The Soul Of A Butterfly

by Muhammad Ali

  It’s Not About the Bike.

  Well, for me it was all about the bike.

  IT WAS THE winter of 1954; I just received my red-and-white Schwinn bike for Christmas. A friend and I rode our bikes over to the Louisville Home Show at Columbia Auditorium. There was an annual Black bazaar going on, and we spent the day picking up free samples of food, popcorn, and candy. When it was time to go home, I discovered my bike was gone.

  I was so upset I went looking for the police to report it. Someone directed me down to the gym run by a local policeman named Joe Martin, who was teaching young boys to box in his spare time. I told Mr. Martin that I was gonna whup whoever stole my bike. I was half crying and probably didn’t look too convincing. I remember Mr. Martin telling me, “Well, you better learn how to fight before you start challenging people that you’re gonna whup.”

  I joined Mr. Martin’s gym and began boxing with a vengeance. All of my spare time was spent on training; I was the first one in the gym, and the last to leave. Boxing kept me out of trouble. I trained six days a week and never drank or smoked cigarettes.

  Joe Martin was the man who started me out in boxing, but regularly I trained with a Black man named Fred Stoner, who taught me how to jab. If I ever found out who took my bike, I was going to be ready. Mr. Martin produced a local television show called Tomorrow’s Champions as part of the Columbia Gym’s amateur program. It offered instant local celebrity status to his boxers. When I first started boxing, all I wanted was to someday buy my parents a house and own a nice big car. I figured if I could turn pro and get on Saturday night fights, I could make four thousand dollars just for one night. Then my dreams started to grow. When I was in school, sometimes I would pretend that they were announcing my name over the loudspeaker system, saying “Cassius Clay, heavyweight champion of the world.” Other times I would draw a picture of a jacket on a piece of paper, and on the back of the jacket I would write, “Cassius Clay, Golden Gloves Winner,” or “Cassius Clay, World Heavyweight Champ.”

  From the beginning, I was determined to be the best boxer. I knew that meant I was going to have to stay focused and work hard. I can remember one occasion when I was in the gymnasium sparring with another kid, named Willy Moran. Willy was a hard hitter who later turned pro. Anyway, I had just finished talking to Mr. Martin about wanting to get a scooter. When I got into the ring, I was still thinking about what color it was going to be. I thought red would be nice. Then, all of a sudden, Boom! I blacked out. I had been knocked out cold. When I woke up, the first thing I said was, “Which way was the scooter going when it hit me?”

  That’s when I learned the importance of remaining focused. Soon thereafter, I had my first amateur fight. I was twelve years old and weighed about ninety pounds. I can remember walking down the aisle with my father, headed for the ring. When I looked up to see who I was fighting, my eyes widened. It was another beginner named Ronnie O’Keefe. He was a White boy who was a little bigger and a little older than I was. I was scared to death. I looked up at my dad and said, “Cash, do you see who I’m fighting?”

  Cash looked me in the eye. “Yes, and we’re going to whup him.” Hearing my father say that inspired me. Suddenly I felt good, I had my dad in my corner and I won my first fight.

  * * *

  At that early age I learned another important lesson. Although I was the one in the ring, I won as part of a team. I continued fighting and training hard. By the time I was eighteen, I had already fought 108 amateur bouts. I won six Kentucky Golden Gloves Championships, two National Golden Gloves tournaments, and two National AAU titles.

  It all started coming together, when I realized that boxing was how I was going to succeed in life. People began recognizing that I had a talent, but to the world outside of Louisville, Kentucky, I was still unknown. Before I could change that, there were two more obstacles that I had to overcome. The first was Corky Baker.

  THE FIRST TIME I saw Corky Baker he was holding one of the football players from my school’s team upside down, shaking all the money from his pockets. Corky was short, stocky, and bowlegged; had big muscles and a mean stare; and was older than me. Corky beat up everybody and terrorized the whole neighborhood, including me. He was as mean as he was strong, and had a reputation for knocking out grown men. Corky made money betting on how high he could lift the ends of automobiles.

  I always walked around Mr. Martin’s Gym and my school confident and proud, except when I heard Corky was on the streets.

  Like everybody else, I had to find another way around Corky’s block, unless I wanted to pay the toll he charged for the privilege of walking past him. Corky was the undisputed “King of the Streets.” In almost every run-in I had with him, I lost. It was really starting to shake me up. Even with all my training and my boxing skills, I knew I would never go far in boxing unless I stopped dodging Corky Baker. He held the crown that would make me feel most confident as a fighter. I thought that if I could whup Corky, I could whup the whole world.

  I started talking about how I would whup Corky if I got him in the ring. When Corky found out what I was going around saying, he came looking for me. He said that when he got his hands on me, he was going to tear me apart. My friends Willy and Ronnie and some other neighborhood kids were there when I confronted him. Corky wanted to fight me right then and there, but I knew it would be suicide to fight him in the streets without any rules or regulations and no referee.

  So I challenged Corky to a boxing match at Columbia Gym on “Tomorrow’s Champions.” Corky laughed and said that boxing was for sissies, that it wasn’t real fighting. But when everybody started laughing at him and calling him a coward, Corky quickly changed his mind and accepted.

  the

  SHOWDOWN

  WHEN THE DAY of the fight arrived I was scared to death, but I had my father and my brother with me. All my friends from the neighborhood and classmates from Central High were there. It was time for the showdown. Corky and I were about to fight three rounds for the title that would mean the most to me. Whoever won this fight would be the “King of the Street.” This wasn’t about a financial victory, it was more important than money. I couldn’t see myself as a real champion until I stood up to Corky. Now the moment was here, and as I stood in my corner of the ring. I hoped that Corky wouldn’t notice that my knees were shaking.

  When the bell rang for the first round, I came out moving, throwing jabs, then tried to stay out of his reach.

  Corky came out swinging. He was throwing big hard punches that weren’t landing. I kept moving, because if Corky hit me, he would have knocked me out. But Corky was quickly becoming tired.

  When the bell rang for the second round, Corky came out chasing me, but he couldn’t catch me. I was ducking his punches, and I was faster and smarter than he was.

  Before the second round was over he said, “This ain’t fair” and ran out of the ring and left the gym. I had won the respect of my peers and the title. I had blackened his eye and bloodied his nose. More important, I had faced my fear and gained the self-respect and self-confidence I needed to continue my boxing career.

  THE VICTORY

  and

  THE LESSON

  I WAS NOW the King of the Street. All my friends and kids from the neighborhood were jumping up and down, shouting,

  “We’re free, we’re free, long live the King, we’re free!”

  That’s when I realized that I didn’t just fight Corky for myself; I fought him for the entire neighborhood. And it was a good feeling. After I beat Corky, he didn’t pick on anybody anymore.

  For a while, I walked around the neighborhood looking over my shoulder. I thought Corky might come after me. But he didn’t, and I was surprised by what he said to me when I did see him again. He told me that I was a good fighter and that I was going to go a long way. Then he shook my hand and walked off.

  Over the years, Corky and I kind of became friends and he kept up with all my fights. After Ken Norton broke my jaw, I thought about Corky. I call
ed up an old friend, Lawrence Montgomery, who had grown up next door to me back in Louisville. I asked Lawrence where Corky was now; I wanted to hear what he thought of my fight with Norton. But I didn’t get the chance to talk to Corky. Lawrence told me that Corky was dead. Just a few weeks before I called, Corky was in a shootout with the police, at a bar on Walnut Street in Louisville. Corky Baker had still been fighting in the streets.

  I still think of Corky. He reminds me of what can be accomplished if we face our fears.

  Soon there was another obstacle I had to confront. This fear almost kept me from achieving an important goal.

  confronting

  FEAR

  THE ONE THING that I have always feared is airplanes. It is funny when I think about it now, because if I added up all the hours and days I’ve spent traveling around the world for the past forty-plus years in airplanes, it would be a big chunk of my life. The first time I had to get on a plane was when I was going to the Olympic trials in California. It was a rough flight from Louisville to California and I didn’t want to fly again. I told Mr. Martin that if I couldn’t take a boat or a train, or get to the Olympics in Rome some other way, I wasn’t going. Naturally, he tried to ease my anxiety, but as far as I was concerned, my mind was made up.

  All I could think about was the terrible turbulence on that flight to California. I was so scared. I couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if something went wrong with the plane while we were in the air. If the flight were smooth, I would be OK, even though I still would wonder about all those buttons that the pilots would be messing with in the cockpit. What would happen if one of them broke, especially in flight between America and Italy? Then I worried about what would happen if, over the ocean, an engine blew up! Even if we didn’t blow up, and we didn’t crash, where would we land? Then, if we were in the water, would I be able to get a life raft out? If we did manage to make it into a life raft, how long would it be before we were found? And then, what if a shark came and punctured the thing? All of these thoughts raced through my mind. Even now it’s scary when a plane starts bumping and swinging and I see the wings looking like they’re going to break off. That’s when I say to myself, “Boy, I should have taken a train or a bus!” The good thing about a bus or a train is that they don’t fall thirty thousand feet when they break down.

  For a while I was serious about not going to Italy for the Olympics, and then I thought about what my father said, “Always confront the things you fear.” I realized that we are only brave when we have something to lose and we still try. We can’t be brave without fear.

  I realized that this was one of those important moments when I would have to make a choice. There are little choices we make every day that set the standard for the rest of our lives. But this didn’t seem like a little choice to me, and I knew it would have a great impact on my life. If I didn’t get on that plane, I couldn’t win the gold medal. If I had not faced that fear and gone on to win the gold medal at the Olympics, I might not have become the heavyweight champion of the world. If I let fear stand in my way, I would never have accomplished anything important in my life.

  Having made the decision, I was soon on my way to Italy for the 1960 Olympic Games.

  I USED TO dream that I was running down Broadway, the main street in Louisville, when all of a sudden a truck was coming at me. I ran toward the truck, waving my arms, and I took off flying. I went right up over the truck. People were standing around cheering and waving at me. I waved back, and kept on flying. I dreamed that dream all the time.

  After achieving success in life, many people forget what it was like when they were first starting out. Somewhere along the way, they forget what it felt like to look up to someone and admire them. I learned always to make time for my fans. This lesson was learned by a big disappointment of my own.

  It was the summer of 1960. The Olympic team gathered in New York City, en route to Italy. I was eighteen years old and, for as long as I could remember, I had looked up to Sugar Ray Robinson. The night I arrived in New York, the sportswriter Dick Schaap took me and some of the other guys up to “Sugar Ray’s,” a nightclub in Harlem that Sugar Ray Robinson owned. Back then, Dick Schaap was also just starting out in his career. For some reason, he took a special interest in me. He showed me around the city and bought me my first slice of New York cheesecake. Then, when he found out that I wanted to meet Sugar Ray Robinson, he arranged a trip to his club for dinner.

  On the drive up, I can remember wondering what color Sugar Ray’s Cadillac would be that year. The last one I heard about was pink. I thought about what color mine would be when I made it big as a boxer. I thought red would be a nice color. Anyway, the club was on Fifth Avenue and 125th Street. I couldn’t wait to get there. I wanted to shake Sugar Ray Robinson’s hand and tell him how much I admired him. I thought that he was great.

  Sugar Ray was the kind of boxer I wanted to be. He was talented, quick on his feet, handsome, and well dressed. Growing up, I had listened to all his fights on the radio. I used to jump up and down throwing punches in the air.

  When we arrived at the club, everyone took a seat and enjoyed the music. People were always shocked when they found out that I couldn’t dance. But it was true; outside the ring my feet would lose their rhythm and grace, and they wouldn’t move to the tune. Regardless, I have always enjoyed listening to good music and, every now and again, I would get up and dance anyway.

  I didn’t get a chance to meet Sugar Ray that night, but I remember the address of his club like I was reading it from the outside of the building now.

  As we were leaving, I noticed a man standing on the corner of Seventh Avenue and 125th Street. He stood out because he was holding up a sign that said “BUY BLACK.” I had never seen any Black man in Louisville do something as bold as that.

  Before we left for Italy I tried again to meet Sugar Ray. I walked all the way up Fifth Avenue to 125th Street. I wanted to get his autograph and tell him that I was on my way to the Olympics to win a gold medal. I wanted to tell him that I admired him, and that I was going to be the heavyweight champion of the world by the time I was twenty-one. When I arrived at the club I waited outside all day for Sugar Ray to get there. I didn’t mind waiting; I would have stood outside all week if I had to.

  It was about ten o’clock when he finally drove up. I was so excited that for the first time in my life, I was speechless. When I pulled myself together, I walked up to Mr. Robinson and told him how far I had come just to see him and how long I had been waiting to get his autograph. I told him that I was going to be the heavyweight champion of the whole world, and that he was my hero.

  When I think back, I realize he never really looked at me. He gave me a quick pat on the shoulder and told me, “Later, boy, I’m busy right now.” I was crushed. I couldn’t believe he brushed me aside like that, especially after I had waited all day for him to show up. I felt as if my feet were made of cement. I couldn’t move. I just stood there as I watched Sugar Ray Robinson turn his back to me and walk away. Although I felt hurt and let down, I decided that I wouldn’t let my disappointment get the best of me.

  * * *

  I was going to be different when I became a great boxer. I would be the kind of champion that fans could walk up to and talk to. I would shake their hands and sign every autograph, even sign some autographs in advance so that when I was in a hurry, I could still hand them out to people, assuring everyone went home happy.

  I was going to go out of my way to show my fans how important they were, and how much I appreciated them.

  At that moment, I vowed never to turn a fan away.

  I didn’t want anyone to feel the disappointment and hurt that I felt that night. I was always going to make time for the people who looked up to me; especially children. I knew that when I became a champion—and I knew that I would—I was going to remember what it was like before I made it big. I wasn’t going to forget where I came from.

  I was going to be my own kind of champio
n, a champ to all people everywhere in the world. And no matter how high I climbed up the ladder of success, I was going to view the world without looking down on anyone. And I wasn’t going to forget the boy that I once was.

  I had a golden vision, but before any of it could happen, I had to win at the Olympics.

  a

  GOLDEN VICTORY

  ON THE WAY to and from Rome, I wore a parachute that I bought at an army surplus store. My plan was to drop to the floor as soon as the plane started shaking, with my parachute line ready in my hand, so I could jump out and pull the cord if our plane started to go down. I managed to distract my fear of flying by talking a lot, and before I knew it, we were in Italy. When I got to the Olympic village, I walked around introducing myself to people and shaking everybody’s hand. I even remembered most of their names. One of my teammates told me that if I had been running for mayor of the Olympic Village, I would have won the election. We all had a good time, and before long, I was an Olympic gold medalist.

  When they put the gold medal around my neck, a boxer from Poland who won the silver medal was standing on one side of me, two boxers who shared the bronze medal were on the other side, the flag was waving, and the national anthem was playing. At the time I felt like I had defeated America’s so-called enemies. I stood there so proudly for my country. I felt like I had whupped the whole world for America.

  I looked at my gold medal and said to myself, I’m the champ of the whole world, and now I’m going to be able to do something for my people. I’m really going to be able to get equality for my people!

  Before I left the Olympic Village a Soviet reporter asked me how it felt to win the gold medal for my country when there were restaurants in the United States where I couldn’t eat. I told him that we had qualified people working on that problem, and that I wasn’t worried about the outcome. I told him that I thought the United States was the best country in the world, including his. My spirits were so high, I wasn’t going to let anyone or anything bring me down.