any welterweight hitting me harder than Marcos Geraldo, a big middleweight I fought in the early stages of my career. Geraldo hit me solid, and man, I'd never been hit that hard.

Playboy: How did you react to that?

Leonard: When he nailed me, I got paranoid. I felt like I was kneeling down at the guillotine and someone was going to pull on a rope and chop my head off. I mean, I was hurt, and Geraldo sensed that, because boxers know when they hurt you and they try to take advantage of it. Geraldo hit me so hard that I actually saw three of him. I thought, Oh, wow, this can't be it. And I half expected to get knocked cold. I knew that the only way to avoid that was to maintain my composure--that was the key--and I was able to do it. I came back strong and won a ten-round decision, and to me, that was on-the-job training that would stand me in good stead for Hearns.

Playboy: Hearns nailed you with a solid right in the second round of your fight. What effect did it have on you?

Leonard: Tommy hit me with his best shot and he didn't hurt me.

Playboy: What effect did that have on him?

Leonard: It blew his mind! Once Tommy hits a guy with his right hand, he's ready to pack his bags. He looks over to his corner and wants to know when the next plane is leaving, 'cause the fight's always over. But when he hit me and saw that I was still standing--and then, when I hit him back--it totally shook him up. I could almost see him thinking. Hey, who wrote this script? This isn't supposed to happen. Certain fighters have a mystique to them, and with Hearns, it was his reputation of invincibility. He'd knocked out and really just destroyed so many guys that all the fighters he faced were scared of him. I knew that once I took that away from Tommy, that would be it. Believe me, it required a lot of concentration and cockiness to do that. Tommy was able to land some shots, but because I didn't fall into his hands, it really did blow his mind. I'd watched films of his fights and I didn't spot any physical weaknesses, but I felt he could be turned around psychologically and mentally. I thought his confidence could be destroyed easily, and that happened when he saw he couldn't knock me out. I also wanted to make him lose his cool, which happened.

Playboy: How were you able to manage that?

Leonard: Well, I never had any direct animosity toward Tommy, but after the first couple of rounds, you saw a lot of hitting after the bell, and I caused him to do that. After the first round ended, I tapped Tommy on the forehead and said, "I gotcha now, turkey!" I knew that would make him swing at me, and it did. Now, that's bad sportsmanship, so right away I had the crowd on my side. That, in turn, really got Tommy hot and upset with me, which was my aim.

Playboy: To what end?

Leonard: I wanted to bring the street out in Tommy, because when fighters react in the ring like they did when they were kids and someone teased or insulted them, they tend to lose their composure. They forget all about basic boxing fundamentals and almost revert to tactics they learned in the street. That happened to Tommy, and that's when I started to nail him.

Playboy: You didn't really tag Hearns until the sixth round, and up to that point, he'd clearly outboxed you. He'd also jabbed at your left eye so often that it was starting to close. Level with us: Did you see your title slipping away?

Leonard: No, I still felt I was in complete control: but, yes, I was very concerned about my eye. Two weeks before the fight, one of my sparring partners accidentally elbowed me just under the eye, and I took a few days off to let the swelling go down. I knew it would flare up during the fight, but I never thought it would get as bad as it did. My eye started to swell up right away, and it hurt so much every time Tommy touched it that I was reluctant to let him get near it. That's why the fight went the way it did during the early rounds. Hearns didn't box well; he did only what I let him do.

Playboy: While he was piling up points, what were you doing?

Leonard: I was adapting to his style, protecting my eye and getting ready to move inside and go to work on him. I went after Tommy in the sixth round, and what really surprised me was how easily I was able to hurt him. I caught Tommy with a good left hook, but it wasn't my best, by any means; and when I saw that he was hurt, I lost my cool. I wanted to put him away, and I chased him and kept throwing big punches in the sixth and seventh rounds, and when the eighth round started, I was winded and arm-weary. That's when Tommy started boxing again, and my eye got worse--by the end of the fight, I had less than a quarter of my normal vision out of my left eye. It took me a few rounds to get my second wind, and when I did, I came back. I put him down at the end of the 13th round, and in the 14th, my adrenaline was flowing and I forgot how tired I was and just went after him. I don't know how many punches I hit him with, but Tommy was defenseless, and the referee stopped it with a minute and 15 seconds left in the round. What really upset me was that Dr. Ferdie Pacheco, who did the closed-circuit-TV commentary, said that the fight shouldn't have been stopped, because there was too much money at stake and Hearns was probably ahead on points. [Pacheco stated to Playboy that he at first felt that Hearns was capable of continuing the fight but changed his mind when he saw the tapes later. The money at stake did not influence his decision, he said.] Those things are really irrelevant. If you let a fight go on for another round or two because the guy who's getting hammered might be ahead on points, you know what can happen? All of a sudden, the fighter can go into a coma, and then what are you going to say? That he'd been ahead on points? That there was a lot of money at stake? In the 14th round, Tommy Hearns never threw a punch at me, and I don't know how many punches he received to the head. His manager later told me the fight was stopped at the right time.

Playboy: Hearns has asked for a rematch. Will you give him one?

Leonard: I think Tommy's a nice guy and a very good athlete, but I think he should be honest with the American public and admit that there was no way he could have continued past the 14th round. Tommy told Howard Cosell that he wasn't hurt and that he was under control. Under control? All he has to do is look at the tape of our fight to see the shape he was in. I've talked to Tommy since then, and I told him, "Pal, if you're talking about a rematch, why don't you be honest? I know you're a very proud man, but how proud can you be?" I mean, it was quite evident what happened in our fight.

Playboy: Are you saying you won't give Hearns a rematch unless he publicly admits that he feels you really beat him last September?

Leonard: Well, it bothers me that Tommy won't be sincere. That disappoints me, because I think an athlete should be honest. I know it's difficult, but if a guy knocked me on my can and someone said, "Ray, did you get knocked down?" I couldn't very well say. "No, I slipped." I mean, there were people out there watching.

Playboy: Are you sure you'd be willing to do the same if the situation were reversed? You've lost only once--to Duran--but you've just told us you don't think you deserved to lose that fight.

Leonard: I said that and I feel that way, but I had to accept the fact that the judges saw it for Duran and that they were authorized to judge the fight. If they felt I lost, OK; I accept that. It's just not supposed to happen.

Playboy: The reason you lost to Duran the first time out may well have been your decision to abandon your usual ring tactics in favor of slugging it out with him. What caused you to do that?

Leonard: I kind of lost perspective on the fight. Some members of the press were saying I couldn't take a punch, others were saying that I couldn't really deliver a punch, and I just didn't do what I meant to do against Duran. I let it become a macho thing.

Playboy: Are you saying that Duran was able to bring out the street in you?

Leonard: Oh, no question about it. I've never told this to anyone, but, yes, the street came out in Ray Leonard and Ray Leonard very much wanted to nail Duran. Unfortunately, he nailed me.

Playboy: Why did you lose your temper? Did Duran disturb you?

Leonard: Duran always disturbs me. He's a bad man. Duran walks around thinking he owns the world and that when he puts his foot down, everything should come to a halt. The guy is just weird. We both used to fight a lot in Vegas, and he always seemed like a nice guy, but once we signed a contract to fight, all that changed. Duran says he must hate you in order to beat you. To each his own, but I sure didn't like a lot of the things he did to get his message across.

Playboy: Such as?

Leonard: I think Duran really believes he possesses animalistic instincts--maybe he does--and at the weigh-in, he growled and shook and hoped I'd just crumble with fear. One thing I really found distasteful was that before the fight, both Duran and his wife gave my wife the finger, and Juanita had never experienced anything quite like that. That was tough on her, and I didn't like them for doing it.

The Duran fight was the biggest of my career up until then, and it really was different. When I got into the ring and looked over to the other corner. I saw this crazy person, this monster just about waiting to bite me! I mean, Duran's a psycho, and when the referee was giving us instructions, Duran was looking at me like, "I can't wait to getcha! I can't wait to getcha!" When the first round started. I got him moving and I was having a pretty good time in there, but in the second round, boom! He hit me with a left hook and then a right hand, and oh, man, that hurt. I was dazed, really stunned, but conscious. I saw Duran coming in for the kill, so I covered up and protected myself, but my head didn't clear up for a couple of rounds. By then, he'd hit me with a lot of punches and my face had started to swell up, and I didn't like that at all. I wanted to get him back, and that's the reason I stuck to that macho fight plan.

Playboy: If nothing else that night, you certainly proved you could take a punch.

Leonard: Thanks a lot. After the fight, my face was distorted and I looked like the hunchback of Notre Dame. Guys were slapping me on the back and saying they were proud of me because I took some great punches. Hey, I knew that, and who needs it? No way I was ever going to do that again!

Playboy: You earned a reported $9,000,000 for that fight. After your loss to Duran, did you give any thought to retiring from boxing?

Leonard: Yes, I did. I took my wife on a vacation to Hawaii, and I didn't want to talk to anybody. I knew I was financially established and I was proud of myself for fighting Duran so hard, and I started thinking. Who needs it anymore? But then I wondered what would've happened if I'd fought Duran my way instead of his, and that bothered me. While I was over there. I started doing road work every morning, and I remember giving Juanita one of my credit cards and telling her to go shopping. She said. "I know you're doing this for a reason. You're trying to butter me up because you want to fight again." I don't think I really made a decision to fight again until after we got home. I'd go down to our basement every day and watch tapes of the fight over and over, and I'd just get angry. I finally told Juanita. "Look, I gotta get that turkey back." She said. "OK, go ahead and do it, if you really want to."

I then called up Janks Morton, my trainer, and Mike Trainer, my lawyer, and David Jacobs, my other trainer, and told them I wanted another shot at Duran. David said, "Ray, you don't need to fight anymore." I told him I really wanted to, and David said, "If you fight him. I'm gonna resign." He did, too.

Playboy: Duran disgraced himself in your second fight when, during the eighth round, he suddenly shouted. "No más," and retired to his corner, claiming he had a stomach-ache. Did you buy his version of why he quit?

Leonard: I didn't then and I don't now. I think Duran quit because he didn't want me to knock him out. He was frustrated and being humiliated, and as the rounds went on, I was getting closer and closer to knocking him out. When he started to walk away. I was sort of hesitant, because I thought it was a trick, so I punched him in the stomach. When everybody realized the fight was over. I walked over to Duran to see if he'd still give me the finger and push me away like he had after the first fight. I asked him if he was all right, and he said. "Good fight, man." Later on, when the press and everyone condemned him for quitting, I felt sorry for him, but then he said, "Leonard didn't beat me, cramps did. I'm a thousand times a better man than he is." He really pushed it.

Playboy: The boxing champions we've interviewed over the years have invariably attributed their defeats to such factors as training-camp injuries, bad judges and bad tactics. Is it possible that a champion can't admit he's been whipped without feeling he ought to retire from boxing?

Leonard: You might have something there. If a guy really beats me fair and square, I'm not supposed to be in the ring, because that's his domain. If someone were able to defeat me bad, really make a mess out of me, I'd shake his hand, congratulate him and admit to the public that, hey, I was the best up until this point, that this guy is better and that I want no more of him. That would be tough to swallow, but I'd do it. I mean, what else can you say?

Playboy: Would you retire if that happened?

Leonard: If someone beat my butt? Yeah, no question about it. [A thoughtful pause] But I'm a competitor and I'm a very proud man. If a guy beats me once, he'll have to do it again to make me believe him, and nine times out of ten, it won't happen again, 'cause I'll work something out. So forget what I just said about retiring; I'd have to go back for him. I don't care who it is; you can't beat me and then just have me walk away. I gotta go back for you; you gotta do it a second time. Otherwise. I wouldn't have gone back for Duran a second time.

Playboy: Why was your rematch with him so easy for you?

Leonard: Well, to start with, Duran had a few years on me. He was 29, and our first fight was a very physical 15 rounds--and you just don't heal that easy unless you're young. I hit him with some severe blows to the body and I heard reports afterward that he was urinating blood, so apparently I did some damage. Once I decided I wanted a rematch, my guys thought I should fight him as soon as possible, because he might not have had a chance to heal completely. On top of that, Duran had been soaking up all the fame and glory he got for beating Sugar Ray Leonard. Everyone should party and celebrate, but there's a limit, especially if you're a fighter. After Duran defeated me, Panama held a national holiday in his honor, and Duran kept partying and got fat. All of a sudden, we were ready to fight again, and he had to jump back and try to get in shape real quick. Too late: I'd been training for a couple of months by then.

Playboy: From our vantage point, everything seemed to go your way the second time around, including the national anthem.

Leonard: You're absolutely right. Ray Charles sang the national anthem, and my mother had named me after him--my full name is Ray Charles Leonard. I'd never had a chance to meet him, and to finally do so in the ring was really special. He put so much emotion into the national anthem and he got the crowd so excited that it all acted like a reserve tank for me. When the fight started. I had no second thoughts about winning. I was completely confident.

Playboy: Did Duran sense that?

Leonard: Fighters always sense that kind of thing. Duran knew he was in trouble in the very first round, mainly because I wasn't a stationary target. Had I stood there the way I did during our first fight, Duran would've been able to hammer away. But this time around, every time he went to throw a punch, I wasn't there. The longer the fight went on, the more discouraged he got. He went from being a lion to being a pussycat, and I saw that transformation; Duran simply lost his feeling of being unbeatable. By the sixth round, I was really banging him around, and in the seventh, I threw a sucker punch that humiliated him: I wound up with my right, as if to throw a bolo punch, and then I jabbed him with my left. Right then and there, you saw the last of the great Duran. He was falling into my arms, and he was awaiting something disastrous. I wasn't all that surprised that he quit, because by then, I was very close to knocking him out.

Playboy: You earned about $17,000,000 for your two fights with Duran and almost $12,000,000 for dispatching Tommy Hearns. Is there really any reason for you to continue fighting?

Leonard: In terms of money, no. The Tommy Hearns fight was like the last chapter in a book, because it was like going over the rainbow and finding a pot of gold. I found it, I kept it, I invested it, and then I closed the book. Now I want to write another one.

Playboy: What are we going to read about in the sequel?

Leonard: I don't know yet, and for now, I'm just gonna play it by ear. I told Mike Trainer that I'd like to fight once a month, but he proved to me that it wouldn't be economically feasible: and there are other things I should take advantage of, so I'm planning on four fights a year. The fighters I face this year, guys like Bruce Finch and Roger Stafford, are relatively unknown to the general public but not to boxing.

Playboy: A lot of sportswriters believe you've just about run out of suitable opponents. Have you?

Leonard: No way. Hearns deserves a rematch, and Wilfred Benitez, who beat Duran in February, also wants one. The first time I fought Benitez, the public thought I would win in a breeze, but people who knew boxing knew he was a very talented young fighter. I was determined to take away his welterweight title, and I almost had to beat him--we'd planned a bunch of parties and celebrations for the weeks after the fight. But that sucker wouldn't cooperate. I kept swinging and missing him, mainly because I was so tense. Fighting for the title was a big jump for me, but Benitez had been there before. I stopped him just before the end of the 15th round: if we fight again. I'll knock him out sooner.

Playboy: Will your next title defense be against Benitez or against Hearns?

Leonard: Well, at the moment we're aiming at Alexis Arguello, the lightweight champion, and Aaron Pryor, the junior-welterweight champion. Both of them want a shot at me and I'll be happy to oblige them.

Playboy: Whom will you meet first?

Leonard: I'd love to get Pryor in the ring. He's tough, but his mouth is heavier than his punches.

Playboy: Do we detect some annoyance in your voice?

Leonard: Yes, you do. Pryor's a nice guy, but sometimes he should just be quiet. He's gone around complaining that when he turned pro, he came to me and I didn't help him out financially. I went up to him one time and said, "Look, pal, if I went to Ali when Ali was in his prime and I said, 'Ali, help me out,' how could he have helped me? He had his own thing, and I wouldn't expect the man to do something for me." Pryor said, "Ray, you could have helped me out spiritually." Spiritually? I told him that if he didn't have the spirit in him, no one could give it to him.

Anyway, Pryor's been talking a lot about fighting me for the welterweight championship, and several months ago, I saw him in New York when I received the Fighter of the Year Award. This is a true story, and a lot of other people who were at that dinner can verify it. I walked up to Pryor and said, "Aaron Pryor, you want to fight me. Tell me something: Do you honestly believe you can beat me?" Pryor said, "Well, I'd make a lot of money." That's why he wants to get into the ring with me: He wants to be able to retire; and he will. For health reasons.

Playboy: Have you met Arguello?

Leonard: Yes, and he's a classy guy, a gentleman. Alex is a tall lightweight, and to fight me he'd have to gain ten or 12 pounds, but he's more than willing to do it, because he wants to win a couple more titles. I think he should skip my division.

Playboy: You've also been interested in winning more titles. Any particular reason you went after Ayub Kalule's junior-middleweight title?

Leonard: I wanted to see how stable my weight would be in a heavier division. I really did it as a kind of test to see how well I could do against Marvin Hagler, the middleweight champion. Against Kalule, I weighed in at 153, and after a meal during the day, I went into the ring at 156 and a half. I knocked Kalule out in the ninth round, and when I left the ring, I weighed 145, which told me I'm not a solid junior middleweight. When I'm not in training, I'll walk around the streets at 153, but it's not solid; it's my socializing weight. I hit Kalule with everything in the world, and I knew I was exerting myself unnecessarily. It's like what happened to Duran: He could knock out lightweights, but it was a different story when he moved up to the welterweight class. Generally, the more weight you put on, the less effective you are. Tommy Hearns was very, very strong at 145, but if he gets to 160 and challenges Hagler for the middleweight title, I think Hagler will really hurt him. Although Hearns has the talent to fight Hagler, I think the only guy capable of beating Marvin is myself.

Playboy: If you can't fight at 153 pounds, how can you even think about fighting Hagler at 160?

Leonard: I can't. I couldn't fight at 160 pounds if I had lead weights in my shoes. I hate to contradict myself, but I still keep saying Hagler, Hagler, Hagler. I'd fight him only if he'd come down to 154 pounds, and I think that's a fair compromise, because I'd be meeting him halfway. He'd have to lose about six pounds and I'd have to gain six or seven. So far, he's said no. It's a bout that may never happen, but if it does, it'll have to happen pretty soon, because I can't afford to wait around. Hagler is 30 years old and I want to beat him while he's still ripe; if I win, I don't want to hear any excuses.

Playboy: Are you still pursuing him?

Leonard: Yes, and I'm going to offer him a bonus if he'll fight me at 154, because, otherwise, there's no way we can get together. I've known Hagler for a number of years and I've always liked him and respected him. We're two athletes who feel we're tops in our respective categories, yet we still want to fight each other. If it comes off, it'll be one of the biggest fights in history. If it doesn't, I'll just move on.

Playboy: Recently, we checked on your reported ring earnings and came up with a figure of more than $37,000,000. Did you ever imagine you'd earn that kind of money as a prize fighter?

Leonard: I never even dreamed something like that could happen. When I first turned professional, I did it only to make enough money to help pay doctor bills. At the time, my father and my mother were both ill and hospitalized. In a way, everybody in the family can still hardly believe what's happened, because I was the least likely of four brothers to ever become a boxer.

Playboy: You weren't an athlete when you were a child?

Leonard: No, and my three older brothers always teased me because I wasn't athletically inclined. They had trophies for basketball, track--all sports, really--and I had none. When I was about 12, my father moved the family from Washington, D.C., to a house he bought in Palmer Park, Maryland, and as soon as we got there, my brother Roger--whom we call Dale--started walking around the neighborhood with a pair of boxing gloves. Dale would find a group of guys on a corner or in a shopping center and he'd box whoever would take him on. Ollie Dunlap, who's one of my assistants now, was then director of the Oakcrest Community Center, and he told Dale that if he could find a boxing coach, the center would start a boxing team. Dale found one.

Playboy: So you gave boxing a try?

Leonard: No, I was interested in my own version of gymnastics. I always liked to do somersaults, and back in D.C., when I was about nine, my friends and I used to take mattresses out of old houses and line up three or four of them in back of a two-story house. Then I'd go up to the roof and dive off, flip over in the air and land on the mattresses. By the time we got to Palmer Park, I was able to run down the street and flip over--without touching the sidewalk with my hands--and land on my feet.

Playboy: Did you have ideas about becoming a gymnast?

Leonard: I did, but my career didn't last very long. When I was about 14, I was so advanced that one of my gym teachers at school picked me to be the guinea pig in an exercise he wanted to teach the class. The idea was that I'd run up to him, jump and he'd kind of catch both my feet in his hands and then flip me over into a backward somersault.

Playboy: Is that the kind of stunt college cheerleaders usually do at football games?

Leonard: Yeah, but I guess I didn't have the makings of a cheerleader. I'd never done any kind of backward somersault, and when the teacher flipped me over, I got scared while I was in the air and I didn't quite make it. What happened was that I landed right on my head, and I remember this real funny feeling going through my body. Anyway, my head hurt and I started crying.

Playboy: Was that the end of your gymnastics career?

Leonard: Oh, sure it was. As I told my mother, I could have broken my neck, so there had to be something better for me to do. Of course, I didn't find it right away. I started hanging around the house after school, waiting for Mother to cook dinner. My brothers kept teasing me and really hurt my feelings, so I went down to the community center's boxing class to prove to them that I could do something.

Playboy: And you immediately discovered that you could fight?

Leonard: No, I immediately discovered that when people hit me with boxing gloves, I'd get headaches, nosebleeds and black eyes. When I started, my brothers were still teasing me, because I'd come home from the community center, eat dinner and go to bed with a big headache. I went through a period of several months when I was painfully initiated into boxing, mostly because the guys I fought were a lot bigger than me. I remember going up against a fella named David Jerry, a fast, hard-hitting heavyweight who'd knocked a lot of guys around, including my brother Dale. We didn't have a ring in the gym then--just some mats on a basketball court--and I went in one day and challenged the guy. He weighed about 180 and I was up to maybe 128 at the time.

Playboy: How did you do against him?

Leonard: Not too well; Jerry knocked me down and gave me a bloody nose. I was determined to get him, but he hurt me every time he hit me, and I wound up crying again. I matured quickly, though, and a few months later, I went back and did a number on him. But for most of the first year I tried it, boxing was not something I truly enjoyed. Like a lot of other things in life, when you put the gloves on, it's better to give than to receive, and in those days, I was on the receiving end too much of the time. I really had a lot of second thoughts about staying with it.

Playboy: What kept you going?

Leonard: Just my determination to show my brothers that I was a boy like them, that I was rough, too. By the time I was 15, I could handle myself in the ring, but no one in my family believed it. I'd say, "Daddy, come see me box," and he'd say, "Oh. I'm sorry, Ray, I don't have time." I used to beg him and my brothers to come watch me fight, but they wouldn't. They just didn't believe I was any good.

Playboy: Did you have a lot of fistfights?

Leonard: No, I would compromise. [Laughing] Actually, I was very shy--very timid, like--and I'd always rather be by myself, because I didn't have too much to say. In fact, if I said hi to someone, that would be it. Although it didn't happen right away, boxing brought out a lot in me. It gave me confidence, a sense of direction, some notoriety and a feeling of achievement. I don't know how else to explain it, because something got into me and made me stay with it. And when my father and my brothers finally came down to see me fight, they knew I was for real.

Playboy: How long did it take before you realized you had a future in boxing?

Leonard: About a year. When I was 15 or so, I fought an experienced amateur named Bobby Magruder, who was 19 or 20 at the time. He'd competed in the Junior Olympics and the Golden Gloves, and he was the most talented fighter in the area. Magruder represented the Hillcrest Heights Boys Club--Hillcrest is a few miles down the road from Palmer Park--and when the match was made, it was like a big thing, a main event. News about it seemed to circulate everywhere, and a whole lot of people came out to see this little kid who wanted to take on Magruder. I was so nervous that day! At the last minute, Dave Jacobs, who was then my main coach, had to go somewhere to pick up his wife. I thought, Gee, who's gonna take care of me? Janks Morton was then the assistant boxing coach at the Oakcrest Community Center, and he took over for David. Before the fight started, Janks said, "You're gonna beat him, Ray. Just keep cool and move." That's exactly what I did, and I won a three-round decision--and from then on, I knew I was a fighter. Not long after that, I entered and won a couple of amateur competitions, and when I turned 16, I tried to qualify for the '72 Olympics. I was underage--you have to be 17--and I was really green compared with some of the fighters I faced, but I think I put out more and was more disciplined than most guys. I made it up to the quarter-finals in Cincinnati, where I lost a decision--pretty much of a hometown decision. I thought--to a fighter named Greg Whaley. I cried after that, too.

Playboy: Did you make up your mind to spend the next four years getting ready for the 1976 Olympics?

Leonard: That didn't happen until I watched the '72 Olympics on TV and saw Sugar Ray Seales win a gold medal. It suddenly dawned on me how close I'd come to going to the Olympics and how important it was to win a gold medal. That made me cry again; as you can tell. I cry quite often. I vowed that 1976 would be my year, and although an Olympic gold medal represented the ultimate to me, I didn't have too much time to think about it. I was a very active fighter after that. The next four years went by so fast, for I had several fights each month and I competed all over the place. Before the start of the '76 Olympics, I'd had 160 amateur fights.

Playboy: How many did you win?

Leonard: I won 155 and lost five. Besides Whaley, I also lost to Jerome Artis and Randy Shields, whom I later beat as a pro. I also lost to a Pole and a Russian, but I didn't take those losses too seriously. I was part of an A.A.U. team that was fighting in Warsaw, and after I knocked out my opponent, I was disqualified, because they said I hit the guy after the bell. In Moscow, I fought a kid who was my own age. He was one of their top guys and I really beat him bad for three rounds. When the decision was announced for him, the crowd started whistling, and I didn't know what that meant. I started looking around for a pretty girl--why else would guys whistle?--and then, afterward, it was explained to me that whistling was the European way of booing. While that was still going on, the guy I fought was presented with a trophy. As soon as he got it, he walked over to my corner and gave the trophy to me. That was a very sporting gesture.

Playboy: How often did you fight outside the country?

Leonard: Starting in '72, I was gone one to two months a year. I loved international competition. Our amateur team would fight the Russian and the polish teams in Las Vegas, and then we'd fight in their countries and elsewhere. Nothing will ever compare with the enjoyment I got out of that. When you got your nice little warm-up suit, you truly felt you were representing America, and there was real glory in winning. It's different when you become a professional, because you also have to become a businessman, and that takes something away from it, or at least it did for me.

Playboy: Do you remember your first fight overseas?

Leonard: Yeah, and I remember being very scared! Not long after I missed out on the '72 Olympics, I got a call from the A.A.U., and three days later, I was on a plane to Rome. From there, we drove to a little Italian village, where a ring had been set up in the middle of a very crowded street. People were also watching the fights from their balconies, and everybody seemed to be enjoying himself. For some reason, I fought last and tagged my guy pretty good in the first round, and in the second round, I knocked him out. In fact, he was out cold, and I remember standing over him and being very glad the fight was over, because I didn't have enough gas to go a third round. Until that moment, everybody had been cheering for the Italian fighter and the place had been noisy, but then, all of a sudden, it got very quiet. I looked around and saw a couple hundred people walking toward me, and they weren't smiling. I thought, Gee, I'm just a kid; what are they gonna do to me? They got all the way up to the ring apron--and then, suddenly, started applauding. Talk about happy! For a little bit there, I didn't think I'd get out of town alive.

After that, we went to Rome, which was a big experience for me. The team was housed in a church that had been built on the side of a mountain, and one morning, I spotted a statue at the top of the mountain. I didn't have anything better to do, so I walked up there, and as I was looking around, I noticed a little girl staring at me. Something made me realize I was probably the first black person she'd ever seen, so I said hi to her. She turned and walked away, but a few minutes later, she showed up with two of her little friends. They were whispering to one another and I could see that they were intrigued by the color of my skin. When I caught on to that, I started to explain--or tried to explain--that the color of my skin was real. The three kids then did a disappearing act, and about 15 minutes later, I could hardly believe what I saw: A priest, carrying a shepherd's staff, was leading about 150 kids up the mountain toward me. The kids surrounded me completely, and while they were all whispering, this one little girl came up to me and touched my skin to see if the color would rub off. I had an Afro then and a lot of the kids came up and felt my hair and then felt their own, and it really was funny. After that, they all sang a song to me and then walked away.

Playboy: Did the priest speak English?

Leonard: No, and I wish he had or that I had understood Italian. I think the children either felt that I was a god or were telling one another that I was the reason their moms always said to use soap. I really wish I could relive that, because it was a beautiful experience.

Playboy: Did you have similar experiences in Eastern Europe?

Leonard: No, and I relly didn't like being in Communist countries. When we went to box the Polish team, soldiers were carrying submachine guns around in the airport at Warsaw, and they'd actually point them at you. There were curfews in Russia and in Poland, and I don't mean just for us; everybody who lived there had a curfew. And talk about the Equal Rights Amendment: Polish women scrub planes and scrub streets. I got very homesick in Warsaw, and when I tried to telephone my mother, I found out you had to sign up a day in advance to make that kind of call. When I did get through, there were all kinds of clicks on the line and I thought my phone was being tapped. For some reason, I was cut off on my call home and I couldn't get my folks back again. I was still a teenager and that was scary for me. I cried then, too.

Playboy: Did any of the other boxers on the team find your behavior a little strange?

Leonard: No, because I cried in private, and maybe they did, too. We were all very lonely over there. I also got sick a lot, and that was because of the food. I was used to stuff like fried chicken, and I just didn't go for what they eat over there. It was probably a joke on their part, but one time, a couple of the guys told me I was eating cow tongue, and the idea of that really turned my stomach. It even looked like a tongue.

Playboy: It probably was.

Leonard: You're kidding, right?

Playboy: Honest--veal tongue is popular throughout Europe, and you can usually find it in American delicatessens.

Leonard: No wonder I got sick! You know, when we got back to the U. S., I wanted to kiss the ground. After seeing what people in other countries are denied or don't have, you can really appreciate what's here in America. I had some fun overseas and it was very educational, but it was always better to get back home.

Playboy: After you'd been treated as a celebrity abroad, was it a letdown to return to life in Palmer Park?

Leonard: No. I understood that I'd be a star for only as long as the boxing tours lasted and that at home I'd go back to being Joe Blow. That didn't bother me, because I was fighting several times each month. I won a national Golden Gloves title and a gold medal at the 1975 Pan-American games, and almost before I knew it, the Olympic trials came around again. That time, I was the overwhelming favorite to represent the U.S. in the 139-pound light-welterweight division. I made it through, and then it was on to Montreal.

Playboy: Did you think you'd win a gold medal?

Leonard: I knew I would, without question. I knew my capabilities, I knew my talent and I felt a little superior to the guys I'd be fighting. What it really added up to was belief in oneself. I had that.

Playboy: Your opponents didn't?

Leonard: I can't speak for them, but they were all pretty rugged. The first guy I fought was from Sweden and he was very tough. I beat a fighter from Poland and then a Russian in the semifinals, and after that, I was matched up with Andres Aldama, a Cuban who'd knocked out every one of his opponents. One day, I put on a big hat that hid most of my face and went incognito to the boxing arena to watch one of his fights. Aldama knocked his man unconscious, and I heard people saying he was gonna do the same thing to Sugar Ray. Everybody had been high on me, because they thought I showed a lot of flair and class, but even back home, sportswriters were predicting that Aldama would knock me out. Well, I was more than just determined to prove them wrong; I was obsessed with the idea of beating him. That fight turned out to be very similar to the one I'd have with Tommy Hearns: Everyone waited for that one big punch to land to see what damage it would do to me. I never gave Aldama an opportunity to throw it. I decisioned him and I was close to stopping him at the end of the fight.

Playboy: Given the sentiments you've already expressed, are we wrong in thinking the Olympic gold-medal ceremony was a very emotional experience for you?

Leonard: I'm afraid you are wrong. Although it was a great accomplishment to win a gold medal, as soon as they put it on you, that's it; your career is over. I was thrilled, because all the work, the sacrifice, the pain and the agony that I put into boxing had been rewarded, but it felt as if someone were turning off a switch. I thought, This can't be it. I mean, give me some more time, let me fight again! My adrenaline was still flowing and I was still pumped up, and when they started playing the national anthem, I wanted something else to happen, something more dramatic. But it was like they awarded me the gold medal and said, "Congratulations; next, please. You've had a fine career, and now it's over." That was hard to face up to, but it seemed like the truth: My boxing career was over.

Playboy: In Montreal, you announced your retirement from the ring and said, "My decision is final. My journey is ended, my dream fulfilled." Why did you change your mind?

Leonard: Well, I've already mentioned the financial problems that were caused by my parents' hospitalization at the time. But I was also disappointed, because, like Bruce Jenner, I got a gold medal, but where were my goodies? They weren't there. I thought I'd get a lot of endorsements, but I wasn't marketable.

Playboy: Wasn't that mostly because Juanita Wilkinson--whom you later married--had given birth to your son and, as required by Maryland's welfare program, had filed a paternity suit against you?

Leonard: You're exactly right; when the negative news about the paternity suit came out, it killed a lot of things for me. Trainer told me it hurt me with several companies.

Playboy: What did it do to your relationship with Juanita?

Leonard: If anything, it strengthened it. We were like any other low-income couple striving to survive. You do what you have to do for your family. After I got back from the Olympics, I still couldn't even afford my own apartment, and Juanita and I couldn't live together until I turned pro in 1977. We've been together for more than 11 years, and those early times helped give us a strong relationship.

Playboy: Did you think racism had anything to do with your inability to cash in on your gold medal?

Leonard: I never wanted to believe that, though I had some sense of it. I guess there's never been a black on a Wheaties box, but I don't know. I hope I'm wrong.

Playboy: We remember Hank Aaron and several other black athletes' having their likenesses on boxes of Wheaties.

Leonard: I'm glad to hear that. Another thing about endorsements: Except for Ali, fighters had never been marketable. Whatever the reason, it made me change my plans. I'd already enrolled at the University of Maryland, but I dropped out before the semester started.

Playboy: What did you plan to study?

Leonard: Business administration and communications--I wanted to work in television. That turned around when it became clear that nothing else was as feasible for me as boxing. It was the only career where I wouldn't have to start out at the bottom. Because of my reputation and my credentials, I could start out pretty much in the middle. I had a good résumé.

Playboy: Were you relieved that your boxing days weren't over?

Leonard: No. I really didn't want to fight anymore. My hands had given me nothing but trouble when I was an amateur. They swelled up after every fight, and at the Olympics, our team physician would have me slip my hands into a glovelike thing filled with ice. I froze my hands after every bout in Montreal, but the pain they gave me after my fights was nothing compared with the pain I felt during a fight. Hitting a guy felt like I were putting my hand into a bucket of hot coals. You can stand that kind of pain one time, I guess, but how would you feel if you had to do it again and again? That was kind of my outlook when I turned pro. A lot of people think boxing's easy, but look at my hands. See what happens from constant punching? It knocks your knuckles back and messes up the joints.

Playboy: Are your hands still a problem?

Leonard: Not anymore, and I can thank Angelo Dundee for that. When I turned pro, I even hurt my hands on punching bags. During my training, Angelo solved the problem by wrapping my hands with women's sanitary napkins. I wasn't too comfortable about letting anyone know about that. I mean, you can be bagging and you bruise a knuckle and there's a little blood--and when you take off your gloves, well, it looks sort of strange.

Playboy: How did you wind up with Dundee in your corner?

Leonard: Angelo was the last part of the team I put together. When I decided to become a professional in 1977, I stayed with my trainers from the Oakcrest Community Center, Jacobs and Morton, and when a whirlwind of offers came in from people who wanted to manage me, I asked Janks to shield me from all the lunatics who were calling up. Janks introduced me to Trainer, and I told him what I wanted, which was to be independent; I didn't want anyone to have a part of me. That's when we formed Sugar Ray Leonard, Inc. I wanted Angelo to be my manager, because I liked him. Angelo would always go to the amateur fights in Miami, which was where I met him. A lot of guys down there were always after the good amateurs to turn pro, but Angelo never did that. Later on, when I met Ali, he told me, "If you ever turn professional, get my man Angelo. He's the best."

Angelo's been good for me. Many people in boxing still don't understand his role in my camp. Janks trains me, and then, about two weeks before a fight, Angelo comes in and sort of polishes off a finished product. He has great knowledge of the ring, and during a fight, he's usually the guy in my corner who gives me advice.

Playboy: Do you follow it?

Leonard: I do what I want to do. I don't ignore Angelo's advice, and it registers very fast and very easily, but I use my own judgment. I'm an experienced fighter, and when my mind is made up, that's all that counts. Angelo and Janks are two of the most knowledgeable men in boxing today, and if one of them says, "Start hooking this guy to the body," I'll probably try what I want to do first, but if it doesn't work, then I'll go to what my corner recommends. They say that I'm stubborn, and my wife says that, too, but it's paid off so far. I think the main reason Angelo, Janks and I work so well as a team is that they believe in me and we all really care about one another.

Playboy: You became the biggest attraction in boxing very quickly, and many people feel that Howard Cosell played a major role in making that happen. Do you think that's true?

Leonard: No, I don't. Howard has a thing about saying "I made you a star," but I don't think he really believes that. I would commend him for his coverage of the Olympics, when he spoke very highly of us. But after I became a professional fighter, I was the one who had to execute, who had to win the fights. And if I hadn't had the talent, the networks wouldn't have televised my fights. No one has made me; I made myself.

Playboy: You also became a seasoned pro very quickly. Was the process as easy for you as it seemed?

Leonard: Oh, no. I paid my dues, and I wasn't just matched up with guys I could knock out easily. I fought a variety of fighters who were far more experienced than I was professionally, and that gave me versatility. I fought tall fighters, short fighters, strong fighters, slow fighters, sluggers and boxers. It was either learn or get knocked off, and I didn't want to get knocked off. Believe me, I went through the mill.

Playboy: Your supporters feel you've emerged as the most accomplished and graceful fighter in boxing today. Has that always been a goal you've pursued?

Leonard: It wasn't when I started out. I loved Joe Frazier, and until I was 16, I fought like him. My left hook was the biggest and most effective punch I had, and I could hit a guy with it from any range. I could lead with the hook or shorten it up, and I got that from watching Frazier. Joe was a superior athlete, and I also patterned my defense after his--a lot of bobbing and weaving and ducking. Frazier was perpetual motion in the ring, but I was a little guy and all that moving around used to wear me down, so I figured that if I stood erect, I wouldn't exert myself unnecessarily. I'm quite sure all boxers pick up things from other fighters, and I remember that I started changing my style after watching Teofilo Stevenson, the Cuban heavy-weight, in the '72 Olympics. He'd stand straight up and pop you with a left jab or set you up for a right with it, and I started doing that. After people began calling me Sugar Ray, I watched films of what Sugar Ray Robinson used to do, which was bring a lot of class and showmanship into the ring. I tried to emulate that and, later on, I picked up on Ali's combination of charisma and entertainment and his ability to psych out his opponents. One of the guys who influenced me the most wasn't a boxer. I always loved the catlike reflexes and the artistry of Bruce Lee, and I wanted to do in boxing what he was able to do in karate. I started watching his movies way before he became really popular in Enter the Dragon, and I patterned myself after him in a lot of ways.

Playboy: Give us some examples.

Leonard: To start with. I liked the fact that Lee was always in control and very confident. He'd lay back and be a gentleman, and he wasn't really outspoken, but all along he knew that whenever he wanted to, he could kick any guy's butt. He had lightning reflexes and he could move and think and just pick his opponents apart. In a sense, my left jab comes from him. My hands are still not as strong as I want them to be, and after watching Lee, I became much more precise about landing my jabs on an opponent's nose or between his eyes. I also got some moves--both offensive and defensive--from him. For instance, he'd let a punch come within a fraction of an inch of his face and then he'd slip it and pop a guy. Lee was an artist and, like him, I try to go beyond the fundamentals of my sport. I want the public to actually see a knockout in the making, starting from the moment I begin setting up an opponent, start picking my shots and then--pow!--finish him off. I want my fights to be seen as plays that have a beginning, a middle and an end.

Playboy: Does that mean you have the same feeling for your work that artists or playwrights have for theirs?

Leonard: If you mean do I love it, the answer is no. The fun is gone, and boxing is now more of a job than ever for me. It's like any eight-hour job: I go to work, train to get in shape and come back home to my family. I think the average person can identify with what I'm saying, because I have the same feelings he does about going to work. I also get the Monday-morning blues; I usually feel just lousy about going back to training at the start of the week. Other times. I'll pick up and feel great. But even when a big fight is about to start, my feeling is pretty much the same: Boxing is my job.

Playboy: Do you think you have any flaws as a fighter?

Leonard: There was a stage in my career where I didn't take advantage of the opportunity to knock out an opponent after I'd hurt him. Without being immodest, I think I've become one of the best finishers in boxing; if I hurt a guy, I normally take him out. But I don't really want to hurt anyone. I just want to defeat him.

Playboy: Have you ever worried about seriously injuring one of your opponents?

Leonard: My worst moment that way came in my first defense of the welter-weight title. I knocked out Davey "Boy" Green with a perfect left hook--the best left hook I've ever landed--and he went straight down on his back, and I saw him lying there motionless. I thought to myself, No, not now, don't let this happen. I couldn't do this to anyone. Fortunately, he was OK.

Playboy: You're not Clark Kent, but you do seem like a very mild-mannered guy. Do you suddenly change inside the ring?

Leonard: I think that boxing brings out my aggressive instinct. But it's not necessarily a killer instinct, which is what you usually hear about fighters. In my own case, I think I'm aggressive and determined, that if I want something so badly, I'll go all out for it. Once I leave the ring, I leave all that behind me. I don't think I'd be any different if I didn't have boxing as an outlet for that aggressive instinct. I was always cool, you see.

Playboy: You've never wanted to punish an opponent?

Leonard: Just once, before that second fight with Duran. Other than that, I've never held anything against an opponent. In fact, before I fight, I always pray that no one gets hurt.

Playboy: Do you mean that literally--that you pray?

Leonard: I'm not religious, but I believe that what I have is a gift, and I respect it and live up to it, and that's the reason I pray that no one gets hurt. I never pray that I win, just that no one gets seriously injured.

Playboy: Are you ever afraid for yourself?

Leonard: No, I never think about getting hurt, though after a fight, I go right to the mirror, because I can't afford any more scars. Still, there is a great deal of fear within me when I fight, and it always comes at the start of a bout. Sometimes, I'll go out there and in the first round, I'll get hit by a shot that shakes me up. I'll think, If this is his first punch, how are the others gonna feel? Will the second and the third hurt more? That's the only fear I have for myself.

Playboy: You're never afraid you might lose a fight?

Leonard: I've never had a fear of losing, and that was true even when I was an amateur. I worry less about losing than about the consequences of a loss. In the back of my mind, I'll wonder whether or not a defeat will mean I won't stay another year with a certain product and whether or not my commercial power will still be there. Everyone loves a winner, right?

Playboy: Your priorities seem a little strange to us. When you can pick up more than $1,000,000 for beating a lightly regarded challenger such as Bruce Finch and more than $10.000,000 for taking on fighters of the caliber of Hearns, why worry about commercial endorsements?

Leonard: Again, I see them as a way to continue breaking the stereotype of the illiterate fighter.

Playboy: You've allowed your son to co-star in your Seven-Up commercials, and some people feel that is exploitative. How do you respond to that kind of criticism?

Leonard: Oh, Jesus! [Laughs] I guess that's how I answer it: with a laugh. People don't identify Seven-Up with Ray Leonard; they identify it with my son. If anything, little Ray has exploited me!

Playboy: How does he feel about the commercials?

Leonard: Doing commercials is something little Ray finds kind of neat, but we're keeping his participation limited, and he doesn't really care that much about them. Little Ray understands what's going on. He understands that his father's got a big position, that I'm constantly in demand and that I'm constantly traveling. He can bring me up short sometimes. Not long ago, I'd just gotten back from a trip and I took my son to a restaurant. Afterward, I asked him if he wanted to go to a movie. Little Ray said, "Daddy, let's just go home. You need to spend more time with me." I laughed, but he was serious. He doesn't like all the business things that take me away from home.

Playboy: Hasn't it been difficult for your wife to have both her husband and her son so much in the public eye?

Leonard: I think that by now, Juanita has adjusted to all the problems related to being the wife of a celebrity. What's really tough on her is that little Ray and I expect to be waited on hand and foot. I like to have breakfast in bed; I think all men should have breakfast in bed, don't you? Well, Juanita doesn't necessarily believe in that. So I don't necessarily get breakfast in bed.

Playboy: How has your celebrity status interfered with your family life?

Leonard: It's really limited the things we can do, things that meant a lot to me when I was growing up. It's tough for the three of us to have a picnic or take a walk in the park or go to the beach. You've been with us in a restaurant, and although I love people, it's uncomfortable trying to eat while people are coming up and asking you questions like, "Why are you eating in this place?" I like doing simple things like bicycle riding with my wife and my kid. I still do them, but we all have to block out the feeling of being stared at.

Playboy: Did you really think you could become a public figure and also retain your privacy?

Leonard: Sometimes I don't understand why you can't have one without the other. I guess I'd think about it less if I were still a bachelor, because then you have more time to give to the public. If you're a family man, though, there's a major price to pay. This is starting to sound like I'm complaining, and I'm not. I hold a great deal of pride in how people feel about me, and that's the reason I try to carry myself in a very professional and businesslike way. I also know that many people consider me a role model for kids, mainly black kids, and it's an obligation I'm aware of and one that I take very seriously.

Playboy: What do you do about it?

Leonard: I talk to kids at 65 or 70 schools a year, and I go because I've got a story to tell them. Kids read about what happened to me and they wish it would happen to them. I think it happened to me for a reason; there had to be a reason, because with so many great fighters around, why was I picked out of the group? I think it was meant for me to set an example and to provide some incentive, some hope and some proof that we all can start out in the basement but no one can say we can't make it to the penthouse. I talk to kids about the importance of taking advantage of opportunities, of utilizing their brains and maintaining their health. I explain to them that it's a piece of cake to live with your parents, but life's not easy once you're out on your own. I talk to kids about taking a shot at getting good grades, and I give them encouragement, which is something a lot of 'em never get. I give kids my emotions; I give them me.

Playboy: Are there any goals left for you in boxing?

Leonard: I want a third title, but it's not something I'll sweat over if I don't get it. I'm in the driver's seat, and that's the reason the Arguellos, the Pryors and all those other guys want to fight me. And I'm willing to fight them. I'm content. I have my place in boxing history.

Playboy: Can you see beyond the ring to what you may be doing in ten years?

Leonard: If I can continue to grow as a person the way I've grown in the last ten years, the next ten years won't be anything less than phenomenal. I told you earlier that I was a shy kid, and I was. I don't think I came out of my shell at all until 1975, when I won a gold medal at the Pan-American games in Mexico City. Whichever network was televising the games asked me to do some color commentary about Teofilo Stevenson, and I did it and I said a mouthful, and it was a very big step for me. I think it changed me, because after that, I wasn't timid anymore. I became a lot more confident as a person and a lot of parts of me opened up after that. That happened seven years ago; in another seven, who knows what I'll be doing, but I have tremendous optimism about the future. I'm making no predictions, though. Time will tell. I'll fight for only a couple more years, and after that, we'll see what happens.

Playboy: Ali also said very forcefully in his Playboy Interview that he'd retire well before he was forced to, but that didn't happen. Do you think he's become a tragic figure?

Leonard: No, I still look at Ali as a great man and a great champion. I think he's a nice, warm man, but he's so sensitive to the sport and to his own boxing accomplishments that he wants to go a little further. Ali is the only fighter ever to regain the heavyweight championship twice, and I think he'd still like to do it a third time. Everybody probably has his own goal going in his own fantasy world. and I don't know that Ali can achieve his own fantasy, but in any case. I just wish him luck. Some may say that Ali's on his last legs, but he's given us so much excitement over the years that if he wants to do something he thinks he can still do well. I think we owe him that much respect.

Playboy: Ali quit when he was over the hill, but you're talking about retiring while you're in your prime. Once you're out of boxing, don't you think you'll ever be tempted to come back?

Leonard: I don't feel I can be compared with champions in the past who've an-nounced their retirement and have then come out of retirement. I think I know what happened to great fighters like Ali: To an active athlete, idle time is poison, and you've got to get rid of it. A retired champion looks at certain competitors and wants to start over again. I understand that, so what I've got to do is find something that lets me maintain the same pace but without any punches being thrown. I think I can find that in the business world or by doing my thing as a boxing commentator on the networks. I've been hosting a syndicated TV series of Golden Gloves competitions, and one day I might want to have my own national talk show, just like Phil Donahue. And I might even try a little acting. What I'm saying, I guess, is that I've got a lot of things going that will keep me interested and occupied. When I say I'm through with boxing, I'll be through.

Playboy: Do you really think you'll be able to turn down the $10,000,000 or $15,000.000 you'll be able to make from one last major fight--or from two or three such big payoffs?

Leonard: I'll walk away, I promise you. It's hard for me to imagine that I'll ever be in a position where I'll need money, but if I do need a couple of dollars, I know just what I'll do: I'll call up ABC and ask them to let me compete in the Superstars.

"Boxers were always considered illiterate and I wanted to break through that barrier."