HAGLER’S FIGHT PLAN FOR LEONARD : ‘I’M OUT THERE TO RIP HIS HEAD OFF’

Six o’clock in the evening on the canyon floor. A starry night. Cold winds cross the desert. Heaters glow orange in the green-and-white-striped circus tent, out behind the big resort hotel. Silhouetted in the tent’s dim light: a woman in fur with a cocktail in her hand, the man who owns a 1955 red convertible Cadillac with wide white-walls parked among creamy other vintages and a new chocolate Rolls.

And then, as if out from under a secret ledge on a mountain that guards the canyon even from a puff of harmless white cloud, Marvin Hagler comes in from the cold, hooded, his hands taped. Marvelous Marvin Hagler. Music blasts.

“Nail it to the wall. Nail it to the wall.”

“Nail him to the canvas,” screams Hagler, throwing combinations at the air, each three or four or more punches, blurs.

“Yeah. Yeah,” cry onlookers.

Everyone knows who “him” is: Sugar Ray Leonard. To Hagler, Leonard annoys like a summer gnat, flitting among the media, giving constant patter. “An ego trip,” Hagler calls it. To him, Leonard is a flip child about to be caught and punished, swatted and silenced.

Hagler cocked his head, proud as a fighter who hasn’t been beaten in 11 years. His eyes narrowed. This was later, as he spoke slowly and evenly, and there could be no doubting he meant what he said. Without Leonard, Hagler could never have been guaranteed $11.75 million for a night’s work, and yet:

“I really want to beat this guy in the worst way. I believe that I can knock him out. I know that. I’m going to knock him out because I don’t believe that he has the ability to take a real good shot.

“I don’t think Leonard’s ever fought a person like myself. I think the people Leonard fought gave him a lot of respect. I’m not planning on giving him any respect. I’m planning on going in there and ripping his head off.”

Hagler has left his Massachusetts and put himself into “jail,” his word for training camp. He has come to an oasis of resort hotels and sprawling, red-tiled-roofed mansions, sculpted shrubs and tall, thin palms. Dry air, azure sky and snow-capped mountains. Some jail.

Dedicated to fighting rather than the richer resort experience, Hagler cares only about room service--a loner, he--and taking the sun and the promise of each day, darkly turning it against Ray Leonard. Every other daybreak, Hagler runs six to eight miles, down flat, empty avenues, chasing a Leonard as wispy as a canyon ghost.

“Marvin’s getting his roadwork up to where he can catch him,” said Goody Petronelli, Hagler’s trainer.

Hagler is confident he will catch Leonard April 6.

“Ray won’t make the mistake Tommy Hearns did,” said Pat Petronelli, Hagler’s manager and Goody’s brother. The Petronellis were eating breakfast. Twin bowls of cereal. “Tommy tried to get Marvin out of there quick, tried to knock him out. Nobody can walk into a Marvin Hagler like Tommy Hearns did and survive. If they fought 10 times, it’d be 10 times for Marvin. Knock him out every time. No, Ray won’t make that mistake. He won’t charge him. He’ll run.”

“The ring is only so big,” said Goody Petronelli.

“That’s right. You’re right,” said Pat. “I’ll tell you, if Sugar Ray makes a mistake, we’ll go home early. That’s for sure. We’ll all leave early. Catch the early show.”

“Depends on Sugar,” said Goody, an eyebrow arched, smiling. “If Sugar cooperates with us, we can make it a little early.”

Hagler would love that--a single, small mistake by Leonard.

“I realize he’s going to be on his bicycle,” said Hagler, sitting in a poolside chair beneath a palm, wearing a silky white Hagler-Leonard-fight jacket, “because he’d be a fool to stand in front of me. He’d be a fool if he stood there and tried to bang it out with me. He saw what happened to Thomas Hearns. And, really, Thomas Hearns didn’t stay in there banging with me. Thomas tried to move, but I just wouldn’t give him enough room.

“I’m taking the same type of attitude which I did with Thomas Hearns. I’m not out there trying to be a showboat, or trying to be pretty. I’m out there to get my job done. I’m out there to rip his head off, and that’s exactly what I’m planning on doing.”

Hagler looks ready now. He’s 167 solid pounds, and he intends to take off seven pounds, slowly, and come to Las Vegas in the shape of his life, hard and ominous as the boulders above the canyon road, ready to descend on Leonard.

This is Hagler’s “War II.” He wears a cap on his shaven head that says so. Plain “War” was Hagler-Hearns, April 15, 1985, heretofore Hagler’s biggest payday, about $6 million. As if to repay the ticket-buyers who made it possible, Hagler turned Hearns into a limp doll by the third round after devastation that prize-fight wise men have likened to Louis’ pummeling of Schmeling. America lived that one, but enough saw Hagler-Hearns on closed circuit.

“I’m going to put all the effort I have into this fight with Leonard,” said Hagler. “This is one of the biggest fights of my life and I got all the things on the line. It could be my last fight, I don’t know. If it’s my last fight, I want it to be my best. Most likely, I would be satisfied if the outcome comes the way that I’m planning. Then I’d move out, retire. Me knocking out Sugar Ray Leonard and then retiring.”

It might satisfy Hagler because, for all the great ones he has battled and beaten, Hagler acknowledges he never has fought anyone with Leonard’s “prestige.” “I think that’s one of the reasons that gets me up and motivates me again.”

Hagler, 32, has fought to a 62-2-2 record, and numbered among his 52 knockout victims the four men who mussed his mark. Now, Leonard has ruffled Hagler’s equanimity. During a recent coast-to-coast promotional tour intended to muster hype enough for three fights, Hagler failed to come out for the seventh city. Leonard, meanwhile, did everything but dance on the tabletops: He even played himself and Hagler, both roles, after Hagler remained on his mountain. “Well, Marvin, how do you plan to fight me?” “I’ll tell you, Ray . . . “

“Ray was saying the same thing,” said Hagler, explaining his refusal to budge from seclusion. “It was becoming a joke instead of a fight. Mr. HBO. That’s just the way he sounded to me. He didn’t sound as though he was very serious about everything. And I’m very serious.

“I think Leonard’s an imitation of Muhammad Ali, and that’s what he’s trying to do instead of being an original. I am an original.

“For Sugar Ray Leonard, I definitely can get up. The whole thing right now is my trainers trying to hold me back.”

Pat and Goody Petronelli. Blocky Pat and wiry Goody. Two old, wily fighters. They have to lighten the mood. They have a knack. Take the story of the three caps. Hagler came into camp wearing a white cap with black lettering: “NO.”

“Somebody sent us three hats,” said Pat Petronelli. “ ‘What the hell is this?’ I say to Goody. ‘This hat says “Way.” ‘ I say, ‘Goody, what’s yours say?’ He says, ‘Mine is “Ray.” I says, ‘Marvin’s is “No . “ ‘ “

“It depends on which way we sit,” said Goody. “If I sit on one end, it’s ‘No Way Ray,’ but if I sit on the other end it’s ‘Ray No Way.’ “

The one thing that nags at “The Triangle,” as they call themselves--Hagler and the two Petronellis--is that Hagler could lose. Lose, after all the gym work, after all the tank towns, after all the glory days, after all these years of winning.

Of the three, Hagler seems most aware of this.

“I never underestimate my opponent,” he said. “I realize that anybody can be beat. Anybody can be knocked out.”

Still, Hagler is not about to be timid--he is going to storm after Leonard. “Well, I’m not going to tell you my strategy the way that we have it,” he said, “but most likely that would be the way to beat him. Leonard can’t stand pressure.”

“This fight is special,” said Pat Petronelli. “This is in the twilight of his career, and it’s special to all of us. Great as the Hearns fight was--I didn’t think there’d be anything with more intensity, more excitement than that one -- this one’s different. I look at this one as his greatest fight ever.

“He wants to make it his best. He wants to make it his best.”

“Outside the ring, Marvin’s one guy, inside he’s another,” said Goody. “I’ll quote him: He’s a monster; the monster comes out of him. He just wants to tear his opponent apart. His words: destruction and destroy. He’s not just talking newspaper talk.”

Pat: “Marvin looks at Ray as an enemy. Deep down inside, he doesn’t hate him. He doesn’t hate Sugar Ray. He’s his enemy, and he has to get rid of him.”

Goody: “That’s Marvin’s style. After the fight, there’s no problem.”

Pat: “We’re taking Leonard seriously. We’re not thinking about his layoff. Sugar Ray’s an exception. He’s a clean-living kid. He runs a lot. Even when he was retired, he always seemed to be in condition.”

Goody: “He never let himself go. Kept his weight down. We’re not going into the fight saying, well, he laid off that long. Hey, it’s not an asset, it’s not a thing you would want to do, it’s not that normal, a guy lays off that long. But we have to figure on a tip-top Leonard. That’s the way we’re going into it.

“Leonard is a nice, quick, combination puncher. He’s been around a long time. We respect Leonard. Boxer. Quick hands. Mover. I don’t think there’s any secret how Leonard is going to fight Marvin. If he can go 12 rounds, beat him on a decision, that’s his goal.”

Pat: “Leonard is a Willie Pep in his division. He’s a quickie, and in 12 rounds you’re really going to have to make this kid fight.”

Goody: “The closest to him is this guy on the West Coast. He ran and boxed with Marvin, but Marvin knocked him out in 12 rounds. Broke his jaw.”

Pat: “Mike Colbert. He was the fastest around. It took Marvin 12 rounds.”

Goody: “Marvin can adapt as a fighter. Marvin’s the most versatile fighter in the world. If the other guy boxes, Marvin boxes. Marvin’s a fine boxer. If the other guy punches, Marvin’s a banger. Southpaw or righthanded.”

Pat: “The way he has the edge, he’s a switch-hitter.”

Goody: “And he can handle speed.”

Pat: “What we want to see on Marvin’s list of opponents, wins and title defenses is Ray Leonard’s name. Right on that list.”

Goody: “I don’t know what the reason is, Sugar’s doing this. It’s not money. This particular fight I thought would end up as barroom talk. Could Sugar Ray Leonard beat Marvin Hagler? ‘Yeah, he’s too fast for Marvin. Have another beer.’ ‘Naw,’ the other guy would say, ‘Marvin’s too big for him.’ I thought this fight would be like Jack Dempsey against Ali. But now it’s a reality. Sugar doesn’t want to end up in barroom talk. He’d be sorry. ‘Maybe I should have fought this guy.’ Maybe that’s what it is.”

Pat: “Marvin’s got this general’s hat. He’s got 13 stars on it. Leonard is the 13th title defense. He’s that 13th star.”

A woman dressed in turquoise, riding a turquoise golf cart, rides home, and darkness falls.

It’s said that when the moon comes up, coyotes come out. They face the canyon walls and bay at the moon.

This is the time when the champion comes out to work in his tent. His entourage includes:

--Hagler’s half-brother, Robbie Sims, wearing a Brockton (Mass.) jacket, a good middleweight himself, who puts a tape into a portable stereo: “The Midas Touch” -- turned up loud enough to keep coyotes in.

--Dr. Terry Christle, “The Fighting Physician,” a doctor from Dublin (medical degree from Trinity College; before that, five years at the Royal Irish Academy of Music) who, although slender, has fought professionally as a middleweight in the Petronellis’ stable to a 12-0-1 record; after one victory, in Lowell, Mass., he rushed out of the locker room to assist the fight’s promoter, who had suffered an asthma attack.

--Richie Sandoval, a sweetheart of a fighter and person, recently ousted as bantamweight champion after 29 straight victories by Jose “Gaby” Canizales in an awful beating Sandoval can’t remember. He has been told he must never fight again, and has been relegated to promotions, but he is restless and says, “I want to work out. I gotta work out.”

--Two sparring partners who face being pounded by Hagler into submission, replaced and sent home.

“I’m Marvelous Marvin Hagler,” proclaims a deep voice-over on another tape. “See the champ go to work.”

Hagler climbs into the ring, and Goody Petronelli (late 50s--he won’t give his age) is in there, gloves on. Goody’s bright red gloves are thickly padded in the palms, and with all his might, with lefts and rights, Hagler, head down and boring in, punches Goody’s palms. Hagler never misses the palms; good thing for Goody.

Goody is Sugar Ray Leonard, working in close, trying to tie up Hagler. Hagler fights free. Goody loops a right--a Leonard punch. Hagler freezes at the trainer’s command and, with Goody’s glove up by Hagler’s jaw, the two men talk. Then they resume, like a film projector restarted.

Hagler punches the air in front of a full-length mirror, hits a speed bag, skips rope. Pat Petronelli towels the champion’s head, like a baby’s. Hagler raises his hands and accepts applause, the smattering of a few strangers in white folding chairs, only a sample of what he expects to hear the night he’s said he’ll stand over Sugar Ray Leonard. The music stops, the tent empties. There is not a sound in the desert.