Carlos Acevedo

Sporting Blood


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an expressway. He was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison. At Rio Piedras State Penitentiary, de Jesús became a preacher, and daily prayer meetings became part of his routine. In 1985, when de Jesús found out that his brother (with whom he shared needles to inject heroin) had died of AIDS, he had himself tested by prison officials. The result was a death sentence: de Jesús tested positive for HIV.

      Within a few years, de Jesús was so ill that his sentence was commuted on the condition that he remain in an AIDS clinic for treatment. “The doctors tell me that I have anywhere from one to four years to live,” de Jesús said in a television interview in February 1989, “but I hope God will support me longer.” There would be no reprieve for the magnificent lightweight whose troubles—combined with his losses to Durán —would permanently overshadow his career. Three months later, he was dead.

      A few weeks before he died, however, an ailing de Jesús received a visit from Roberto Durán, whose empathy brought him to Puerto Rico from hundreds of miles away. Durán met his ex–rival for the fourth and final time in a weathered milk factory converted into a makeshift sickbay.

      ON AARON PRYOR, 1955–2016

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      “One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.”

      —Friedrich Nietzsche

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      From the beginning, Aaron Pryor, who died on October 9, 2016, was at odds with the world. Or, perhaps, the world was at odds with him. One of the most exciting fighters during an era when action was a prerequisite for fame, Pryor matched his unbridled style in the ring with an apocalyptic personal life that kept him in boldface for over a decade.

      Pryor was an at-risk youth before the term came into vogue. Dysfunction was in his DNA. He was born—out of wedlock—in 1955 in Cincinnati to an alcoholic mother whose moodiness could lead to impromptu gunplay. Sarah Pryor, née Shellery, who gave birth to seven children by five different fathers, occasionally whipped out the nickel-plated hardware when some of her brood became unruly. Years later, she wound up shooting her husband five times in the kind of supercharged domestic dispute in which the Pryor clan excelled.

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      As an eight-year-old already at sea in chaotic surroundings, Pryor was molested by a minister. Shame was never far beneath the surface of a man who would eventually earn millions of dollars and worldwide fame as one of the most exciting fighters of his era. On the streets of Mount Auburn and Avalon—where race riots in 1967 and 1968 left bloodstains caked on the sidewalks—Pryor was left to his own devices in a time and place where social services barely existed. As a young boy, he was virtually homeless for years, couch surfing when he could, sleeping in doorways or under awnings whenever his mother locked him out of the house. He was an Over-the-Rhine dead-end kid before finding refuge in a boxing gym as a teenager.

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      After losing a decision to Howard Davis Jr., in an Olympic trials box-off in 1976, Pryor returned to Cincinnati at loose ends. That same year, he made his debut, as a late substitute, and earned a payday of $400 against an ex-kickboxer. By contrast, Davis Jr., had a contract from CBS in hand worth nearly $300,000 before he had ever stepped into a pro ring. The TV gold rush had begun, and Pryor had no chance to stake a claim. Soon Pryor became the hired help—as a sparring partner—for the stars who had left him behind: Davis and Sugar Ray Leonard.

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      Like Leon Spinks, the ditzy man-child sent careening through short-lived fame, Pryor often received press coverage that bordered on mockery. It was Spinks who became the target of talk-show hosts and a Richard Pryor skit, but Pryor was no less susceptible to lampooning than “Neon” Leon. His pre–hip-hop Kangols, Cazals, and Day-Glo tracksuits were ready-made for ridicule. Malapropisms popped out of his mouth like Mentos. The bad press he received, he said, was due to “misrepresentation of my personality.” Later, he removed the gold cap from one of his front teeth, began wearing suits in public, and even toted a briefcase from one press junket to another.

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      What made Pryor appealing was a fierce ring style seemingly at one with a personal outlook that bordered on madness. Pryor scored five consecutive stoppages in defense of his junior welterweight title and in the process astonished viewers with his frenzied performances. For Pryor, being knocked down often meant popping right back up to charge at his opponent before the referee could issue the mandatory eight-count. Gaetan Hart, Lennox Blackmoore, Dujuan Johnson, Miguel Montilla, Akio Kameda—all were worn down by Pryor and his cyclone attack.

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