Promotion
Use code DAD23 for 20% off + Free shipping on $45+ Shop Now!
Becoming Muhammad Ali
Contributors
Illustrated by Dawud Anyabwile
Formats and Prices
Price
$16.99Price
$22.99 CADFormat
Format:
This item is a preorder. Your payment method will be charged immediately, and the product is expected to ship on or around October 5, 2020. This date is subject to change due to shipping delays beyond our control.
Also available from:
"This utterly delightful story about Ali's childhood is a smash hit."—School Library Journal (starred review)
Before he was a household name, Cassius Clay was a kid with struggles like any other. Kwame Alexander and James Patterson join forces to vividly depict his life up to age seventeen in both prose and verse, including his childhood friends, the racism he faced, his struggles in school, and his discovery of boxing. Readers will learn about Cassius' family and neighbors in Louisville, Kentucky, and how, after a thief stole his bike, Cassius began training as an amateur boxer at age twelve. Before long, he won his first Golden Gloves bout and began his transformation into the unrivaled Muhammad Ali.
Fully authorized by and written in cooperation with the Muhammad Ali estate, and vividly brought to life by Dawud Anyabwile's dynamic artwork, Becoming Muhammad Ali captures the budding charisma and youthful personality of one of the greatest sports heroes of all time.
Longlisted for the 2022-2023 Indiana Young Hoosier Book Award, and nominated for the 2021-2022 Black Eyed Susan Book Award!
Excerpt
The wonders and woes
in this novel are true…
or based on truth
and real things…
that happened
to real people…
or real people
we imagined…
to be true…
for real.
ROUND ONE
I remember everything. You probably would have too. That night was a piece of American history.
The Clay family phone was dusky black with a rotary dial, and it sat on a wooden table in the neat-as-a-pin living room of the little house on Grand Avenue in Louisville, Kentucky.
Some twenty of us were crammed like sardines into the room, waiting for that phone to ring.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for Cassius to call home.
It was a February night in 1958. And I remember it like it was yesterday.
My best friend, Cassius, was three hundred miles north in Chicago, and that night he was fighting for a championship in the Golden Gloves boxing tournament.
Cassius wasn’t a professional yet, just an amateur. Tall, but a little skinny, and a lot raw. Only sixteen years old, like me.
I’m Lucius, by the way. Nice to meet you. You can call me Lucky. All my friends do.
Cassius had already won plenty of bouts all over Kentucky. But the Chicago Golden Gloves was the big time.
When he won there—and we all knew he would—it would be lights out! From now on, people everywhere would know the name Cassius Clay.
And so we waited for the phone to ring.
I remember that living room was so packed with family and friends and neighbors that we could hardly move! The smell of roast chicken and sweet potato pie and cheese grits mixed with the smell of paint and turpentine. Mr. Clay, Cassius’s dad, who everybody called Cash, was a sign and billboard painter, and he kept his work supplies right there in the house.
“Mrs. Clay!” somebody called out. “When that boy of yours gets famous, he ought to buy you a bigger house!”
“Oh, you know he will!” she answered. Then she looked right at me. “Isn’t that right, Lucius?”
“Yes, ma’am, you know it is. Cassius promised you a big house!”
I remember that Mrs. Clay was too nervous to eat. But she wasn’t too nervous to talk about how proud she was!
“My Cassius did everything early!” she was saying to a group of ladies. “He crawled early, talked early, walked early—walked on his toes like a dancer.”
The ladies all laughed—as if they hadn’t heard that story a hundred times before. But Mrs. Clay just couldn’t help it. Cassius always told her he was bound to be the greatest—with a capital G—and she believed it with all her heart.
So did I.
So did everybody in Louisville’s West End.
C’mon, phone. Ring, phone, ring-a-ding-ding.
The men and boys around the room—including Cassius’s little brother, Rudy—looked at one another with big grins and made punching motions with their fists. The big fight should be over by now. Under those bright lights in the middle of that huge Chicago Stadium, Cassius would be standing tall in the ring with one hand over his head like always—his opponent next to him with head bowed down in defeat.
Then the phone rang.
It was Cassius with news about the fight. And he told it like only Cassius could tell a story…
Before the Fight
a reporter asked me
if I thought
I was as good
as Joe Louis
or Sugar Ray was
at my age
and I told him,
I don’t think
I’m as good,
I’M BETTER.
Got more FLOW
than Joe,
more SLAY
than Ray.
I’m sweeter,
stronger,
and faster.
As a matter of fact,
I’m so fast
I can’t even catch
MYSELF.
Cassius Clay vs. Alex Watt
FEBRUARY 24, 1958
Here’s how it all went down:
The bell rang
in Chicago Stadium
and I could barely see
the lightweight rush me
through the rank cigar smoke
that filled the arena.
In the first round,
he threw punches
like pitches,
fast and straight,
striking air
and striking out.
So, I played peek-a-boo
in the second,
sending quick jabs
to his head.
You ain’t ready for Cassius, I whispered.
Then I shook him up
with a left
and took him down hard
in the third.
He sho’ wasn’t ready.
But neither was I,
when I found out
who I was fighting
next.
Cassius Clay vs. Francis Turley
FEBRUARY 25, 1958
Frank Turley
was a cowboy
from Montana,
meaner-looking
than an angry ox,
with fists
even meaner.
They said
he broke a guy’s nose
with a left jab,
then smiled
when the joker
went tumbling
outta the ring,
blood spurting
everywhichaway.
I’ma lick you good, boss, he said,
winking at me
before the bell rang, and
I believed
that he believed
he would.
Knockout
We traded punches
like baseball cards.
Him, a wild mustang.
Me, a Louisville slugger.
Back and forth,
left and right,
rough
and rugged, till
he cornered me
with two lucky shots
to the jaw
that felt like kicks
from a mule
and sent me tumbling
to the mat, wondering
if I should just stay there.
Long Count
One…
While I lay there,
the referee standing
over me, counting
to ten
to see if I could get up,
I wished my father
was sitting ringside
shouting my name.
Two…
I thought about home,
about 3302 Grand Avenue,
and playing football
in the backyard
with Rudy, and
Three…
the Montgomery kids next door
and who was gonna babysit them
now that I was a boxer,
Four…
and whether Lucky
bought the new Superman
like he promised.
Five…
I thought about
my granddaddy Herman’s story
about Tom the Slave.
Six…
I thought about
how boxing
was gonna set me free,
set us all free, and
Seven…
what I’d ask Momma Bird
to cook
for my celebration
dinner
after I got up and
Eight…
whupped this cowboy
from Montana
and advanced
to the semi-finals
of the 1958 Golden Gloves Championship.
Celebration Dinner Menu
Two orders of veal
Three slices of white bread
A bowl of cornbread dressing
One large green salad
A bowl of chili
Scrambled eggs
Cheese grits
Baked chicken with baked potato
Two pieces of pecan pie
Five scoops of strawberry ice cream, and
A great big ol’ glass
of OJ.
I Jumped Up On
Nine…
and Frank kept swinging
like a lumberjack
trying to knock down
a tree
but I kept standing,
kept sticking,
kept moving
like a mighty wind
till the final bell rang
and the judges
unanimously called out
my name
for the win.
Cassius Clay vs. Kent Green
FEBRUARY 26, 1958: GOLDEN GLOVES SEMIFINALS
I was a little weary
from hanging out
the night before
but that didn’t shake
my confidence
when I stepped
into the ring,
gliding like a bomber jet
and launching punches
like missiles.
Thing was, Kent Green
was a tank
and he just brushed off
my attack
like you would
a pesky fly
at a picnic.
The evening newspaper read:
The sixteen-year-old pugilist
from Louisville
with his quick feet
and a loud mouth
showed promise
in his first two fights
but got outboxed
by the older,
more seasoned,
hard-punching
Kent Green.
On the Phone with Lucky
I might have lost
but I’m still boss.
I lost my stride
but not my pride.
I’m still here, and yeah,
I’m comin’ home
but this dream I got
is set in stone:
To be the best
in the hemisphere.
To win the Golden Gloves
next year.
How do I know?
’Cause Cassius is courageous,
tenacious,
and one day
he’ll be
the greatest.
You hear that, Lucky?
I’m coming home.
ROUND TWO
Maybe he didn’t win the Golden Gloves championship in Chicago that year—but my friend Cassius was still bound for greatness. He just knew it. And I knew it too. To tell the truth, I think losing that last fight made him work even harder. Made him focus. Nobody could focus like Cassius Clay. He didn’t let anything stand in his way. Not even a bottle of soda.
Me, I loved soda—especially ice-cold in frosty bottles on those hot Louisville summer nights. So did most kids. It tasted soooo good! But Cassius never touched it. Not a single sip. “Sugar and acid ain’t good for you, Lucky,” he said. And that was that.
Focus.
For Cassius, there was no smoking either (“Ain’t gonna put that stuff in my lungs!”). And he always went to bed at ten o’clock, even on Saturday nights. Like he wanted to grow in his sleep.
Focus.
After school, we went everywhere together, the two of us. And whenever we headed downtown, we stuck together tight. Tight like glue. And we kept our eyes wide open. Because going downtown meant crossing over into the white world. And in that world, four eyes were definitely better than two.
All over Louisville, we saw signs that Cassius’s daddy had painted. But the white people who owned the stores under those signs stared at us when we passed by—like they were just waiting for us to do something wrong, or say something fresh, or take something we didn’t pay for.
One day, we passed a bicycle store. There was a line of bikes out front, with bright chrome fenders and front wheels all turned to one side. At the end, one bike stood out past the others. It was a brand-new Schwinn Black Phantom, with white sidewall tires, pinstripes, and sparkly paint. It was the coolest bike either of us had ever seen.
Cassius gave out a low whistle when he saw it.
“Look at that bike, Lucky!” he said. “That’s the kind of bike I should be riding!”
Cassius reached out and stroked the handlebars like he was petting a cat. The chrome gleamed between his fingers.
Then we heard the bike-shop door open. The owner and his wife stood in the doorway, halfway out, at the top of the cement steps. We froze.
“You boys don’t want nothin’ with that bike,” said the man, his face all red and puffy. He started to come down the steps at us, but his wife put a hand on his arm. She seemed a little softer, but still strong enough to stop him. She had reddish-blond hair and a green dress.
“Scoot, now,” she said. “You boys get on home.”
She knew exactly where home was.
Home meant the West End—mostly black Louisville. It was one of the few parts of the city where the Clays and my folks could buy a house. In most parts of town, they couldn’t get a loan to buy a house, couldn’t even walk into most hotels or diners. Whites Only, the signs said. When Mrs. Clay took Cassius downtown as a kid, he got confused because nobody there looked like him.
“Momma Bird,” Cassius would ask, “what did they do with all the colored people?”
One day when Cassius was little, he stood outside the five-and-dime store crying because he was thirsty. When Mrs. Clay went inside to ask for a drink of water, the store guard made her leave.
“If we serve Negroes in here, we lose our jobs,” the guard told her. So Cassius went home thirsty, mad the whole way. Cassius was so young, his momma thought he wouldn’t remember that day.
But he did.
Granddaddy Herman’s Living Room
was always like church
to me.
I was the congregation.
His couch, my pew.
The rhythm and blues on his radio
was the choir, and
Ebony magazine
was his bible.
His sermons were sometimes poems,
other times stories
from history—his and America’s.
But my granddaddy’s sermons always ended
the same way:
Know who you are, Cassius.
And whose you are.
Know where you going
and where you from.
Amen. Amen. Amen.
Where I’m From
I am from black Cadillacs,
from plastic-covered sofas
in tiny pink houses.
I am from the one bathroom
we all shared
and the living room
you stayed out of.
I am from Friday fried fish
and chocolate birthday cakes,
from Levy Brothers’ slacks
and shiny white shoes,
from Cash and Bird,
from storytellers
and good looks,
from don’t say you can’t
till you try.
I’m from the Kentucky Derby
and the land of baseball bats,
from the two Cassius Clays before me—one
black, one white.
I am from slavery
to freedom,
from the West End
to Smoketown,
from the unfulfilled dreams
of my father
to the hallelujah hopes
of my momma.
My Momma
smells like vanilla,
is always smiling,
loves cooking,
and I bet could make
a whole Sunday outfit
outta needle and thread.
Odessa “Bird” Clay may be
the smallest
of the Clays,
but her heart is the biggest,
wide as the sea.
And when she sings
at Mount Zion Baptist,
her voice is like water,
soft and sweet
as a hummingbird.
She Says the Day I Was Born
my head
was too big
to come out
on its own,
so the doctors yanked me
with some sharp tongs
that left a small, square bruise
on my cheek.
She says I hurt so much
that I cried
and hollered
most of the night
and into the next day,
which got the other
babies in the ward
screaming too,
but probably I was
sounding a rallying cry
to all my little soldiers
for all the brown babies
in the world
to stand up
and be counted.
After That
I vowed to never
let anyone put a mark
on my pretty face
again.
Genre:
- Praise for Becoming Muhammad Ali:
- * "A stellar collaboration that introduces an important and intriguing individual to today's readers."—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
- * "The prose and poems reflect Clay's both public bravado and private humbleness as well as his appreciation and respect for family and friends. A knockout!"—Booklist, starred review
- * "This utterly delightful story about Ali's childhood is a smash hit. Get this uplifting, informative book onto library shelves and into kids' hands."—School Library Journal, starred review
- * "Cassius's narrative illustrates his charisma, drive, and work to know who you are."—Publishers Weekly, starred review
- * "Patterson and Alexander, two heavyweights in the world of books, unite to tell the story of how Cassius Clay grew up to be Muhammad Ali, one of the greatest boxers of all time."—The Horn Book, starred review
- On Sale
- Oct 5, 2020
- Page Count
- 320 pages
- Publisher
- jimmy patterson
- ISBN-13
- 9780316498166
Newsletter Signup
By clicking ‘Sign Up,’ I acknowledge that I have read and agree to Hachette Book Group’s Privacy Policy and Terms of Use