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the martial arts star Bruce Lee. I was blown away by how much speed and power he could generate for such a small man, and how pretty he looked in the process. Lee was unbelievably intense, possessing a will to overcome any obstacle. After seeing one of his films, I went home and tried to copy his technique by driving my right fist as hard as I could into the ground in our front yard. Needless to say, I never tried that again. Lee inspired me for years, long after I turned pro. When I threw punches at my sparring partners, I made the same noises he did during his fierce exchanges. I wish I could have met him. He died under mysterious circumstances in 1973 at the age of thirty-two.
    My love affair with boxing came as a surprise to my parents, who saw me as a sheltered child seeking to avoid confrontation at any cost. I’ll never forget the puzzled look on my dad’s face when I asked him to attend my first amateur bout. Fighting was fine for Roger and Kenny, but not for his youngest boy.
    â€œYou can’t fight,” he said.
    â€œJust come and watch me, Daddy,” I said.
    Well, after seeing me prevail handily, he never had trouble picturing me as a fighter again. I made him quite proud, though there was, of course, another boxer who received his highest praise.
    â€œNobody today would beat Joe Louis,” he often said. My brothers and I shook our heads in disbelief but we didn’t try to change his mind. There was no point. Besides, talking about his beloved childhood hero made him feel young again.
    Within months, I started to bulk up. Speed provided a valuable advantage, but if I ever hoped to outduel the premier sluggers, I could not simply run around the ring for the whole time. As Joe Louis said about his rival Billy Conn: “He can run but he cannot hide.” Sooner or later I would have to stand toe-to-toe, giving them everything they could handle and absorbing their best in return. Only then could I be considered a real fighter.
    Bobby Magruder was one, the toughest in the D.C. region, and in the spring of ’71, after his scheduled opponent dropped out a day or two before their fight, I was picked to take his place.
    Bobby, a white guy of Irish and Scottish descent, was a featherweight with the power of a middleweight. Even his name was intimidating— Bobby Magrrrrrruuuder —and considering what he went through, no wonder he was fearless.
    His father deserted him and his mom when he was only ten years old. By the time he was eleven or twelve, he was fighting once a month in illegal bouts in a strip club called The Cave in Waldorf, Maryland. As Bobby duked it out against the sons of farmers and truck drivers from outside the state, girls wearing only bikinis performed on swings overhead, serving up their own form of entertainment. Bobby earned fifty cents for every victory, along with any nickels and dimes tossed on the floor by the satisfied customers. Each cent went a long way, as Bobby’s financial situation made the Leonards seem like the Rockefellers. To buy a ten-cent can of soup, he rounded up five Coke bottles a day, collecting two cents per deposit.
    Bobby did not fight just in the bars. He fought in the streets, and in 1966, at the age of fifteen, he was preparing for another one of those battles when he nearly lost everything. A car belonging to a member of the gang he and his buddies were about to rumble with purposely ran into him, pinning Bobby against another vehicle. Both legs were crushed, the left leg so badly that doctors were planning to amputate—until they met a Magruder who made Bobby seem meek in comparison.
    â€œYou’re not taking my son’s leg,” his mother insisted. “I want a specialist.”
    Bobby spent more than three months in the hospital, and the leg was saved.
    His recovery was only beginning. For about a year, because his family did not own a car, he walked the entire six miles back and forth every day to receive