After The Gloves Came Off

On a Saturday afternoon in mid-September, Ruiz was the only fighter on the premises. He looked good—bulkier than ever in the chest and shoulders, and already close to his prime fighting weight of 235 pounds. Stripped to the waist, slicked with sweat, he toiled through a two-hour workout: shadowboxing, jumping rope, hitting pads held by his trainer, hitting the heavy bag and speed bag. Ruiz, who lived briefly in Puerto Rico as a child, had gone back to basics there: weights in the morning, boxing in the afternoon, roadwork at night; eat heartily and sleep well; repeat. He seemed pleased with the simplicity of the daily life he woke up to. Living in a rented condo in Old San Juan with his second wife and newly christened baby, he worked hard every day, honing himself. “I feel rejuvenated here, training, going into a fight prepared,” he said as he stretched, rotating his body at the hips and bending from side to side. It was a relief to be with a veteran trainer. Without Stone on hand to egg him on, he was taking a quieter, almost contemplative approach. Concentrating on refining his technique had rekindled his love of craft.

There was something different about the way Ruiz carried himself in the punching drills. Siaca had altered his balance, resetting it so that Ruiz stayed back on his feet a bit more and was less inclined to dive forward at an opponent when he threw a punch. He also turned his hips and shoulders more than before, improving the leverage of his blows. Siaca, lumpy and bespectacled, said, “You see? The punches, the power? Shorter, more chop.” It was a subtle shift, but potentially an important one, as it could well denature the headlong style he and Stone had developed together. He would hit more crisply, but it’s far from certain that a more conventional Ruiz, standing back to throw more punches that might well win over more fans, could still break a man down. “We have seen Ruiz with Norm Stone,” as Don King put it. “Now we will see him without.”

Ruiz would fight somebody soon, but he didn’t know who, where, or when. Maybe King would line up a marquee bout for him with a highly ranked contender, the short path to another title shot. Or he might meet a make-work opponent or two first, while Cardinale angled for a bigger fight. All he could do was train hard and try to be ready.

A former champion who fights past his prime runs the risk of hanging on too long and becoming reliably beatable. Then he becomes a trial horse, a name that younger contenders can put on their résumé to establish their bona fides on the way to their own title shot. Such men in decline typically say they feel great. They always believe they’ve still got it, even as they absorb too much late-career damage. Ruiz would have to fight in order to find out which he was: a rejuvenated craftsman or a bereft singleton Corsican Brother who couldn’t beat the best without his foaming soul mate.

Ruiz finished his workout at the speed bag. Its familiar clatter rose and filled the gym. He rocked from one foot to the other, alternating wrapped hands, in his rhythm, entirely consumed in doing it properly.

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