Becoming Muhammad Ali Read online

I let Riney

  take it for a quick spin,

  then I hopped on, rode around

  the block

  four times,

  and had Cobb time me,

  since he was the only one of us

  with a watch.

  On my last trip,

  Teenie strolled over,

  her lips shooting me

  a smile big as the sky,

  her teeth white as clouds,

  then she took her keys

  off her purple rabbit-foot key chain,

  hooked it

  to the spotlight clamp

  on my handlebars,

  and said, For good luck, Gee-Gee,

  so you don’t fall,

  so I let her ride

  on the handlebars

  up and down

  the block twice,

  then I rode

  the night wind

  by myself,

  popping wheelies

  and showing off

  my smooth-as-butter

  fire-engine royal-red

  Schwinn bike

  with its shiny spotlight

  crowning the front.

  After School Started Back Up

  in the fall,

  Teenie didn’t come around

  as much

  and when she did

  her eyes didn’t light up

  like stars

  no more,

  which was okay with me

  ’cause between

  runnin’ with Rudy,

  getting tutored by Miz Alberta,

  and cruising

  around town

  on my Schwinn,

  I didn’t have time

  for much else.

  Mystery

  One day

  I was flying home

  with Rudy

  on the handlebars

  trying

  to outride

  the dusk

  and get home

  before the streetlights

  came on

  when I swore

  I saw Corky Butler

  running from

  the alley

  behind our house.

  The lights

  on my bike

  worked like

  the hot water

  in our tub—sometimes.

  Today, they didn’t,

  so we hustled

  in the near dark,

  hoping we could sneak in

  the back

  before Daddy stumbled

  through the front,

  when BAM!

  we hit

  something

  and Rudy and I went flying

  onto the gravel.

  We got up, bruised,

  inches from

  what was not a something

  but a someone

  lying stone-cold dead

  on the gravel.

  We ran inside,

  both of us wondering

  to ourselves

  who the body belonged to,

  whether it was really dead,

  and neither of us saying

  a single word

  to each other

  or anyone else

  about it

  ever.

  ROUND FIVE

  Growing up, Cassius couldn’t understand why white people had it better than black people. It didn’t make any sense to him. He knew they weren’t any better than black folk, just different.

  But whenever he asked his momma about it, she’d get real quiet and tell him to be careful. She told us that there were things you could say in the house that you couldn’t say outside. And there were ways we could act around other black folk that we couldn’t act around white people. Even how we walked, how we talked, and who we looked at. It sounds crazy, but it was true. We had to be one way for ourselves and another way for the rest of the world. We couldn’t let white people see what we really thought or how much we really knew. It was the only way to stay safe. Mrs. Clay told us other things, too.

  She told us that back in the days of slavery, plantation owners would kill the smartest slaves, because they knew they were the most dangerous. I knew I was smart. But maybe deep inside, that’s why I didn’t want to show it. Maybe I didn’t want to look dangerous.

  Cassius didn’t buy any of it. Said he didn’t care, that he was always gonna be Cassius Clay, no matter where he was, or who he was with.

  When I got to seventh grade, my momma made me apply for a scholarship to the Catholic school across town. It was where all the smartest kids went. When I got the letter saying that I’d won the scholarship, I cried. Sad tears, not happy. I told my mother I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to be one of those kids. Too dangerous.

  But when Cassius heard about it, he wouldn’t let me cry. He said, “Lucky, don’t you ever be afraid of being smart. Don’t be afraid of anything!” And on the first day I came out of my house in my new Catholic school uniform, Cassius was right there on the sidewalk waiting. He walked me all the way to school to make sure nobody bothered me. Then he ran all the way back to his own school. He was probably late. But he didn’t care. “That’s what friends do,” he said. And Cassius was always a great friend.

  Looking back, I remember that everybody liked Cassius. Most teachers liked him because he was quiet and polite. “Never gave me any trouble,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, his English teacher. And outside of class, he was really funny—always cracking jokes and breaking us up. Cassius was like a magnet. You wanted to be around him. But I don’t think anybody knew him the way I did. Nobody else really knew what was behind that big smile and loud laugh. I saw the serious part of Cassius—the part of him that was determined to go places, be someone special, and make a mark in the world that would last forever. He was gonna make the world notice him.

  Back then, in the 1950s, boys didn’t talk about loving their friends—especially guy friends. But Cassius did. One night when we were sitting on his front steps watching fireflies, Cassius told me he loved me because I understood him. Today, he’d probably say, “Lucky, you really get me.” And I did. I was proud of it. I still am.

  The Day I Was Born Again

  It was a Friday,

  hotter than noon

  on the 4th of July.

  The one fan we had

  was blowing

  on Momma,

  who was sitting

  in the living room

  reading the Bible,

  probably praying

  that Daddy would stop

  galivanting

  like he did

  most Friday nights

  till Saturday morning.

  Sitting on the porch,

  showing my

  latest card trick

  to Lucky

  and showing off

  my new white Chuck Taylors,

  the heat

  was punching

  me in the face,

  and the sweat dripped

  like a waterfall.

  I couldn’t take it

  no more, so

  we hopped on our bikes,

  Rudy got on

  my handlebars,

  and we took off

  chasing

  the breeze

  and my destiny.

  We Stopped In

  Aunt Coretta’s bakery

  on Virginia Avenue,

  split a sweet pecan honey bun.

  Rode by Percy’s barbershop,

  saw Cobb

  through the window

  in the chair.

  Passed the downtown YMCA

  on 10th and Chestnut,

  heard the loud projector

  coming from the backyard.

  Bulleted past two gangsters scrapping,

  one with a knife, outside

  of Dreamland nightclub.

  Rode by Louisville Gardens,

  home to Cardinals Basketball.

  Cruised Fourth Street,

  hollering and laughing


  to the moon

  like we owned the world,

  when the heavens opened up,

  reminding us

  that we didn’t.

  The Thunderstorm

  emptied so fast, it

  was like somebody unzipped

  the sky onto us.

  Shelter

  So the three of us

  drop our bikes

  outside

  Columbia Auditorium,

  then dodge

  a million raindrops

  as we run up

  its fourteen stairs

  to escape

  the monsoon.

  The first two things

  we see inside

  are:

  Thousands of folks

  checking out the latest home

  and kitchen gadgets

  on display at the annual

  Louisville Defender Expo

  and

  Chalky, aka Corky Butler.

  Crazy Eyes

  Corky Butler didn’t

  so much walk

  as he did lumber

  in our direction,

  clearing his path

  like a grizzly bear

  on his hairy toes.

  He was in

  a dingy, too-tight

  warm-up suit with

  tattered black Chuck Taylors

  covering his paws

  that he probably bullied

  some kid

  half his size for.

  When he got to us,

  he stepped

  on my sneaks,

  and bumped Lucky

  with just enough force

  to make him lose

  his balance

  and knock Rudy backwards

  like a domino

  into an old couple

  checking out

  a Hoover vacuum cleaner.

  Then he stopped,

  his dusty-looking face

  so close to me

  I could see the gumline

  of his gigantic gray teeth,

  could smell

  the stream of sweat

  crawling down

  his dull, bald head.

  Corky closed

  his mouth,

  curled up his crusty lip,

  lifted his chin

  like he was studying me,

  so I balled my fists

  in my pockets

  just in case

  this was a test.

  Nice sneakers, he said,

  then, before walking out

  the front doors,

  he pointed

  his two stubby

  V-sign fingers

  at his eyes

  and mine.

  I got my eyes on you, Cassius. Corky Butler’s watching you.

  After

  he left

  we roamed the Expo

  tasting samples

  and not talking

  about what happened

  even though

  we were all thinking

  the same thing—I might have to

  fight him someday—when

  I ran into

  Teenie Clark again

  while waiting

  for Rudy

  to come out

  the bathroom.

  Before That

  Rudy said he felt

  like throwing up,

  so we ran

  to the toilet.

  Before that

  we ate too much

  Kentucky peanut brittle.

  Before that

  we said hello to Miz Alberta,

  who was teaching people

  how to vote

  on a cardboard voting machine that

  all the kids

  in our neighborhood

  helped her build

  last summer.

  Before that

  I told Gorgeous George,

  You may be gorgeous

  but I’m pretty,

  which made him laugh,

  then come at me with,

  Kid, you may be pretty

  but I’m exquisite,

  resplendent,

  an ivory knockout.

  I’m so beautiful

  I should kiss myself,

  and then he closed his eyes

  and poked his lips out,

  which made EVERYONE laugh.

  Before that

  we waited in line

  for almost thirty minutes

  to get an autograph

  from the boxer

  and sometimes wrestler

  Gorgeous George.

  Before that

  Lucky pretended

  he was blowing a saxophone

  while we listened to

  Billie Holiday sing

  “Too Marvelous for Words.”

  Before that

  we marveled

  at the mahogany record player

  spinning “Lady Sings the Blues”

  at the RCA booth.

  Before that

  me, Lucky, and Rudy shared two bags

  of toffee popcorn.

  Before that

  I saw Teenie

  eating popcorn

  and talking

  to Miz Alberta.

  Before that

  we stood drenched

  in the front

  of the auditorium,

  patting ourselves dry

  with paper towels

  and right before that

  Corky had just stepped

  on my sneakers

  and walked out

  the front door

  when Teenie Clark

  passed by me

  with her parents

  and her little brother.

  Conversation with Teenie

  Hey, Gee-Gee.

  Hey.

  Whatchu doing?

  Rudy ate too much brittle, I said, pointing toward the bathroom.

  Oh.

  …

  How’s your jet-plane bike?

  Still good.

  I can’t wait for school to be over. I’m going to camp. Gonna play tennis and swim and whatnot. What you doing this summer?

  Nothing, I don’t know.

  Cassius, you don’t like me.

  What you mean?

  What I mean is you never have words for me. Always “Yup” and “I don’t know” and “Oh… Uh”!

  Oh… Uh.

  See, I swear you can be so aloof.

  I don’t know what that means, Teenie, but it doesn’t sound polite to me.

  Cassius, everybody knows I like you.

  I like you, I mean, you’re nice and all.

  Just nice?

  I don’t know.

  How about agile?

  Huh?

  As in quick. You don’t know, Cassius? I’m the fastest runner in our school.

  The fastest girl, maybe.

  I could outrace you.

  You’re dreaming, Teenie Clark.

  If I’m dreaming, then bet me.

  You don’t want no parts of me, Teenie. I’ll run circles around you. I’m so fast that last night I turned off the light switch in my bedroom and I got in bed before the room was dark.

  You may be funny, but won’t be no laughing when I outrace you.

  Name the date and the time, and meet me on the line. You may be fine, but I’m faster than an airline.

  How about now?

  It’s raining now.

  You scared you might melt?

  NAW!

  Then get your buddies, and meet me outside. I’m gonna catch my stride, and you gonna lose your pride. Poor Gee-Gee.

  It’s on, Teenie Clark.

  Bet.

  Bet.

  Shock

  When we get

  to the front door

  Teenie’s momma

  comes running up behind us

  and pulling her

  by the arm

  while her daddy
/>   shoots us a

  You all better get

  ’fore I get you look,

  so we do,

  flying out the door,

  back under

  the night rain

  to get our bikes

  to go home,

  but MINE

  ISN’T THERE.

  Tragedy

  This year…

  The last new episode of Rudy’s favorite show,

  The Lone Ranger, aired on the radio. And he cried.

  We had to hide under desks with books over our heads because the principal said the Russians had a hydrogen bomb.

  80 million locusts swarmed the desert in French Algeria.

  An earthquake struck Southern California.

  Hurricane Hazel hit North Carolina.

  And the University of Kentucky wouldn’t let

  Cobb’s older brother, Arthur,

  the best running back

  in the state of Kentucky,

  play for their school

  ’cause of the color

  of his skin.

  There’s been natural disasters and wars,

  all kinds of human failings and tragedies,

  but right now

  none of it feels

  lousier

  than my royal-red and white

  Schwinn Cruiser Deluxe

  with chrome rims

  not being

  where I left it.

  The sixty-dollar bike

  my daddy bought me

  isn’t there.

  It’s GONE

  like The Lone Ranger

  and somebody STOLE it.

  Lucky Said

  he saw a security guard,

  so after I ran

  around in the rain,

  crying and

  hunting

  for the thief,

  we went back inside Columbia

  to report the crime

  but the guard

  was too busy eating peanut brittle

  and flirting with every lady

  that walked by

  to care about my misfortune,

  so we just asked him

  if there was a real cop

  anywhere around,

  and that’s when he pointed

  downstairs.

  Downstairs

  was a basement

  with a gym

  that smelled