The man with “hands of stone.” The killer from Panama. In two words: Roberto Duran. The greatest lightweight of all time.
An indigenous-looking face and a killer stare, dark eyes, beard, and hair like the night, and a fierce, violent nature in the ring unlike anyone before or after him—just that was enough to intimidate his opponents. When someone once asked the great Joe Frazier which fighter Duran reminded him of, he simply replied: “Charles Manson.”
A novel wouldn’t be enough to tell the story of Roberto Duran. From a childhood spent rummaging through garbage bins for food to becoming a national hero, with a massive crowd—reportedly 700,000 people—waiting to welcome him home after his victory over Sugar Ray Leonard.
Duran’s life is made up of moments, contradictions, and situations that sketch out an inconsistent portrait. He was capable of anything—from reckless actions to acts of deep humanity. His violent nature wasn’t just a front, but only the rough outline of a much more complex character.
In 1989, he showed up at the bedside of Esteban de Jesús, who was dying of AIDS. The two had staged a legendary trilogy, and Esteban had been the only man to beat Duran in his first 71 fights. Duran later got his revenge, knocking him out twice. Eventually, Esteban—wrecked by heroin and cocaine—ended up in prison for the murder of a seventeen-year-old following a dispute [under unclear circumstances, editor’s note]. Behind bars, he found some peace, founding a baseball team and becoming a Christian preacher. But he soon discovered he had contracted AIDS, and only a pardon allowed him to spend his final days at home, surrounded by family.
That day, Esteban saw Roberto walk through the door and approach him. Duran came closer, bent down, gently lifted his head, wrapped his arms around him, and kissed him—an instant immortalized in a famous photo by former light heavyweight world champion José Torres, who was there at the time.
Back then, AIDS was still a largely unknown disease, and no one was certain it couldn’t be transmitted through the air. Duran didn’t care at all:
“Brave men deserve honor. Especially those who fight, who don’t back down. He was a warrior. I beat him up, stripped him of his pride, but I also admired him… I don’t care what he was sick with. He was just a great man, in bad shape. He had even been in prison for murder. I lifted him out of bed and held him close.”
Roberto had always felt closer to the outcasts than to the winners. He distrusted journalists, especially American ones. He didn’t like talking about his childhood—least of all with someone white, bourgeois, and educated, someone who could never truly understand the reality of El Chorillo, the slums of Panama City.
His rivalry with Leonard was legendary—just like his unexpected walk away from the ring. No one has ever known the full truth behind the famous “No Más.” Duran’s corner blamed frustration to explain his absurd behavior that night. But Roberto himself doesn’t even remember saying those two words.
In a brilliant interview with Emanuela Audisio, he said:
“Actually, I think what I said was: no quiero pelear con el payaso. I don’t want to fight this clown. Leonard wasn’t engaging with me, and I had no intention of chasing him.”
After winning the first bout, Roberto completely lost his head. He went on a wild celebration spree—food, alcohol, and everything else imagination allows. He ended up gaining weight in an unreasonable way. For the rematch, he went through hell just to make weight. He was completely drained, and before the fight, in a desperate rebound, he stuffed himself with food:
“After the weigh-in, I ate two eggs, corn porridge, peaches, toast, two T-bone steaks, peas, potatoes, and fried chicken. All washed down with five glasses of orange soda.”
He later said he stepped into the ring in excruciating pain, doubled over with stomach cramps from eating too much.
It’s hard to know what the truth really is. What’s certain is that Duran deeply hated Leonard. They were day and night. The chosen one and the cursed one. Leonard, with his charming aura and Hollywood smile, was the handsome good guy. Duran, with his defiant and hostile sneer, was the ugly, violent one. One Black but with the manners of a polite, educated white man; the other white, but Black—pitch Black—on the inside.
Time, however, has softened even the fiercest fighter ever to step into a ring. Today, the two are—ironically—good friends.
Duran was a magnificent boxer. A brawler by instinct, a counterpuncher by technique.
Speed, devastating power, brilliant timing, feints, and stylistic finesse made him a fighter who defies simple description.
He may never be remembered for his human virtues, but Roberto, like all of us, was a product of the circumstances that shaped him—circumstances that made him a one-of-a-kind fighter, in both temperament and skill.
Today, Roberto turns 74.
Happy birthday to this unforgettable legend of the ring.