That's why Tony's death hit everyone so hard. For a man who'd fought more than 42 professional fights, who'd keep going no matter what, it was a bitter and uncharacteristic end. "He was a tough guy. He was invincible," Marcia Budde says. "It was hard to believe, because I always thought he would come out on top. Quitting was never an option."
Smitty didn't cry when his father died, but he cried for Tony. "You worry about them, and then you're close to them," Smitty says. "I miss him like a son. Sometimes I wish he would come through that door so I could kick his ass."
Smitty worked his corner when Tony took on Jeff
Mayweather in Las Vegas.
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Before Tony killed himself, he'd phoned Denny Nelson. His former trainer didn't get the message until he'd returned from St. Anthony's, where Tony died after eight hours on life support. Tony had apologized to Denny for losing the title shot in Puerto Rico. He was sorry they hadn't realized their dreams, but he knew there was a place for him in heaven. "Please, please make sure my wife is okay," Tony had pleaded. "Don't take this out on her. I love her so much."
The final words at the service came from Mark Fernandez, who still thinks of Tony as his champion, the brother he'd always wanted. "There's a saying in boxing," he told the crowd. "'Don't let boxing take from you. Instead, you have to take from boxing.' Well, boxing took everything from Tony, and Tony still gave back."
Angelo Duran gasps through his mouthpiece and looks up into the fierce lights of the Stockyards Arena. The thirteen-year-old is boxing in the championship bout of the 119-pound class at the 2005 Colorado Golden Gloves Tournament. It's the first big match for Angelo since his Uncle Tony killed himself a year before. Angelo now works with the 20th Street Gym's Robert Baca, chosen by Tony after he became too debilitated to train his nephew.
Inside his white headgear, Angelo has a thin dusting of hair on his upper lip that hovers above a perpetually cocky grin. When the bell rings for round two, he approaches his opponent, Jose Contras, who is taller by at least five inches. But as the two boys make contact, it's clear who's more confident in the ring. Angelo ducks and slips beyond Jose's punches, only to pop up with a fast uppercut or body jab. With his muscular build, Angelo has a low center of gravity that allows him to target his opponent's midsection. Periodically he steps back and eyeballs Jose's movement, parrying incoming punches and sticking jabs to the head. Angelo thinks back to the hours spent in his uncle's basement, practicing hours of combinations and punches. He can hear Tony's voice: Use your footwork, think before you strike, observe the guy at all times.
The third round comes with an upswing for Jose, who lands some point-scoring blows to the top of Angelo's head. As he steps back a few paces to look for an opening on his wobbly challenger, Angelo pauses. He seems lost for a moment, like his mind has stalled, unsure of where to go next.
"Quit messin' around, Angelo!" his mother screams from the folding chairs at ringside. His father, Tony's brother Johnny, throws shadow punches in the dirt.
Angelo snaps alert. He finishes out the round, landing a few punches. A few minutes later, the three judges give their decision to the announcer -- and the referee raises Angelo's arm in the air.
Tony would have loved it.
