Becoming Muhammad Ali Read online

  I heard him drop his art tools

  at the door,

  then heard Momma’s footsteps

  as she made her way to him.

  Rudy and I sat at the dinner table.

  Me, not sure how long his hollering

  was gonna be

  when he saw my grades,

  Rudy sneaking a bite

  of the cornbread

  from his plate.

  When we finally saw his head

  peek around the corner,

  like he was looking in a coffin

  afraid to see what was there,

  he motioned for us to get up,

  so we did.

  Boys, a giant tree has fallen, is all he said,

  hugging us like

  he’d never done before.

  I Was Twelve

  when I was so fast

  I could dodge rocks

  and snatch a fly

  outta midair

  when Rudy caught

  chickenpox, and

  Tall Bubba lost

  his face

  chasing a tennis ball

  when I almost failed

  outta Madison Junior High

  and decided I was gonna

  make a lot of money

  so my children wouldn’t have

  to watch the world

  from behind a fence

  when I learned how to

  shuffle a deck of cards

  with one hand

  and make the king

  of hearts

  appear

  in the other.

  I was twelve

  when my daddy came home

  and told us

  that Granddaddy Herman was,

  God rest his soul,

  dead.

  ROUND FOUR

  We were all just kids, doing the dumb stuff kids do. But Cassius was always different, with those big eyes on some picture show that the rest of us couldn’t quite see. We all dreamed about the future. But I think Cassius really, truly saw it. Like a movie. Starring him. And he always did things his way.

  I remember mornings when the bus would stop to pick us up for school. Everybody got on except Cassius. He’d hang back and let the bus get a little head start, and then he’d race it all the way to school—twenty blocks down Chestnut Street—with the rest of the kids hanging out the windows and cheering him on. Especially the girls. “Crazy Cassius,” they said. “He’s as nutty as he can be.” Those same girls were the ones who winked and waved at him when they saw him shadowboxing after school, throwing punches at himself against a brick wall. Whatever he did, he seemed to attract attention. Like a star.

  But there were times when he was silent and thoughtful, too. Some nights, me and Cassius and Rudy would just lie on the grass out in back of their house, looking up at the sky. Cassius would say he was waiting for an angel to appear. Rudy always had his momma’s Kodak Brownie camera handy. He didn’t want to miss a chance at getting the world’s very first angel snapshot. I was never sure what Cassius wanted from that angel. Maybe he wanted the angel to tell him that he really was the greatest, or give him some kind of heavenly blessing. Maybe he was looking for a sign that there was a higher power watching over him. Anyway, it never happened. We never saw a single angel on Grand Avenue. But before too long, Cassius found some inspiration right down the road.

  At the racetrack.

  Back then, we all lived pretty close to Churchill Downs, where they hold the Kentucky Derby every year. It was one of the classiest and fanciest places in all of Louisville. Still is. It’s where the best and fastest horses in the world train. Cassius loved the horses—the way they looked, the way they moved, the proud and noble way they held their heads. But he wasn’t content to just watch them. He wanted to race them. So he would go out to the track in the morning, while the dew was still on the grass. When the trainers brought out the horses for their exercise, Cassius would run right alongside them. “They’re the only thing faster than me!” he’d say. One time he actually got in front of a horse on the track. When the horse swerved to get out of his way, the rider fell off and landed hard on the dirt. Bam! That was the end of Cassius’s horseracing career. After that little incident, he got kicked off the track for good. But he still hung around the stables. He couldn’t get enough of those thoroughbreds. Most of all, he loved the shape of their smooth, powerful muscles, and he wanted to get his own body in condition like that—stronger and faster than anybody in the world.

  During the Summers

  we went to

  Camp Sky High,

  played paddleball

  with wooden rackets,

  and pulled pranks

  on unsuspecting counselors.

  We shot hoops

  with a tennis ball,

  and tried

  not to get pushed

  in the pond.

  When we got home,

  we played roller-skate hockey

  on 34th Street, but

  that got boring,

  so Rudy and I made scooters

  out of our skates.

  On Friday nights,

  we had fish fries, and

  on Saturdays, everybody on the block

  went to Riney’s,

  sat on his lawn,

  and watched

  boxing fights

  on an old TV

  that his grandmomma

  set outside

  on her front stoop.

  Tomorrow’s Champion

  At seven o’clock

  each Saturday night,

  fathers, sons, and

  a few daughters sat

  in awe

  for three televised fights,

  spellbound by the rhythm,

  by the hustle,

  by the might

  of two stroppy boys

  throwing wild blows

  till one went down

  or the bell rang

  at the end

  of the third round

  and the judges decided

  who was Tomorrow’s Champion.

  Fifty Cents

  Bird didn’t like me

  and Rudy betting

  on account of God

  not liking ugly,

  And all gambling is ugly, Gee-Gee, but

  I liked taking

  Riney’s money, so

  when it was time

  for the Saturday Night Main Event,

  I bet him that

  swift-footed Gorgeous George

  was gonna knock out Billy Goode,

  which he did,

  then I collected

  my winnings,

  gave Rudy a quarter,

  and spent the rest of the night

  dreaming

  of being in the ring one day,

  and trying not

  to make eyes

  at this short cutie

  named Tina Clark,

  aka Teenie,

  who all my friends said

  was in love

  with me.

  On the Way Home I Would

  skip

  and duck

  like I saw the boxers

  do on TV

  tell Rudy to hold

  his hands up

  so I could punch them

  like I saw the boxers

  do on TV

  make up songs

  that rhymed

  in my head

  and dance

  between the cracks

  on the sidewalk

  like I was in a ring,

  like I was Gorgeous George,

  like I was a bigtime boxer

  on TV.

  Odd Jobs

  Everybody had a job.

  We all wanted bikes,

  shiny, new ones.

  So we saved our money

  from birthdays

  and Christmas

  and odd jobs.

  Most of the fellas

  would skate around

  white
Parkland

  delivering roses, tulips,

  and other colorful flowers

  for Miz Kinslow’s florist shop.

  Riney used to cut grass,

  fifty cents for the front,

  seventy-five for the back,

  ’cause the back was always larger.

  Me and Rudy delivered

  Ebony magazine

  every month,

  but my regular pay came

  from babysitting

  the Montgomery kids,

  which was

  the easiest,

  ’cause all we did was listen

  to boxing matches

  on their big tube radio.

  Cobb got his bike first,

  two in fact—one for his cousin—’cause

  he was shining

  one of his customers’

  wing-tipped mahogany shoes

  at the horse track

  down at the Fairgrounds

  for forty cents, and

  the guy refused

  to pay him, tossed him

  a race ticket instead,

  for a long-shot horse named

  Getouttamyway,

  that ended up winning,

  paying Cobb

  a whopping

  five hundred

  and sixty spanking dollars.

  Riney never got a bike,

  ’cause his lawnmower skills

  were as bad as his

  grandmomma’s haircutting skills.

  I made enough money for a bike,

  but as it turned out,

  I never had to spend it

  on one.

  And here’s why…

  The Block

  Riney and Lucky

  were shooting marbles

  on the curb.

  Jake and Newboy were singing

  “Under the Boardwalk”

  on the front porch.

  Rudy was across the street

  talking to a girl

  from the sidewalk

  ’cause her daddy didn’t let

  no boys in their yard.

  I was shadowboxing

  next to the redbud tree

  in our yard

  and Short Bubba

  was telling everybody

  that Cobb said

  that Big Head Paul told him

  that he saw Chalky

  pulling a boxcar.

  With. His. Teeth.

  The Legend of Corky Butler

  Chalky was

  the biggest,

  strongest,

  meanest

  kid

  in Louisville.

  He lived

  on the other side

  of the railroad tracks,

  in Smoketown,

  he had fists

  the size of grapefruits,

  and he used them

  to pummel

  anybody who stepped

  into the ring with him,

  and to terrorize

  everybody

  in the neighborhood.

  He didn’t ride a motorcycle

  but always had on a biker’s jacket.

  He was sixteen

  or twenty-six,

  nobody really knew,

  but he looked like a man

  and was built

  like a truck,

  which he would lift to

  impress the girls.

  When he wasn’t bullying

  or knocking out dudes

  in the ring

  or on the street,

  we used to see him

  hanging out

  at Dreamland,

  where all the gangsters hung.

  So, if Short Bubba said

  Cobb said

  Big Head Paul said

  Chalky pulled a car

  with his teeth,

  he probably did.

  The Story Continues

  So, while Short Bubba’s telling us

  the story,

  Teenie and some of her friends

  walked by,

  stopping in front of

  the Montgomery house

  next door,

  posing and posturing

  in matching yellow skirts,

  dancing and singing,

  stealing glimpses at me,

  and pretending

  like they weren’t impressed

  with me stabbing the air

  like my fists were knives.

  All the fellas followed

  behind them like puppy dogs,

  but not me, I stayed back

  throwing jabs

  at the wind

  till my father drives up

  in his rusty black pickup,

  and rolls down

  the window.

  Conversation with My Daddy

  Hop in here, Gee-Gee, he says.

  Yes, sir. Hey, Rudy, I scream, c’mon!

  Just me and you, Cassius. Rudy can stay here.

  Where we going? I ask, climbing in the front seat.

  We going where we going, that’s where we going.

  …

  …

  Daddy, can I ask you something?

  Boy, I don’t know, can ya?

  It’s just—

  Speak ya mind, boy.

  For Christmas, can I, uh, get a pair of boxing gloves?

  …

  Daddy?

  You want to be successful, Cassius?

  Yessir.

  Education is the bicycle that’ll get you there, Cassius. You keep pedaling, sometimes uphill, sometimes down.

  Huh?

  I wanna see you doing better in your schooling, not throwing punches at the wind.

  Just having fun, Daddy.

  ’Cause for every one you see in that ring, a hundred been knocked out. Of life.

  …

  You gotta work on them grades.

  I know.

  Your great-granddaddy was a slave. Your granddaddy was in jail. I ain’t finished high school. You got the chance to be the first Clay to really do something.

  Not if you include the white Cassius Clay that I was named after. He was a lawyer and a soldier. Granddaddy Herman told me he was a hero who freed all his slaves.

  He didn’t free all of ’em. What does that tell ya?

  Maybe he wasn’t a hero.

  Gee-Gee, I want you to be the first of US to go to college. Do something with yourself.

  School’s not for me, Daddy. I’m gonna be a star, just don’t know how I’m gonna shine yet.

  Education is the only way I know how to find your shine, son.

  You found yours.

  I would always draw since before I could walk. When I got to paint in grade school, everything changed. A teacher showed me the great Sistine Chapel in a book and I decided that was the kind of art for me.

  So, you were always gonna be an artist?

  Until I run up on Jim Crow, who said Negroes can’t be artists. So I did the next best thing and did signs for pawnbrokers and preachers.

  …

  All the Clays got natural talents. Your granddaddy, rest in peace, coulda played big leagues, but they didn’t allow no black players.

  I know.

  This world is white, Cassius, he says, pulling up to a church. This world is snow white.

  What we doing here? We going to Bible study or something?

  Just come on. Something I wanna show you.

  …

  Angels

  We walk into

  Clifton Street Baptist Church

  and sit

  in the third row

  of the pews

  like Sunday service

  is about to start,

  only it’s Tuesday

  and church is empty

  ’cept for me, him,

  and a whole bunch

  of flying ladies

  wrapped in white sheets

  with green wings

  holding flowers

  pa
inted on

  the ceiling.

  Whatchu think of my latest masterpiece, Gee-Gee?

  This is your Sistine Chapel, Daddy?

  Well, I ain’t no Michelangelo, but it’s decent work.

  It’s the same as the picture from the Bible, right?

  Similar. I added my own style to it.

  It’s real good, Daddy, but I got one question.

  Say it, then.

  Where were all the black angels when they took the picture?

  When We Pull Up

  in front of our pink house

  all the neighborhood kids

  are still outside

  joking and

  jump roping and

  playing tug o’ war

  with the setting sun.

  I climb

  out of the blue-black truck

  ready to finish sparring

  till nightfall

  when Daddy slams

  his door and hollers,

  Get that tree

  and my painting stuff

  out the back, Gee-Gee.

  Early Christmas

  Lying under

  the tarp

  that covers

  our Christmas tree:

  his vinyl primer

  his lettering brushes

  his lettering enamel

  his cups and pencils

  his erasers and rulers

  his stencils

  his crusty buckets

  his brush cleaner

  his chalk powder

  his ocean-blue glass paint

  his burnt-umber acrylic paint

  his mineral oil

  his wobbly old ladder

  and MY

  BRAND-NEW

  FIRE ENGINE–RED

  SUPER-JUMBO JET

  SPEED-RACING

  SCHWINN BICYCLE.

  All Hail the King

  Everybody stood

  at attention,

  eyes glued

  on me

  and my super bike

  like I was Commander Cassius,

  the Leader of Louisville.

  I let Rudy ride first

  but all he did was fall

  and scrape my brand-new chrome,

  so I promise to teach him

  later.