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.
Becoming Muhammad Ali Page 4
