bring in the cakes,
and when I do
I run smack-dab
into Teenie Clark.
Conversation with Teenie
Hey, Teenie.
Hey, Gee-Gee.
You looking for Riney?
I’m looking for you.
I’m kinda in the middle of preparing for the Chicago Golden Gloves tournament.
I heard. That’s why I came.
…
Just wanted to say good luck, Cassius Clay.
Okay, thank you.
Why you acting so weird?
I’m not acting weird.
You still have that rabbit foot I gave you?
Yep. But, I don’t need no luck. The fighter ain’t been born to beat me.
Well, you better not lose, then.
…
…
How’s your new school?
Every student gets a book, and each class has its own pair of scissors.
Sounds decent.
Yeah, it is, but the white boys are daft.
I don’t know what that means.
It means they’re stupid. And sometimes mean. Integration is not so nice.
I thought the Supreme Court said integration was gonna solve all the problems.
They lied. Going to school with white boys liable to cause more problems.
True.
You having a party?
It’s not really a party.
You gonna invite me in, Gee-Gee?
…
Sure smells good in there.
You can come in if you want. Riney’s inside.
Why, thank you, Gee-Gee. Don’t mind if I do.
Golden Gloves Party Menu
Three trays of meatloaf
Two bowls of cornbread dressing
Two huge buckets of fried chicken
A huge pot of collard greens
A ham hock
A macaroni casserole
Dozens of hot buttered rolls
Two large strawberry sheet cakes
Boatloads of strawberry ice cream
And a great big ol’ pitcher
of extra-sweet tea.
Momma Bird’s Prayer
We gather together
to send this boy out
into the world,
and ask that you hold
his dreams tight,
let them rocket
to the stars
and beyond.
Life is like a sky
full of possibility
and Gee-Gee is our
great golden eagle.
In this room full of angels,
remember whose you are, Cassius Clay.
Hold fast!
Together, we can dream a new world.
United we stand,
divided we fall—
GOD BLESS US, Cash interrupts. NOW, LET’S EAT, Y’ALL!
After Dinner
Cash is drinking, laughing, and hugging on Bird.
Lucky’s reading Lord of the Flies, not saying a word.
Riney and Teenie on the couch eating cake,
and Rudy ate so much he’s got a bellyache.
All my cousins congratulate me.
Aunts and uncles celebrate me.
Bird says, Show ’em your appreciation,
so I put on a magical demonstration.
Pick a Card
and remember it,
then place it
back in the deck, I say to Riney,
winking at Teenie,
while shuffling
the cards
and recounting the story
about that time
Cobb and Jake were walking to school
in the blizzard
and they slid
down the hill
on Virginia Avenue,
got trapped
beneath the snow,
and how I was running by
and heard them screaming,
then dug ’em out
with my big paratrooper boot.
When I finish,
I spread the whole deck
face-up
on the table,
but one card is face-down.
Turn it over, I say,
and he does.
How’d You Do That?
Riney asks,
on my front porch
waiting for Teenie
to say goodbye
to everybody
in my family.
It’s just science, y’all, Big Head Paul says.
Ya know Gee-Gee got a memory like a hawk,
Rudy chimes in.
All y’all wrong.
It’s misdirection.
I get you to commit
to believing
in me
before I even show you
the card trick.
Your expectations
and my reality
all mixed up together.
I knew your card
before you knew it.
That ain’t even possible, Gee-Gee. Plus, you shuffled
them all out of order, Lucky says.
Or, I shuffled them IN order
and created chaos
in your mind.
Huh? Rudy asks, scratching his head.
What did the story about digging Cobb out of the snow have to do with it, though? Riney asks.
I told you, it’s misdirection. I get you thinking what I want you to think, then I can get you to do what I want you to do.
Y’all talking about boxing again? Teenie asks, coming out the front door.
Yep, I think. That’s exactly what I’m talking about.
I sure hope you knock some cans off at the Golden Gloves, Gee-Gee, Lucky says, giving me five before he leaves.
Yeah, win it for the West End, for Louisville, Big Head Paul says, waving goodbye.
Good luck at the tournament, Gee-Gee, Riney says, shaking his head as he and Teenie leave hand in hand.
He doesn’t need luck, right, Cassius? Teenie hollers back.
Sure don’t, I yell. Fight is won way before you get in the ring.
The Night Before
I leave
for the finals
of the 1959 Golden Gloves
Tournament of Champions
in Chicago
I sprint through Chickasaw Park,
then down by
the Ohio River,
shadowbox
the frigid nighttime air,
get my head right,
think about
my future.
On the way back
I jog through
Bellarmine College
in the Highlands,
where Lucky says
he’s gonna go,
pass by
Columbia Auditorium & Gym,
then decide to
run through Greenwood Cemetery
and visit with
my past.
Amen. Amen. Amen.
Granddaddy Herman
Because of you
I know who I am
I know whose I am and
I know where I’m going
I hope you can see that
Your words changed me
And I remembered
You told me
I am the greatest
Not because I am better than anybody
I am the greatest
Because nobody is greater than me
I’m going to win the Golden Gloves
Even though I’m the underdog
I been training my body and my mind and
Tomorrow’s the real beginning for me
I guess I just wanted to say thank you and that
Even though I haven’t been back here since the funeral,
I think about you all the time and
I love you, Granddaddy Herman.
The Day Of
I slip on my white Everlast shorts
lace up my black boxing boots
<
br /> get taped up, my hands
placed firmly
inside the gloves,
then walk out
into the loud
and massive
Chicago Stadium
holding my history
in one hand
and my cool
in the other.
Cassius Clay vs. Tony Madigan
MARCH 25, 1959
Tony was an Aussie
with wild, stringy hair
sitting on top
of a block head
that housed
a chin
made of brick,
which didn’t even flinch
at the jabs
I landed, but
by the middle
of the third round
I could tell
he was getting tired
of chasing me
around the ring,
of me dodging
his punches,
so I moved quicker
punched harder
and even though
he got me
into the corner,
pummeled me
with body shots,
I was too slick for tricks,
had a swift uppercut
with his name on it
that made him wince.
And I talked trash
the whole time,
told him if he even dreamed
he was gonna beat me,
he better wake up
and apologize.
Tony Madigan didn’t stand a chance
’cause I was fighting
for my name
for my life
for Papa Cash
and Momma Bird
for my granddaddy
and his granddaddy
for Miz Alberta
for Riney and Teenie
for Big Head Paul
for Rudy
even for Corky Butler
for Louisville
for America
for my chance
for my children
and their children
for a chance
at something better
at something way
greater.
FINAL ROUND
Knowing Cassius Clay made me feel like I was a little part of history. We all felt that way. Of course, Cassius felt like he was a much bigger part of history. And he was so right!
After losing in Chicago in 1958 to Kent Green, Cassius went on to win not just one, but two Golden Gloves championships, then the Gold Medal at the 1960 Olympics. After that, he turned pro—which meant he started to make a lot more than four dollars a fight! His first professional bout was right in our hometown of Louisville. I was there—along with Rudy and a bunch of the guys we grew up with. Cassius won that fight, just like he won his next nineteen fights. For the next three years, he never lost in the ring. Not once.
In 1964, when he was just twenty-two, Cassius fought the heavyweight champion Sonny Liston, the Big Bear. People said Liston was unbeatable. But Cassius had a plan, and he made sure everybody knew it before he stepped into the ring. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!” he said. And that’s exactly what he did. Sonny Liston was older and more experienced—but he’d never experienced anything like Cassius Clay! When the seventh-round bell rang, Liston just sat there. He was done. And Cassius was king. The heavyweight champion of the world. Just like he’d predicted. Just like we’d all believed.
With all his success, Cassius never stopped thinking about unfairness and injustice—the way black people were looked down on in Louisville and everywhere he traveled. The day after the Liston fight, Cassius announced that he had joined the Nation of Islam—a movement that was founded to give black people a new sense of pride. A week later, he changed his name to Muhammad Ali. He said that he now thought of Cassius Clay as his “slave name.” From that day on, I never called him Cassius again. (He still called me Lucky, though.)
In 1965, Ali beat Sonny Liston again. First-round knockout. Six months later, he beat Floyd Patterson. Ali was on top of the world and at the top of his game. Nothing could stop him—except a single sheet of paper.
In early 1967, Ali received a draft notice that ordered him to go into the army. That meant he would have to put on a uniform, carry a gun, and probably go to war. But Ali did not believe in war. It was one thing to fight another man in a boxing ring—but the idea of killing people in a far-off country was not in Ali’s nature. He didn’t consider those people his enemies. He had no quarrel with them, he said.
So when the day came for Ali to step forward and enlist, he just refused. To this day, some people say it was a brave thing to do, and some say it was the wrong thing to do. But, knowing Ali, I realized that it was the only thing to do—even though we both understood that it might be the end of his boxing career. It almost was.
Officials took away Ali’s heavyweight boxing title and his boxing license. He didn’t box again for over three years—a time when he could have defeated more opponents and made millions of dollars. But his beliefs were what mattered most to him. He took those years to focus on black pride and racial justice. And he began to realize that there were more important things in life than boxing.
In 1970, after a long legal battle, Ali won his license back, which meant he could finally box again. His first opponent was Jerry Quarry, one of the toughest pros in the world. We all worried that Ali might be rusty after not boxing for so long. And he was—a little. But even a rusty Ali was better than most fighters in their prime—and definitely better than Jerry Quarry. Ali won the fight in under three rounds.
Five months later, Ali took on “Smokin’ Joe” Frazier. And lost! It was his first defeat as a pro. But Ali wasn’t ready to give up—not by a long shot. In fact, he wanted a rematch with Frazier. Which he got. Which he won, and regained the heavyweight championship title.
In 1974, Ali fought the reigning champ George Foreman, who had never lost in forty-three pro fights. The bout was held in Africa, so they called it the Rumble in the Jungle! For this fight, Ali came up with a new strategy he called rope-a-dope. He cushioned his body against the elastic ropes around the ring so Foreman’s punches wouldn’t land as hard. By that time, I was writing for a big newspaper, so I was right there ringside for the fight. I’ll never forget it! Ali won by a knockout in the eighth round.
In 1975, Ali fought Joe Frazier for a third time—this time in the Philippines. It was called the Thrilla in Manila. The fight went on for fourteen rounds, and at the end, Ali was the winner. A billion people around the world watched that fight on TV. A billion! Pretty cool.
I knew Ali couldn’t go on winning forever, but the end came sooner than I thought it would.
He lost his next two fights, in 1980 and 1981. They turned out to be the last fights of his career. Outside the ring, I had started to notice a little trembling in his hands, and sometimes he couldn’t form sentences clearly. We both knew something was wrong. Doctors told Ali he had Parkinson’s disease, which affects muscles and body movement—and it was only going to get worse.
That news would have stopped most men. But not Ali. He never boxed again, but he kept on fighting. He fought to raise money for famine victims all over the world. He fought to get fifteen American hostages released from Iraq. He became friends with Michael J. Fox, a popular young actor who had Parkinson’s disease too. Together, they raised millions of dollars for medical research. Ali worked with the United Nations and became a messenger for peace. In 2005, President Bush awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Ali told me that was one of his proudest days.
Muhammad Ali died in Arizona in 2016. I wasn’t there. And in a way, I’m glad. Because I wouldn’t want to remember him that way—still and quiet. I want to remember him as the funniest kid in the West End of Louisville—the kid who never stopped running and never stopped talking. Muhammad Ali was a three-time heavyweight champion of the world, and one of the most famous
and respected men who ever lived.
He was also a true and loyal friend. That’s what I’ll remember most.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For her unflappable enthusiasm and candor, I thank, first and foremost, Lonnie Ali; without her permission and support, this book about her husband would not be. For access to some very essential, never-before-published oral histories, I thank Donald E. Lassere, Casey Harden, and the Muhammad Ali Center in Louisville, Kentucky. For his boundless insight, I am indebted to Ali’s friend and associate Bernie Yuman. For being early readers of the manuscript (and listeners to part of it), I thank Beatrice Saba, Randy Preston, Van Garrett, Stephanie Stanley, and Samayah Alexander (who allowed her father to cut short several card games so that he could get back to writing). I am grateful to Jonathan Eig for the brief conversation about Ali that served as early inspiration. I thank Arielle Eckstut and Margaret Raymo, the bookends to my shelf of ideas, two inspiring examples of vision and calm in pursuit of our common literary interests. For his illustrative swagger, I thank our brilliant artist, Dawud Anyabwile. Jim Patterson, many, many thanks for asking me, for trusting this collaboration. And cheers to Lois Cahall, my ebullient friend, who brought Jim and I together.
To my father, thank you for regularly requiring me to clean our garage, where I first discovered Muhammad Ali’s autobiography in a crate of books. And a final thank-you to the American School in London, where I wrote most of this novel, and the countless coffee and tea houses around the city, where I ruminated on this story and buttermilk scones.
Kwame Alexander
It was an honor when the Muhammad Ali Estate chose me to write the story of Ali’s youth in Louisville, Kentucky. It was also a tremendous responsibility. I approached my friend Kwame Alexander because I knew how much he admired Ali. Kwame agreed to co-write the book, and he also accepted the responsibility that the project required. Muhammad Ali was one of the most important thinkers and leaders in this country. Anyone who has read his autobiography, The Greatest: My Own Story, or who simply has a brain, understands that. But little was known about his early years in the South—other than the fact that he didn’t do well in school. But Muhammad Ali was always a very good student of life. He understood the problems of race relations very early in his life. He understood what it would take to rise up and become as good as he could possibly be. That’s the real story of his youth, and it’s what Becoming Muhammad Ali is all about. But here’s the other thing: 2020 has been a terrible year for many, many reasons. The murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor rank high on this year’s list of tragedies. If Black Lives Matter is going to mean as much as it possibly can, it will be necessary that it leads to more unity in our country. In March of 2019, a black man and a white man joined together to create what they hoped would be a beautiful book about a beautiful human being. I think that’s a good thing, and I hope you agree. I thank the Muhammad Ali estate, and especially Lonnie Ali, for the opportunity.
Becoming Muhammad Ali Page 10
