Becoming Muhammad Ali

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.

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.