Duarte Is Beaten on a Decision : Challenger Floors Pinango but Loses in a Bloody Effort

Frankie Duarte was valiant enough Tuesday night, stalking the champion bravely, unmindful of his own blood or any other aspect of his personal safety. But, to offer both points of view at once, he was neither good nor lucky enough. And the elusive title, which he has pursued on and off since 1974, remained beyond his grasp.

To many in the Forum crowd of 6,125, the unanimous decision in Bernardo Pinango’s favor was curious, as Duarte had once flattened the World Boxing Assn. bantamweight champion and had three times benefited from a one-point deduction on low blows. It cannot be said that Duarte, despite his relentlessness, dominated the champion. But a five-point swing, in addition to rounds Duarte had certainly won, seemed to indicate a celebration was at hand.

Indeed, coins showered onto the ring, the traditional sanction of a fight well made. Duarte’s handlers, in addition to tending two three-inch gashes above their fighter’s eyes, held a blanket above him for protection. Pinango, the champion, slumped in a corner, as if the defeat had been announced.

And then the scores, from two South America judges and another from Puerto Rico. Duarte, the reformed alcoholic who at 32 is too late in life to entertain hopes for any more comebacks, heard his future foreclosed in the Forum air. He had lost a bloody, 15-round decision.

Later, standing before reporters, his face an ever-blooming bouquet, he had it put to him that, well, boxing is not always fair. “Often not,” he said quietly.

In truth, Duarte (41-7-1) had taken a lot of punches. The next punch he slips, as they say, will be his first. But this is a kind of trademark for the action fighter who, in his prime, roused the Olympic Auditorium with his casual violence. He took punches, just on the off chance he could deliver one.

In his comeback--that is, the last three years since the Ten Goose stable allowed him a second chance at a spoiled career--Duarte had not bothered to correct this important defect. He bled even in bouts with club fighters. Sometimes, even when the opponents were over-matched, he was lucky to win.

Pinango, 118, of Caracas, Venezuela, seemed pleased as punch at Duarte’s strategy. The 26-year-old champion (21-2-2), who has no qualms about fighting in the challenger’s hometown, cut the Venice native up by the third round. The right eye did not bleed dangerously but bled colorfully nevertheless.

It was plain by then that the bout would substitute a brave kind of crudity for any elegance. If the sweet science were to be practiced this night, it would be by doctors in their post-fight stitchery. Duarte, peering through his own blood, simply waded in, again and again.

Duarte, 117 3/4 pounds, is a notorious slow starter, as well as bleeder, and there was no apparent concern in his corner, especially as he was racking up unanticipated points on Pinango’s low blows.

Then Duarte, who had once ranked as high as No. 2 before his alcoholic slide in the late ‘70s, gathered some semblance of himself at prime. Suddenly his punches turned powerful, and in the ninth round, his chasing began to produce results. Before Pinango had artfully counter-punched, blinking through Duarte’s best shots. But in a vicious ninth, Pinango appeared vulnerable.

Duarte, though cut again, deeper yet above the left eye, hurt Pinango in the 10th round. Still the red rivulets may have colored the judges’ perceptions of the round.

In the 12th, after Pinango’s corner was hit with flying nachos , Pinango himself was hit by a flying right hand. He went down in the fight’s only knockdown. Throughout the remaining three rounds, Duarte out-punched and out-bled the champion.

Then the coin shower, and the curious calculating. This was somewhat anticipated. The WBA insisted on having neutral judges, in conflict with California rules that require at least two California officials work a title fight. The State Athletic Commission backed down on this, and the fight was thus staffed with a Latin flavor.

The scoring: Roberto Ramirez (Puerto Rico), 142-141; Rodolfe Hill (Panama), 143-140; Juan Maio (Argentina), 145-140. You might ask how neutral Hill could be, as Panama is where the transplanted Venezuelan lives and trains under the tutelage of Luis Spada, Panama legend. You may as well inquire into the meaning of life.

Duarte’s camp immediately called foul. “All I know,” said Dan Goossen, the promoter who had nursed this improbable comeback, “is I see a three-point deduction and a knockdown. That right there is four rounds, and if Frankie doesn’t win a half a dozen more. . . . “

Duarte, himself, was somewhat philosophical. He had once dropped out of boxing for five lost years and had no one to blame but himself for that. Even now, pointing fingers seemed useless. “I had no strong opinion either way,” he said, his swollen eyes brimmed with tears. “It was a busy fight, as they say, and I wasn’t keeping score.”

Nevertheless, he was aware of the special circumstances. “It tells you enough about their intentions,” he said of the Latin America-based organization, “they’re supposed to have three neutral judges, and we had one from Panama. Not even one California judge. I realized I had to knock him out.” He failed to do that, and failed to win the fight.

In Pinango’s dressing room, there was a surprised air, as if to ask what all the fuss is about. “You can look at the face of Pinango,” suggested the champion, “and you can look at the face of Duarte. That will say something about the fight.”

Added Spada: “Of course we thought we won. Outside of the knockdown and the referee deducting three points, I don’t say any rounds Frankie Duarte could be ahead.”

And so Pinango, who already had defended twice on foreign soil before traveling here for a $65,000 payday, gathered his small entourage around to fight a hometown hero elsewhere, somewhere, anywhere. He never cares if the money is right.

Duarte, whose courage had seen him through an embattled alcohol and drug abuse reform and a tough comeback, had no idea where his heart would take him now. When someone asked, he slapped the side of the podium softly, words not available. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I don’t know.”