Becoming Muhammad Ali

by James Patterson

  The man in the front passenger seat leaned out the window. “This ain’t your neighborhood,” he said. “You boys are in the wrong place.” Then he flashed a knife—a switchblade.

  I was really scared. So was Rudy. Maybe Cassius was, too. But he didn’t show it. He stepped right out in front of me and Rudy.

  “You dumb enough to try something with that knife?” Cassius said. He looked right at the guy, staring him down. Daring him.

  It was hot that day. The temperature inside that car must have been triple digits. The guys were getting mad because we weren’t moving. We were just standing there. I saw the guy with the knife say something to the driver. The car engine stopped. Then all four car doors opened at once.

  Cassius turned to me and Rudy. “Time to go,” he said. Cassius was brave, but he wasn’t stupid.

  All we heard was “Hey!” as we started running. With his strong legs, Cassius could have been home sitting on his porch before Rudy and I got to the end of the block, but he slowed down so we could keep up. There was no way he was going to leave us behind.

  My Friends

  Everybody’s

  got a nickname

  on our block.

  Rudy is sometimes Hollywood

  on account of Daddy

  named him

  after one of his favorite movie stars:

  Rudy Valentino.

  My best friend, Ronnie, is Riney,

  ’cause that’s how his grandmother

  screams it

  from her living room window

  when the streetlights start flickering:

  RINEYYYYYY!!!

  Lucius is Lucky,

  on account of

  one summer he fell

  through a plate-glass window

  and not a scratch was on him,

  then the next summer

  he crashed his bike

  into a parked car

  and flew over the car

  into a bed of hay

  in the back

  of a passing

  pickup truck.

  We call Corky Butler Chalky,

  but not to his ashy face, ’cause

  he’s strong

  as a mountain lion,

  meaner-looking

  than a jackal,

  and he gives out

  black eyes—to boys

  and some men, too—like candy

  on Halloween.

  We got Jake and his brother, Newboy,

  who both sing doo-wop

  in a group called

  the Blue Tones.

  There’s two Bubbas—one short, one tall.

  Big Head Paul’s got a head

  big as a battleship.

  Cobb, aka Lil’ Man, is two years older

  and two feet shorter, but

  got a real job

  and new clothes,

  new shoes,

  and a bank account to prove it.

  When they see me coming,

  it’s always, We should call Gee-Gee

  the black Superman.

  Faster Than a Speeding Bullet

  We shoot marbles,

  play touch football

  in the backyard,

  stickball out front

  in the street,

  hide-and-seek

  with the girls,

  see who can spit

  the farthest,

  pretend

  we’re Jack Johnson

  knocking out

  the Great White Hope,

  and run races in Chickasaw Park,

  but my favorite game

  is when Rudy

  throws rocks

  at me

  and misses

  ’cause I duck

  so fast

  I make him call me Donald,

  jump so high

  I can nearly touch the sky

  and grab a cloud.

  It’s a bird, it’s a plane…

  Card Trick

  You got some speed on you, Cassius,

  Granddaddy Herman says

  after we finish pulling weeds

  from his garden.

  He shuffles the deck of cards,

  then tells me

  to pick one.

  You remind me of myself running bases.

  How good were you at baseball? I ask,

  pulling the king of hearts

  and sliding it back

  so he can’t see it.

  Better than most, he answers,

  throwing the cards

  all over his kitchen table.

  As good as Jackie Robinson? I ask.

  Coulda been.

  Really?

  Coulda been as good as Cool Papa Bell, Josh Gibson, and all them other players you ought to know about too.

  Did they play in the major leagues?

  You writing a book, or what? he says, shaking

  his head

  and telling me

  to pick the cards up.

  Conversation with Granddaddy Herman

  Shouldn’t you head home with your brother?

  He’s got to do homework. Momma Bird stays on him.

  What about you in school? Your lesson’s important, ya know.

  I know. I get by, I say, handing him the cards back.

  That ain’t enough, Cassius. “Life ain’t no crystal stair.”

  What’s that mean?

  It means, you gotta work twice as hard to get half as far as the rest of these folks out here.

  Can I ask you a question, Granddaddy?

  I don’t know, can ya?

  Why’d y’all name me and my daddy after a slave owner?

  Boy, you got some learning to do, about baseball and your name.

  …

  The o-riginal Cassius Marcellus Clay wasn’t no slave owner. In fact, he freed all his slaves on the Clay plantation, including your great-granddaddy, my father. Then he went and fought for the Union in the war. You and your daddy’s named after a man with principles, probably the only white man I ever knew to be good. Know who you are, Cassius, and whose you are, understand?

  Yes, sir.

  Now, I know you hungry, ’cause you always eating, so go ahead and get some of my cookies, and leave me three.

  Thank you, Granddaddy.

  Get a glass of milk, too, so you can get on home.

  I can stay a little longer, if you need help around here.

  I got stuff to do, boy.

  …

  Tell you what, while you eating up all my snacks, I’ll tell you the story of Tom the Slave, and then you get on home. Deal?

  But what about my card?

  You mean the king of hearts you’re sitting on? he says, smiling.

  …

  That Same Night

  at bedtime

  I tell Rudy

  about how Tom the Slave

  escaped to freedom

  by hiding in a casket

  on a ship

  of dead bodies

  on its way

  to London, England,

  and how when he got there

  he became a famous

  bare-knuckle boxer

  who would’ve won

  the heavyweight championship

  of the world

  if a hundred Brits

  hadn’t gotten so mad

  that he was beating

  their fighter

  that they rushed the ring

  in the ninth round,

  clobbered Tom,

  and broke

  six of his fingers.

  That ain’t true.

  You calling Granddaddy Herman a liar, Rudy?

  I’m just saying, you think it’s a real story?

  Probably, I don’t know. It’s a good one, at least.

  Why didn’t he fight with gloves on?

  You writing a book, or what?

  …

  Rudy, before we go to sleep, pick a card.

  Ritual

  I practiced

/>   card tricks

  every night

  on Rudy,

  even stayed up

  long after he fell asleep,

  trying to find

  the right card,

  trying to prove

  to myself

  that I was smart

  at something.

  One Friday

  after school,

  me and Riney and Rudy

  were outrunning

  the city bus

  heading home,

  figured we’d save

  the ten-cent fare

  for some Finger Snaps

  at Goldberg’s,

  when I took a detour

  and told ’em,

  Hey, let’s go

  to that hamburger joint

  over on Broadway.

  We sat in Rainbow,

  splitting two cheeseburgers

  and fries,

  me joking about

  Riney’s bald spots

  from the terrible haircut

  his grandmomma

  gave him, and

  Rudy winking at every girl

  that walked by

  with her momma,

  when in walked Tall Bubba,

  who we hadn’t seen

  since the accident.

  The Accident

  We were playing ball

  on Virginia Avenue,

  our block against theirs.

  It was me and Riney, Short Bubba,

  and Lucky against

  Cobb, Big Head Paul, Jake,

  and Tall Bubba.

  Rudy was still sick

  with the chickenpox bad,

  even though our neighbor told us

  we could cure him

  by flying a chicken

  over his head.

  Cobb’s block always beat us

  ’cause Big Head Paul

  was a three-sport legend

  in the West End.

  I mean, he could

  hit a rock with a pencil.

  And Tall Bubba, from Smoketown,

  had arms so long

  he could probably box

  with God.

  He caught everything.

  But then Cobb pitched me a fastball

  that I cracked so high

  it went way over

  Tall Bubba’s outstretched arms

  and landed inches

  from the storm drain

  near the corner of 36th and Virginia,

  where it slowly rolled in

  before he could grab it.

  Tall Bubba was the only one

  with arms long enough

  to reach down the drain,

  so he did, and no sooner

  than he screamed, I GOT IT, FELLAS,

  it blew up

  right in his face.

  We used to smell gas

  all the time around there,

  but none of us ever figured

  it was anything

  that mattered.

  We Never Saw Him After That

  until we sat in Rainbow,

  splitting two cheeseburgers

  and fries,

  telling jokes,

  winking at every girl

  that walked by

  with her momma.

  Until today.

  Conversation with Tall Bubba

  Hey, Bubba.

  Hey, Gee-Gee.

  The fellas are over there.

  Yeah, I see ’em.

  …

  …

  They fixed the gas leak.

  That’s good.

  I heard the City’s gonna pay you for what happened.

  Naw, they ain’t even calling my daddy back.

  That ain’t right.

  …

  When you coming back to school?

  I been doing school at home. Teachers come to my house. Don’t wanna be seen looking like this.

  You still cool as a pool to me, Bubba.

  I look kinda ragged and old with no hair and a busted-up face.

  A little mature, maybe. You still Tall Bubba, though, still too slick for tricks.

  Thanks, Gee-Gee. Hey, what did you get on your report card?

  How’m I supposed to know that? Report cards don’t come out till next week.

  Naw, they came out today.

  They did?

  Yep! I’ll see ya around.

  Report Card Friday

  I GOTTA GO, I hollered

  to the fellas.

  Gotta get home

  and get the mail before

  my daddy does.

  Riney sat there laughing at us

  and finishing the rest

  of the juicy cheeseburgers

  with pickles and loads

  of ketchup

  by himself.

  See, he’d been signing

  his own report cards

  since first grade

  ’cause his grandparents

  couldn’t read

  so well anymore.

  But my parents could.

  C’MON, RUDY, LET’S SPLIT!

  School

  Big Head Paul was

  the smartest of us all.

  His hand was always

  the first

  to go up

  when a teacher asked

  a question

  about trees

  or bees

  or oceans and seas.

  Science was his thing.

  Riney always brought

  peaches and pears

  from his grandmomma’s backyard

  for our teachers,

  so whether he studied

  or not, he always got

  decent grades

  and even made

  the honor roll once.

  Lucky was what you might call

  a natural genius.

  He knew a little bit

  about everything

  and loved to talk

  as much as I did,

  but his claim to fame

  was he could spell

  mostly any word

  in the English language

  and he could read

  real fast,

  which came in handy,

  ’cause I couldn’t do

  either very well.

  In the Second Grade

  we were sitting

  in circle time

  taking turns

  reading Fun with Dick and Jane

  and it was my turn

  and I swear the F

  in Ⅎun

  turned upside down,

  started floating

  off the page,

  and then

  some of the other letters

  inside the book

  started playing

  ring-around-the-rosy

  and switching their order—Jane said, “Run” became

  Rane “said” Jun—and

  that didn’t sound like

  it made sense,

  so I didn’t say it,

  then the F came back

  but it was dancing around so much

  that I started getting dizzy

  and my stomach hurt

  and some of the kids

  started calling me dumb

  and I almost threw up

  right there in the middle

  of second grade circle time,

  so now

  I just try

  to memorize

  what I hear

  and make up

  what I don’t.

  Failed Plan

  I ran home so fast

  I could see my big toe

  starting to bust out

  of my shoe

  like an inmate

  in a prison.

  Rudy was two blocks

  behind me,

  so when he finally walked up,

  winded and holding

  his chest

  like he was gonna collapse

  in our f
ront yard

  from running

  so fast and far,

  I was sitting on the porch

  scared straight

  ’cause OUR mailbox

  was empty.

  Conversation with Momma Bird

  Gee-Gee, come in here.

  …

  I thought you were supposed to be trying harder.

  I did. I understand everything we’re doing in school, mostly. It’s just sometimes—

  Don’t make excuses, Cassius. Your father won’t like this at all. You know that!

  I know.

  They gonna fail you, you keep getting these kinds of grades.

  I’m not gonna fail. Grades don’t make the man, the man makes the grade.

  Double talk not gonna make them stop thinking you dumb, Gee-Gee.

  You think I’m dumb, Momma?

  Course not. I’m just hoping you know you not.

  Momma, I came in this world smart and pretty, and I’m gonna leave it the same way.

  Well, this weekend we gonna go see Miz Alberta Jones, see if she can help you out with some of your subjects.

  Yes, ma’am.

  Now go on and finish your chores before dinner.

  Momma, I’m too old for chores. Rudy’s the youngest, he should—

  Gee-Gee, am I too old to cook dinner and wash your dirty drawers?

  Uh, no, ma’am.

  Then neither are you. Now, you best stop yappin’ and get your skin thickened up, ’cause your daddy’ll be home soon, and he’s gonna hit the roof when he sees that report card.

  …

  Turning Point

  Daddy came in the house

  not like he usually did—flirting

  with Bird

  and talking all loud—no, this time

  the storm door shut,

  and he came

  in the house, slow

  like a preacher

  walking to the pulpit

  to deliver a funeral eulogy.