Roberto Duran (L) is hit with a left punch from Edwin Viruet

Over lunch in the Bronx, “The Puerto Rican Ali” reflects on the life that slipped away with the scorecards

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Two red nose pitbulls, an open fire hydrant, and a dozen soaking-wet kids stood between us and the Bronx hole-in-the-wall diner. Edwin Viruet and I kept one eye on the loose dogs and the other on the children darting into the street. Once inside the cuchifrito spot on Castle Hill Avenue, it smelled and sounded like we were in Puerto Rico. 

“They even have fried ears,” Edwin said. 

“That’s what my grandparents used to eat,” I said, before pointing out that the rice behind the counter looked a day old. “The edges are dry.” 

Edwin blamed the heat. The server, who picked up on our concern, assured us that everything was fresh and made with two ingredients – fire and love. I ordered the “carne guisada” and Edwin got the “bistec,” well done and covered in caramelized onions. He sat sideways in his chair, his back resting against the wall. The air conditioner was dead. A loud fan blew warm air at us. That’s when he noticed the photo on the wall.   

“Look at that,” Edwin pointed with his nose. It was a photo of Roberto Duran.

“That should be you up there,” I said.

“You know that, and I know that,” he said, smiling. “And this is my hometown,” he added.

“You beat him,” I told him, remembering their 1975 fight at the Nassau Coliseum. Duran was the lightweight champion at the time. 

“I knew they were gonna give him the decision. My life… it woulda been so different. But what can you do?”

The food came. “You can smell the vinegar. Must be fresh,” he said. We started eating. 

“They called me The Puerto Rican Ali. I didn’t give myself that nickname – the people did.”

“Do you remember what Duran said about one of his opponents,” I asked. “If I was in better shape, he’d be going to the morgue and not the hospital.”

“That’s not good to say, people have died in this sport,” Edwin said, before naming a few. “That’s why I make sure my guys are ready when they fight.”

We had just gotten back from the gym on the hill where Edwin, who is 76 years old, still trains fighters during the day. “I like to teach,” he said.

“You almost trained a heavyweight champ,” I said.

“Yeah, came close with Stewart. Today he’d be a champ.”

The food hit all the right spots. “Almost as good as my mom’s,” Edwin said.

I changed the subject. “What kind of car did you drive in your heyday?”

“I had a Chevy. A Mustang. I had the Starsky and Hutch car too. You remember that one?”

“Torino.”

“They were good cars,” he said. “Nothing fancy.”

And nothing like the fleet of cars Duran was driving those years: a convertible Benz, a Firebird with gold wheels, and a 1930s Excalibur.

“If you could have gotten any car, which one would it have been?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “A Mercedes, man. Convertible.”

The night they fought, Edwin met Duran in the middle of the ring with both hands dangling at his sides, sticking his chin out, daring the champ. “He couldn’t hit me.” After slipping or ducking a punch, Edwin did the Ali shuffle. When the decision was announced for Duran, the crowd booed.  

A woman approached the table and asked Edwin, “Excuse me. Are you…okay if we point the fan our way?”

“Yes of course,” he told her. 

I asked him how different he thinks his life would have been if the judges had got the decision right. He paused then said, “I think I would have gotten the Sugar Ray Leonard fight, instead of Duran. Remember, my brother fought Sugar Ray, did well too, and I was better than my brother.”

“You know, I did okay,” Edwin said. “I got into the New York Boxing Hall of Fame. I consider myself a champ and I got out just as healthy as I was when I got in. But you know which championship belt I really wanted?”

“Which one?”

“The money belt. When I looked at this menu, I looked at the prices too. Maybe I wouldn’t need to do that if I was a champ, you know what I mean.”

He looked at the photo of Duran again.

“He’s crazy,” Edwin said, shaking his head. “People, they don’t know that. They love him because he knocked everyone out, but they don’t know him.”

“Did you know he had a lion?” I asked.

“What for?”

“I don’t know – Mike Tyson had a tiger.”

Edwin shook his head.

“Would you have gotten a lion,” I asked.

“Nah, that’s crazy. What do they eat? You can’t give them just two or three chickens – that’s not enough.” 

I leaned closer. “Do you want to hear something crazy? Really crazy.”

“Nothing will surprise me with that guy,” he said.

He guzzled down his Coke and told me to continue.

“They said he did things with that lion –walking it on a leash in public, wrestling it, and other stuff too.”  

“I told you,” Edwin laughed, “That man is crazy. You know what? I can’t judge him. If I had all that money… maybe I would’ve got a lion too.”

He smirks, and for a split second, Edwin turned into Roberto Duran. “Imagine me walking a lion through Loisaida.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep it in a cage, but yeah maybe I would have gotten one,” he shrugged. “Money changes you.”  

“Would you have done everything he did?” I asked slyly.

“You never know what you would do in another man’s shoes,” he said, his eyebrows rising.

We laughed at the absurdity and headed back out into the heat. The pitbulls were still loose, and the fire hydrant was still spraying the street with cool water. “I used to hate Duran, but really it was the system I was mad at. If I see him today, I’d just shake his hand. We made history together.” 

We didn’t say much as we rounded the corner toward his building. 

A couple walked out as he reached the entrance.   

They didn’t hold the door open for him.

Edwin quickened his steps and reached, but the door shut in his face. He almost caught it. Almost. 

***

Jose Corpas is from Flatbush and writes about boxing and New York City, among other subjects. His books can be found on Amazon.