Ali: A Life

By Jonathan Eig

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER | Winner of the 2018 PEN/ESPN Award for Literary Sports Writing | Winner of The Times Sports Biography of the Year | The definitive biography of an American icon, from a best-selling author with unique access to Ali’s inner circle.

“As Muhammad Ali’s life was an epic of a life so Ali: A Life is an epic of a biography . . . for pages in succession its narrative reads like a novel––a suspenseful novel with a cast of vivid characters.” –– Joyce Carol Oates, New York Times Book Review

Muhammad Ali was born Cassius Clay in racially segregated Louisville, Kentucky, the son of a sign painter and a housekeeper. He went on to become a heavyweight boxer with a dazzling mix of power and speed, a warrior for racial pride, a comedian, a preacher, a poet, a draft resister, an actor, and a lover. Millions hated him when he changed his religion, changed his name, and refused to fight in the Vietnam War. He fought his way back, winning hearts, but at great cost.

Jonathan Eig, hailed by Ken Burns as one of America’s master storytellers, sheds important new light on Ali’s politics, religion, personal life, and neurological condition through unprecedented access to all the key people in Ali’s life, more than 500 interviews and thousands of pages of previously unreleased FBI and Justice Department files and audiotaped interviews from the 1960s. Ali: A Life is a story about America, about race, about a brutal sport, and about a courageous man who shook up the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Oct 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781328744975

Jonathan Eig

Jonathan Eig is a former senior writer for The Wall Street Journal. He is the New York Times bestselling author of several books, including Ali: A Life, Luckiest Man: The Life and Death of Lou Gehrig, and Opening Day: The Story of Jackie Robinson's First Season. Ken Burns calls him "a master storyteller," and Eig's books have been listed among the best of the year by The Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, Sports Illustrated, and Slate. He lives in Chicago with his wife and children.

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Contents

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Title Page

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Preface

Part I

Cassius Marcellus Clay

The Loudest Child

The Bicycle

Every Day Was Heaven

The Prophet

I’m Just Young and Don’t Give a Damn

America’s Hero

Dreamer

Twentieth-Century Exuberance

It’s Show Business

Float Like a Butterfly, Sting Like a Bee

The Ugly Bear

So What’s Wrong with the Muslims?

Becoming Muhammad Ali

Choice

Girl, Will You Marry Me?

Assassination

Phantom Punch

True Love

A Holy War

No Quarrel

What’s My Name?

Against the Furies

Part II

Exile

Faith

Martyr

Song and Dance and Prayer

The Greatest Book of All Time

Stand by Me

Comeback

The World Is Watching You

A Different Fighter

The Five-Million-Dollar Match

Ali v. Frazier

PHOTOS

Freedom

Trickeration

Part III

A Fight to the Finish

Heart of Darkness

Fighter’s Heaven

Ali Boma Ye!

Rumble in the Jungle

Moving on Up

Impulses

Ali-Frazier III

Getting Old

They May Not Let Me Quit

Do You Remember Muhammad Ali?

Staggered

Crown Prince

Old

Humpty Dumpty

The Last Hurrah

Too Many Punches

He’s Human, Like Us

A Torch

The Long, Black Cadillac

Postscript

Acknowledgments

Notes

Appendix

Index

About the Author

Connect on Social Media

First Mariner Books edition 2018

Copyright © 2017 by Jonathan Eig

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.

marinerbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Eig, Jonathan, author.

Title: Ali : a life / Jonathan Eig.

Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017044720 (print) | LCCN 2017044484 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328744975 (ebook) | ISBN 9780544435247 (hardback) | ISBN 9781328505699 (pbk.)

Subjects: LCSH: Ali, Muhammad, 1942-2016. | Boxers (Sports)—United States—Biography. | African American boxers—Biography. | Parkinson’s disease—Patients—United States—Biography. | African Americans—Social conditions—20th century. | United States—Race relations—History—20th century. | BISAC: SPORTS & RECREATION / Boxing. | BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Sports. | RELIGION / Islam / General.

Classification: LCC GV1132.A44 (print) | LCC GV1132.A44 E427 2017 (ebook) | DDC 796.83092 [B]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017044484

Quotations from the conversation between Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier appearing in Chapter 29 are from The Greatest: My Own Story by Muhammad Ali with Richard Durham. Copyright © 1975 by Muhammad Ali, Herbert Muhammad, Richard Durham. Permission arranged with Graymalkin Media, LLC. All rights not specifically granted herein are reserved.

Spine © Peter Angelo Simon. This photo was first published in Muhammad Ali: Fighter’s Heaven 1974: Photographs by Peter Angelo Simon (Reel Art Press, 2016), and reprinted with permission.

Cover design by Brian Moore

Cover photographs © Thomas Hoepker/Magnum Photos

Author photograph © Joe Mazza — Brave Lux

v7.0921

For Lola

Preface

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Miami, 1964

ROUND 1. THE CHALLENGER: CASSIUS CLAY

A long, black Cadillac glides past waving palm trees and stops in front of the Surfside Community Center. The afternoon sun flashes off the car’s chrome bumpers. Cassius Clay gets out. He’s dressed in a custom-made denim jacket and swinging a dandyish walking stick.

He checks to see if anyone has noticed him.

Not yet.

He shouts, I’m the biggest thing in history! I’m the king!

Clay is tall and stunningly handsome, with an irresistible smile. He’s a force of gravity, quickly pulling people into his orbit. Horns honk. Cars on Collins Avenue stop. Women lean out of hotel windows and shout his name. Men in shorts and girls in tight pants gather around to see the boastful boxer they’ve been hearing so much about.

Float like a butterfly! Sting like a bee! he yells. Rumble, young man, rumble! Ahhhh!

As the crowd grows, the chief of police arrives and tries to move Clay off the street and into a parking lot where he might cause less trouble. A newspaper photographer points his camera, but instead of smiling Clay opens his mouth wide in a pantomime scream. He throws a left jab that stops inches short of the camera.

I’m pretty and move as fast as lightning, he says in his sweet Kentucky accent. I’m just twenty-two and I’m gonna make a million dollars!

ROUND 2. THE CHAMPION: SONNY LISTON

Sonny Liston’s left hand is a battering ram, his right a sledgehammer. Bom! Boom! Bom! Boom! He pounds the heavy bag so hard the walls shake and sportswriters’ hands jump as they scribble ornate synonyms for scary.

Liston is the most punishing boxer in more than a generation, with fists each measuring fifteen inches around and a chest jutting forth like the front end of an M4 Sherman tank. He is fearless and vicious. How vicious? Once, he started a fight with a cop, beat the cop senseless, snatched his gun, picked him up and dumped him in an alley, and then walked away smiling, wearing the cop’s hat.

Liston does not merely defeat his opponents; he breaks them, shames them, haunts them, leaves them flinching from his punches in their dreams. Sonny Liston is America’s curse. He is the black menace sprung from white racist stereotypes. And he likes it that way.

There’s got to be good guys, and there’s got to be bad guys, he says, comparing the world to a cowboy movie. Bad guys are supposed to lose. I change that. I win.

When he learns that the young man he will soon fight for boxing’s world heavyweight championship is outside the community center where he trains, Liston steps into the sun to meet the troublemaker. He swats away the outstretched hands of fans and marches until he’s nearly within punching distance of Cassius Clay.

Liston stops and smiles.

Clay, he tells a reporter, is just a little kid who needs a spanking.

ROUND 3. THE MINISTER: MALCOLM X

In a cramped hotel room near John F. Kennedy Airport in New York, thirty-eight-year-old Malcolm X talks into the night, telling his life story to a reporter. Malcolm is a tall, lean man with a strong jaw and horn-rimmed glasses. Even smiling, he bears a stern expression.

Malcolm paces as he dictates, sitting only to scribble notes on napkins. He can’t wait until old age to produce his autobiography. He’s recently been suspended from the Nation of Islam for disobeying the radical group’s leader, Elijah Muhammad, and doesn’t know if he’ll ever go back. A few months earlier, Elijah Muhammad had ordered his ministers not to comment on the assassination of President Kennedy, out of respect for a nation in mourning, but Malcolm had spoken out anyway, saying the killing was an outgrowth of the violence sown by America in Vietnam, the Congo, and Cuba. Being an old farm boy myself, Malcolm had said, chickens coming home to roost never did make me sad; they’ve always made me glad. There are other issues, other forces driving a wedge between Malcolm and his teacher. Malcolm has learned that Elijah Muhammad had fathered numerous children with young women employed by the Nation of Islam. Malcolm has been telling others in the organization about their leader’s disappointing behavior. Now, Elijah Muhammad is furious, and rumors have made their way to New York that Muhammad wants Malcolm X dead.

All his life Malcolm has survived. He’s survived poverty, prison, and knife fights. He plans to survive this, too.

This is where his struggle for survival starts: in a hotel room by the airport, working on his autobiography, because words give power. And Malcolm isn’t going to let Elijah Muhammad or J. Edgar Hoover’s Federal Bureau of Investigation or the white news media or anyone else define him with their words. He will define himself with his own words, his own new credo, on his own terms. A great revolution is building in America. The prevailing racial order is under attack with a fury not seen since the Civil War. Black men and women are awakening and fighting for power. Change is coming, finally, and Malcolm is determined to push it—force it, if need be—regardless of what Elijah Muhammad or anyone else has to say.

It’s 2 in the morning when Malcolm leaves the hotel and drives to his home in Queens. An FBI agent monitors his every move. Later the same day, Malcolm, his wife, and three daughters board a plane for the family’s first vacation ever. This, too, is part of Malcolm’s plan. He wants the world to see that he’s not a bomb-throwing lunatic but a father, a husband, a minister of God who believes America can and must reform. He plans to take pictures and jot notes for a newspaper feature story he’s calling Malcolm X, the Family Man.

When the plane touches down in Miami, a car waits to carry Malcolm and his family to their blacks-only motel on Miami Beach. According to an FBI informant, the driver is Cassius Clay.

ROUND 4. THE CHALLENGER: CASSIUS CLAY

Clay shouts like he’s possessed by demons: You ain’t got a chance, ain’t no way you gonna beat me and you know it!

It’s the morning of the fight, time for the combatants to meet the press, show off their powerful bodies, and step on the scales to check their weights. The room reeks of cigarette smoke, body odor, and cheap cologne. The reporters have never seen a professional athlete behave so unprofessionally. Some say Clay has lost his mind, that fear of Sonny Liston has made him snap.

Everyone in the room is talking, but Clay is talking loudest of all.

No chance! No chance! he hollers, ignoring the boxing officials threatening to fine him if he doesn’t shut up. Like Malcolm X, Clay won’t be told what to do. He’ll beat the odds and defy the expectations of any who would seek to control or exploit him.

Clay points at Liston, saying he’s ready to fight the champ now, this very instant, without gloves, without a referee, without a paying audience, man against man. His face shows no trace of humor. He yanks off his white robe, revealing a long, lean, brown physique, his stomach and chest muscles rippled. He lunges at Liston as members of his entourage grab hold and restrain him.

Maybe Clay’s not crazy. Maybe he knows instinctively, or from the experience of growing up with a bullying, violent father, that the worst thing a threatened man can do is show fear.

"I am the GREATEST! Clay shouts. I am the CHAMP!"

ROUND 5. THE CHAMPION: SONNY LISTON

Liston warns opponents about the power of his punch, both its short- and long-term effects. Explaining the dangers to a reporter, he slides the knuckles of one enormous hand into the grooves between the knuckles of the other enormous hand, and he lectures: "See, the different parts of the brain set in little cups like this. When you get hit a terrible shot—pop!—the brain flops out of them cups and you’re knocked out. Then the brain settles back in the cups and you come to. But after this happens enough times, or sometimes even once if the shot’s hard enough, the brain don’t settle back right in them cups, and that’s when you start needin’ other people to help you get around."

Cassius Clay might run away for a round or two, but Liston promises he will catch his young opponent sooner or later, and, when he does, he will hit Clay so hard his brain will flop out of its cups.

ROUND 6. IN THE RING

Gray smoke hangs under brilliant white ring lights, obfuscating everything in sight. Reporters peck their portable typewriters and brush cigarette ash from their neckties. There’s little debate among the men in the press corps about who will win tonight. The question—the only question, in most minds—is whether Cassius Clay leaves the ring unconscious or dead.

This is more than a boxing match, and at least a small percentage of the people in the Miami Beach Convention Center understand that. They sense there are brutal, romantic forces building beneath the placid surface of American life, and that Cassius Clay is a messenger for the change to come, a radical in the guise of a traditional American athlete. He fools them, Malcolm X says of Clay before the fight. One forgets that though a clown never imitates a wise man, the wise man can imitate the clown.

Malcolm gazes up into the ring lights from the front row, where he sits with the singer Sam Cooke and the boxer Sugar Ray Robinson. Rumors swirl that Malcolm plans to bring Cassius Clay into the Black Muslim fold.

Retired heavyweight champ Joe Louis sits ringside too, leaning into a microphone and describing the action for fans preparing to watch the fight in black and white on movie-theater screens across the country. Louis, known as the Brown Bomber during his boxing days, was the greatest heavyweight of his generation, a black man who earned the admiration of white Americans for his service in World War II, for defeating German boxer Max Schmeling in 1938, and for showing humility: accepting that even a black champion should never behave as if he were the equal of an ordinary white man.

Clay enters the ring and removes his robe to reveal white satin shorts with red stripes. He dances on long, lean legs and flicks jabs at the air to stay loose. Liston makes Clay wait and then lumbers slowly and silently through the arena and into the ring.

The men exchange glares.

The bell rings.

That’s the only time I was ever scared in the ring, Clay will say years later, after he has won and lost the heavyweight championship three times; after he has declared his loyalty to the Nation of Islam and taken the name Muhammad Ali; after he has become one of the most despised men in America and then, presto-change-o, one of the most beloved; after he has become everything from a draft dodger to an American hero; after he has established himself as one of the greatest heavyweight boxers of all time: a fighter with an unmatched combination of speed, power, and stamina, with a freakish ability to absorb punishment and remain standing; after he has become the most famous human being on the planet, the very spirit of the 20th Century, as one writer called him; after Parkinson’s disease and somewhere around 200,000 blows to the body and head have robbed him of the very things that made him astonishing: the swiftness, the strength, the charm, the arrogance, the wordplay, the grace, the force-of-nature masculinity, and the boyish twinkle in his eyes that said he wanted to be loved no matter how outrageously he behaved.

Cassius Clay’s celebrity will carry through the civil rights era, the Cold War, the Vietnam War, the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, and well into the twenty-first century. He will live to see his boyhood home in Louisville turned into a museum, and, across town, yet another, bigger museum built to honor his legacy. The arc of his life will inspire millions, even if it ignites adoration in some and revulsion in others.

Much of Clay’s life will be spent in the throes of a social revolution, one he will help to propel, as black Americans force white Americans to rewrite the terms of citizenship. Clay will win fame as words and images travel more quickly around the globe, allowing individuals to be seen and heard as never before. People will sing songs and compose poems and make movies and plays about him, telling the story of his life in a strange blend of truth and fiction rather than as a real mirror of the complicated and yearning soul who seemed to hide in plain sight. His appetite for affection will prove insatiable, opening him to relations with countless girls and women, including four wives. He will earn the kind of money once reserved for oil barons and real-estate tycoons, and his extraordinary wealth and trusting nature will make him an easy mark for hustlers. He will make his living by cruelly taunting opponents before beating them bloody, yet he will become a lasting worldwide symbol of tolerance, benevolence, and pacifism.

I am America, Clay will proudly declare. I am the part you won’t recognize. But get used to me. Black, confident, cocky; my name, not yours; my religion, not yours; my goals, my own; get used to me.

His extraordinary gift for boxing will cement his greatness and make the many contradictions of his life possible. Yet this will be the bitterest irony in a lifetime full of them: his great gift will also instigate his downfall.

In the fight’s opening seconds, Liston throws big lefts and rights, going for one of the quick knockouts he has come to expect, to depend on. Clay dodges and ducks and bends backward like he has a rubber spine. Liston clomps forward, forcing Clay into the ropes, where big hitters usually destroy fancy-footed opponents. But just as Liston’s eyes go wide in anticipation of murder, Clay slips sideways, and a left hook by Liston whistles past, hitting only air.

Clay dances in a circle, fast and light as a hummingbird, and then, suddenly, flicks a left jab at Liston’s face. It lands. Thousands of voices scream as one. Liston unleashes another powerful right, but Clay ducks and slides left, entirely avoiding the blow. He straightens and flicks another jab that meets its mark, and then another.

There’s less than a minute left in the round when Clay throws a hard right that thuds solidly against Liston’s head. Clay dances, then plants his feet ever so briefly and unleashes a machine-gun-fast flurry of punches, right-left-right-left-left-right. Every shot connects.

Suddenly, everything changes.

The crowd is roaring. Liston is ducking for cover.

Clay is finally showing what he’s known all along: that what he can do is more important than what he says.

And what Clay can do is fight.

Part I

1

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Cassius Marcellus Clay

His great-great-great-grandfather was a slave and a hero. His grandfather was a convicted murderer who shot a man through the heart in a quarrel over a quarter. His father was a drinker, a bar fighter, a womanizer, and a wife beater who once in a drunken rage slashed his eldest son with a knife. These are the roots of Muhammad Ali, who was born with what he called the slave name Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. and who ultimately became one of the most famous and influential men of his time.

Archer Alexander, Muhammad Ali’s great-great-great-grandfather, was born into slavery in 1816, separated as a child from his parents, and sold off by one owner for being too uppish. In 1863, Alexander warned Union soldiers of a bridge that had been sabotaged by Confederate sympathizers. Soon after, Alexander fled captivity. He was recaptured, only to escape again. In 1869, he served as the model for the Emancipation Memorial, which still stands in Washington, D.C.

John Henry Clay, the great-grandfather of Muhammad Ali, was counted as a piece of property by his owner and by the government of the United States. He was tall, strong, and handsome. His skin was creamy brown. He had a sturdy chest, broad shoulders, high cheekbones, and warmly expressive eyes. He belonged to the family of Henry Clay, the U.S. senator from Kentucky, one of the most hot-headed and controversial politicians of his era, a man who called slavery a national disgrace, an abomination that corrupted the souls of masters and slaves, a great evil . . . the darkest spot in the map of our country.

Senator Clay spoke out boldly against slavery. He founded the American Colonization Society with the goal of shipping America’s slaves back to Africa. At the same time, he and most of his Kentucky family members continued to own scores of men, women, and children of African heritage.

When Senator Clay’s son, Henry Jr., traveled to Mexico in 1846 to fight in the Mexican-American War, he took with him a young slave named John. According to members of Muhammad Ali’s family, that slave was John Henry Clay, Ali’s great-grandfather. Muhammad Ali’s descendants also maintain that John Henry Clay was the illegitimate son of Henry Clay or Henry Clay Jr. It’s possible to look at photos of the white Henry Clay Sr. and the black John Henry Clay and see a resemblance, but there has been no attempt so far to prove the connection with genetic tests. Marriages, births, and deaths were seldom carefully recorded among slaves. It was even more rare for white men to acknowledge the children they sired with black women, many of those children the product of rape. Names proved nothing. Names were the property of masters, not slaves, and they were adhered like cattle brands. Slave names changed on a whim or on an auction block. Often, when a slave was freed or when he escaped from bondage, he celebrated by choosing his own, new name. For it is through our names that we first place ourselves in the world, Ralph Ellison wrote.

On January 1, 1847, Henry Clay Jr. sent a letter from Mexico to his son in Kentucky. It read, in part, John asks me to give his Xmas compliments to you. He is still with me and has turned out on the whole a very good boy. He thanks God that he is still safe as several of his black companions have been killed by the Mexicans. Soon after writing the letter, while leading a charge of his regiment, Henry Clay Jr. was killed. John Henry Clay returned to Kentucky, still a slave.

It’s not clear when he was emancipated, but the 1870 U.S. Census shows John Clay as a married man, a laborer, father of four children, and the owner of property valued at $2,500. With his wife, Sallie, he would go on to have nine children, including Herman Heaton Clay, the grandfather of Muhammad Ali, born in 1876 in Louisville.

Herman Heaton Clay quit school after the third grade. He grew into a handsome man, strong and tall. In 1898, he married a woman named Priscilla Nather. They had a baby boy, but the marriage didn’t last. On November 4, 1900, while playing craps in an alley in Louisville, Herman Clay snatched a quarter from a man and refused to give it back. Later the same day, Herman presciently told his brother Cassius that anyone who bothered him about the money was going to get hurt. Herman and his brother were standing beside a telephone pole on the corner of 16th and Harney when they spotted Charles Dickey, a friend of the man who’d been robbed of the quarter. Dickey was twenty-five years old, an illiterate day laborer. He carried a cane with a heavily weighted handle as he approached the Clay brothers. Herman Clay had a gun. Cassius clutched a knife so Dickey could see it.

Dickey asked why Cassius had the knife.

I had this knife before you came down here, Herman’s brother said.

You must have intended doing something with it . . . , Dickey replied.

According to witnesses, no further words were exchanged. Herman Clay turned, pulled his .38, and fired once, striking Dickey in the heart. Death was instantaneous, the Louisville Courier-Journal reported.

Herman ran from the scene of the crime but was quickly captured. He was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. Shortly after his conviction, he and Priscilla divorced. After six years in the state penitentiary in Frankfort, Kentucky, Clay was paroled. Three years later, on December 30, 1909, he married Edith Greathouse. They went on to raise twelve children. Their first child, Everett Clay, went to prison for killing his wife with a razor and died behind bars. Their second child, Cassius Marcellus Clay, born November 11, 1912, became the father of Muhammad Ali.

Slavery was no abstraction to the black Clay family of the twentieth century. It had specific people attached to it. It had details. Cassius Marcellus Clay Sr. inherited his name from two people, one black, one white. The black Cassius Clay was his uncle, who had stood by his brother Herman’s side the day Herman shot and killed a man. The white Cassius Clay was Senator Henry Clay’s cousin, born in 1810. The white Cassius Clay was a lawyer, soldier, publisher, politician, and critic of slavery. For those who have respect for the laws of God, I have this argument, he once said, presenting a leather-bound copy of the Holy Bible. For those who believe in the laws of man, I have this argument. He set down a copy of the state constitution. And for those who believe neither in the laws of God nor of man, I have this argument. He set down a Bowie knife and two pistols. On another occasion, Clay was stabbed in the chest during a debate with a proslavery candidate for state office, but he survived the attack and stabbed the rival back.

The white Cassius Clay believed that enslavement was a moral evil, and he called for the gradual freeing of all slaves. Although he did not free all the slaves who belonged to his estate, his outspoken views made him a hero to many black men, enough so that a former slave named John Henry Clay would name one of his sons Cassius; Herman Heaton Clay, born a decade after slavery’s end, would do the same; and Cassius Marcellus Clay, born in 1912, would pass along the name one more time to his son born in 1942, the name enduring as the effects of slavery and racism continued to resound across the country, through Reconstruction, separate-but-equal, the birth of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), Jack Johnson, the Great Migration, Marcus Garvey’s fight for black independence, Joe Louis, World War II, Jackie Robinson, and the birth of the twentieth-century civil rights movement.

2

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The Loudest Child

Muhammad Ali’s father fought only when he was drunk.

Cassius Marcellus Clay Sr. was a man well known and not particularly well respected among his neighbors in the all-black West End section of Louisville. Cash, as everyone called him, dropped out of school after the eighth grade. He made a modest living as a sign painter.

At an age when most men settled down and started families, Cash wore shiny white shoes and tight pants and danced all night and deep into the morning at smoky jazz clubs and juke joints in the West End and Little Africa neighborhoods. He was six feet tall, muscular, and dark skinned, with a pencil-thin mustache. The women of the West End called him Dark Gable, only half-jokingly. Cash Clay boasted about his good looks, his powerful physique, the luxurious vibrato of his singing voice, and the beautiful billboards and signs he painted for local businesses, most of them black-owned. There was KING KARL’S THREE ROOMS OF FURNITURE on Market Street; A. B. HARRIS, M.D., DELIVERIES AND FEMALE DISORDERS on Dumesnil Street; and JOYCE’S BARBER SHOP on 13th Street. He painted Bible scenes on church walls, too. Compensation for a church job might be twenty-five dollars and a free chicken dinner, hardly enough to call a living, but there was something to be said for a black man in the South who could make his own way in the world, with his own hands and his own talent, without the permission or approbation of a white man. Cash had heard his father, Herman, preach about the dangers and indignities of working for the white man. A black man was better off on his own, Herman had always said.

Cash was far from famous, and even further from wealthy, but those painted signs provided independence as well as a degree of public recognition that he loved. People hired him not only for his excellent work but also for his gregariousness. When Cassius is working on a sign, he has to stop a hundred times a day to talk to people he knows who were just passing by, said Mel Davis, who hired Cash to paint a sign for his pawnbroker shop on Market Street. You don’t want anybody else to do your sign painting for you, but you sure don’t want to pay Cassius by the hour.

Cash insisted it wasn’t lack of talent or training that prevented him from gaining fame and fortune as a serious artist; it was Jim Crow America keeping him down, he said, referring to the so-called Jim Crow laws that enforced racial segregation in the southern United States.

When sober, Cash was enormously entertaining, liable to burst out in laughter or a few stanzas of Nat King Cole. When he drank—gin was his usual—he grew loud, obnoxiously opinionated, and frequently violent. He couldn’t fight a lick, one of his friends said. But as soon as he’d have too many drinks, he’d take on anybody.

Cash was in no hurry to settle down, and, given that his personality and income were both unsteady, women were not exactly begging him for commitment. Clay never would settle down—he would drink and chase women all his life—but he did eventually marry. He was walking home from work one day when he spotted a girl across the street. You’re a beautiful lady! he shouted, according to the story he would later tell his children.

Odessa Lee Grady was light skinned, round, and giggly, still enrolled at Central High School in Louisville. She was the granddaughter of Tom Morehead, a light-skinned black man who fought for the Union in the Civil War, rising from private to sergeant in one year of service. Morehead was the son of a white Kentuckian who married a slave named Dinah. Her other grandfather may also have been a white man—an Irish immigrant named Abe Grady—but the evidence supporting her Irish ancestry is shaky.

As a mere teenager, Odessa was probably unaware of Cash Clay’s reputation when the older man called to her from across the street. Odessa was a churchgoer and a conscientious student, never the sort of girl who hung around nightclubs.

She was widely admired for her hard work and sunny demeanor. She grew up in Earlington, a small town in western Kentucky. When her coalminer father abandoned the family, Odessa was shipped off to Louisville to live with one of her aunts. To pay for clothes, Odessa worked after school as a cook for white families. No one recalled hearing her complain. Even so, for a teenaged girl living in the big city, away from her mother and father during the depths of the Great Depression, an early marriage to a handsome, confident older man who earned a decent income must have been tempting. After Odessa became pregnant, marriage probably seemed compulsory.

Cash and Odessa were opposites in many ways. He was rambunctious; she was gentle. He was tall and lean; she was short and plump. He railed against the injustices of racial discrimination; she smiled and suffered quietly. He was a Methodist who seldom worshiped; she was a Baptist who never missed a Sunday service at Mount Zion Church. He drank and stayed out late; she stayed home and cooked and cleaned. Yet for all their differences, Cash and Odessa both loved to laugh, and when Cash teased her or told her stories or burst into song, Odessa would release herself completely in a beautiful, high-pitched ripple that helped inspire her nickname: Bird.

They probably met in 1933 or 1934, given that Odessa said she was sixteen at the time of their introduction, but they didn’t marry until 1941. The wedding took place on June 25 in St. Louis, when Odessa was already about three months pregnant. On January 17, 1942, she delivered her first son. The six-pound, seven-ounce baby was born at Louisville City Hospital, well after the anticipated due date. Odessa said she endured a painful and protracted labor, which concluded only after a doctor used forceps to grab the baby boy by his big head and extract it from her womb. The forceps left a small rectangular mark on the boy’s right cheek that would remain throughout his life.

Cash favored the name Rudolph, for the Hollywood actor Rudolph Valentino, but Odessa insisted that the child should have his father’s name, the most beautiful name for a man I ever heard, she said, a name rooted in the nation’s and family’s tortured history, and so they called him Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. On his birth certificate, the name was misspelled as Cassuis, but his parents either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to have it corrected.

Cash and Odessa lived at 1121 West Oak Street, a block from the home where Odessa had been living, in an apartment that probably rented for six or seven dollars a month. The baby’s birth certificate indicated that Cash Clay worked for Southern Bell Telephone and Telegraph, a suggestion that he was concerned enough about starting a family to secure a steady paycheck for the first and last time in his life.

Cassius Jr. was the loudest child in the hospital, his mother told journalists years later. He cried so much he could touch off all the other babies in the ward, Odessa said. They would all be sleeping nice and quiet, and then Cassius would start screaming and hollering. And the next thing every baby in the ward would be screaming.

Less than two years after the birth of Cassius Jr., Odessa and Cassius Sr. had another son. This time Cash got his way, and they named the baby Rudolph Arnett Clay. The Clay family purchased a cottage at 3302 Grand Avenue, in Louisville’s West End. It was a tiny box of a house, no more than eight hundred square feet, with two bedrooms and one bathroom. At one point, Cash painted the cottage pink—Odessa’s favorite color. Cash also built a goldfish pond and dug a vegetable garden in the backyard. Later, he constructed a small addition to the rear of the house so the boys could have more room to play. Cassius Jr. and little Rudy shared a room that was about twelve feet wide and twenty feet long, the wallpaper white with red roses. The boys slept side by side in twin beds. Cassius had the bed by the window, where the view was of the neighbor’s house, seventy-two inches away.

Their accommodations were modest, and most of their clothes came from Goodwill, including shoes that Cash would reinforce with cardboard linings. Even so, the Clay boys never set out to school haggard or hungry. The house smelled of paint from Cash’s large supply of paint cans and brushes. But the aroma of Odessa’s fine cooking often overwhelmed the paint fumes. Odessa cooked chili. She made fried chicken with green beans and potatoes. She mixed cabbage with carrots and onions and fried it up in oil until the aroma filled the house and floated out the windows so the boys could smell it in the yard. She baked chocolate cakes and made banana pudding. At one point, the family owned a pet chicken, and at another a black dog with a white tail named Rusty. As they got older, Cassius and Rudy would have electric train sets, motorized scooters, and bicycles.

Some of the roads in the West End were crudely paved, and some of the houses near the Clays’ cottage were mere shacks. But it was a far better neighborhood than nearby Little Africa, where outhouses and unpaved streets remained well into the middle of the twentieth century. Most of the Clays’ neighbors in the 1940s were solid earners: plumbers, schoolteachers, chauffeurs, Pullman porters, auto mechanics, and shop owners. Of course, we knew everyone who lived in every house on the block, recalled Georgia Powers, who grew up on Grand Avenue with the Clays and went on to become the first African American and first woman elected to the Kentucky State Senate. There were thirteen teachers and three doctors—one was an M.D., one was a dentist, and one was a Ph.D. Joseph Ray was a banker, and he’d drive by in his black Cadillac and tip his hat and say, ‘Hello, Miss Georgia.’ It sent a message to all of us in the community.

Black children from the West End were warned about venturing into poorer, more dangerous black neighborhoods, such as Little Africa or Smoketown. They didn’t have to be warned about avoiding white neighborhoods. The West End offered a sense of security. Our childhood was not difficult, recalled Alice Kean Houston, who grew up two doors down from the Clays. We had businesses and banks and movies. It wasn’t until we went outside that world that we recognized our world really was different.

Odessa Clay recalled her first son’s early years in a biography written in pen on lined notebook paper, with fine penmanship but many errors in spelling, capitalization, and punctuation. She composed the biography at the request of a magazine writer in 1966. Cassius Jr’s life to me was an unusual one from other Children, and he is still unusual today, Odessa wrote. When a baby he would never sit down. When I would take him for a stroll in his stroller, he would always stand up and try to see everything. He tried to talk at a very early age. He tried so hard he learned to walk at 10 months old. When he was one year old he would love for some One to rock him to sleep, if not he would sit in a Chair and keep bomping his head on the back of the Chair until he would go to sleep. He did not want you to dress him or undress him. He would always crie. He wanted to feed himself when he was very young. At the age of 2 years old he always got up at 5 in the morning and throw everything Out of the Dresser’s drawer and leave the things in the middle of the floor. He loved to play in water. He loved to talks a lot and he love to eat, loved to climb up on things. He would not play with his toyes. He would take all the Pots and pan Out of the Cabienet and beat on them. He Could beat on anything and get rhythm. When a very small Child he walked upon his toes, By doing this he has Well developed Arch’s, and that is why he is so fast on his feet.

As a baby, Cassius loved to eat but hated being fed. He insisted on handling the food himself, the bigger the mess he made the better. He had a massive appetite and grew big and strong and endlessly playful. He never walked when he could run and, in Odessa’s words, was in such a hurry that he contracted chicken pox and measles at the same time. His first word—and his only word, for many months—was Gee. He would look at his mother and say, Gee! Gee! He would look at his father and say, Gee! Gee! He would point to food and say, Gee! Gee! When he needed a new diaper, he announced it by declaring Gee! Gee! Naturally, Odessa and Cash began calling their little boy Gee, or sometimes Gee-Gee. Odessa also called her son Woody Baby, a derivation of Little Baby. But Gee-Gee was the tag that really stuck, not only in the house and not only throughout his childhood, but all over the West End and throughout his life.

Cassius craved adventure. He crawled into the laundry machine, climbed into the sink, and chased the chicken around the yard. When he was one or two years old, he threw his first hard punch, accidentally hitting his mother in the mouth and knocking loose a tooth that her dentist would later remove. By the time he was three, Cassius was too big for his baby bed. Bus drivers would insist that Odessa pay a fare for the child, assuming the boy was at least five or six when he was only three or four and still eligible to ride for free. Never one to challenge authority, Odessa paid the driver without argument.

Odessa knew from the beginning that both her boys were precocious, but Cassius more so, with little regard for rules and no concern for punishment. His rebelliousness and swagger came from his father, just as much as his warmth and generosity came from his mother. When Rudy got in trouble, Cassius would warn his parents that Rudy was his baby and that no one was going to spank his baby. With that he would grab Rudy by the arm and hustle his brother off to their room.

Patience was not his strength. When Cassius started attending the blacks-only Virginia Street Elementary School, Odessa would send him every day with lunch. He would eat it on the way to school, even though he’d already consumed a big breakfast at home. Some children would have worried that if they ate their lunch before school they’d be hungry later but not Cassius. He assumed he would improvise a solution, and he usually did, cajoling friends at lunchtime to share their food. To address the problem, Odessa stopped packing Cassius a meal and instead gave him money to buy a hot lunch in the school cafeteria. Cassius was not to be denied, though. He used his mother’s money to buy his friend Tuddie’s bagged lunch and ate that on the way to school.

By the time he was seven or eight, Cassius was the leader of a pack of boys ever on the lookout for action. Odessa would look through the screen door and see her eldest son standing on the concrete porch, like a politician on a platform, addressing his youthful followers about what he had planned for them. As soon as he was old enough to keep up, Rudy Clay became his brother’s shadow and chief competitor. We were like twins, Rudy recalled years later. For fun, Cassius would stand in the seventy-two-inch gap between his house and the neighbor’s and let Rudy throw rocks at him. Rudy threw as hard as he could while his older brother jumped, ducked, and darted. The boys played marbles and jacks and hide-and-seek, with Cassius almost never letting his younger brother win. When they played cowboys and Indians, Cassius was the cowboy—every time.

The boys were teased and picked on, not only because they were loud and called attention to themselves but also because they had unusually big heads. Honey, recalled their aunt Mary Turner, "those kids had some large heads, let me tell you. They’d be sitting on the edge of the curb, shooting marbles or playing some kind of street game, when one or two kids would sneak up behind them and bump their heads together, pop! Then the kids would scamper off, with Rudy and Cassius at their heels. They thought that was great fun. But after the boys grew up a little, that kind of thing stopped. Cassius and Rudy could handle most all the boys on the block, because they were very quick and very big. Eventually their bodies grew enough so their heads weren’t too big."

Before long, it was Cassius and Rudy who were teasing and torturing smaller children. They would borrow bicycles from smaller children and keep them for hours. They weren’t being mean, their aunt said, but they just thought they were the greatest little things around. Cassius thought nobody had a brother as good as Rudy, and Rudy thought the same way about Cassius.

Friends who grew up with the Clay boys in the West End recalled Cassius as a fast runner and a good but not especially gifted athlete. He couldn’t swim at all. He would agree to play softball or touch football, but he had little passion for those sports.

That Gee would run around and get me in trouble all the time, recalled his classmate and neighbor Owen Sitgraves. We used to hide in the alley behind Kinslow’s flower shop and roll old tires in the street in front of cars and make ’em stop. Once, the tire got stuck under a car, and we ran out the other end of the alley and around some houses and came around to look at it. The lady got out of the car. She said, ‘Boys, I’ll pay y’all two dollars to get that tire out from under my car.’ So we got the jack out of her trunk and we got that tire out for her. On another occasion, Owen and Cassius found an old shirt in an alley and filled it with dirt, then flung the shirt in an open window of a passing bus. This guy in a white panama suit—he must’ve been on a date—he got out and chased us all the way from 34th and Virginia to the Cotter Homes, but we were too fast . . . I still feel bad about that. He was really clean.

Cassius would always love the playfulness and cruelty of pranks. He once cut down his father’s plum tree. He imitated a siren’s sound so well that drivers pulled to the side of the road and craned their necks looking for the police car. He plucked tomatoes from the family’s garden and lobbed them over the fence of a teacher’s house, splattering guests at the teacher’s backyard party. He tied a string to the curtains in his parents’ bedroom, ran the string across the hall to his own room, then waited until his parents were in bed to rustle the curtain. He covered himself in sheets and sprang from dark corners of the house to scare his mother. No amount of scolding or punishment would inhibit him.

I would make ’em take naps every day, Odessa recalled, and one day he said to Rudy, ‘You know what, Rudy? We too big to be in here taking naps.’ And they never did take another one.

When the boys’ disobedience went too far, Odessa would send them to the bathroom, where Cash would bend Cassius and Rudy over his knee one at a time and spank them. These punishments did nothing to make Cassius more cautious. Cassius Jr. would always go in first and get his spanking and go right out and do something else! Odessa paused to laugh as she told the story to Jack Olsen, who interviewed her for a series of stories in Sports Illustrated in 1966. He was a very unusual child.

When Cassius’s friends described the fun they had as children, they sometimes failed to mention the myriad ways that racial discrimination and prejudice hung over their lives. In part, that may be because Cassius Clay’s friends and neighbors took discrimination for granted, so deeply was it ingrained in their daily activities. It may also have been because black people in Louisville in the late 1940s and early 1950s believed they were better off than other black Americans, that they were fortunate to live in a city that exhibited a more polite racism, as Louisville historian Tom Owen put it.

Although the majority of Kentuckians sympathized with the Confederacy, Kentucky did not secede from the Union during the Civil War. No race riots or lynchings occurred in Louisville between 1865 and 1930. Unlike most of their southern counterparts, black Louisvillians had been granted the right to vote beginning in the 1870s and had never lost it. Louisville’s white civic leaders expressed frequent and seemingly genuine concern for the living conditions of their black neighbors and gave generously of their own money to support black causes. In return, of course, these white civic leaders, like the slave owners from whom some of them were descended, expected blacks to be passive and accept their second-class status without fuss or fury.

Some white community leaders were patronizing, proclaiming that without proper guidance and support, the Negroes of Louisville would return to their barbaric African ways. Many white Louisvillians deemed segregation intrinsic, natural, and inevitable. Others were more progressive and genuine in their desire to help. Robert W. Bingham, owner of the Louisville Courier-Journal, served on local branches of the Urban League and the Commission on Interracial Cooperation. Jewish leaders, including the family of Supreme Court justice Louis Brandeis, worked with volunteer organizations serving black neighborhoods. Prominent local white attorneys fought against housing discrimination.

Black and white journalists who visited the city in the 1940s and 1950s stated almost unanimously that black people in Louisville were treated better than those in the Deep South and in many northern cities. They usually neglected to mention, because it was taken for granted, that black people still lacked equal access to housing, schools, employment, and healthcare. They didn’t point out, because it was standard treatment, that while black customers were allowed to buy clothes in the city’s big department stores, they couldn’t try on the clothes first. They also failed to say, because it was so obvious, that many of the wealthy white people helping black causes were motivated by the desire to keep the black community from rising in protest.

For young Cassius Clay, it would have been impossible not to notice that there were, in essence, two Louisvilles: one for blacks and one for whites. For blacks, the best schools, best stores, and best hospitals were off limits. So were most country clubs and banks. Black moviegoers were permitted in only a handful of the big downtown movie theaters, and even then only in the balcony.

Bird, Cassius would ask his mother when they went downtown, where do the colored people work? Bird, what did they do with the colored people?

The answer was clear, if not necessarily easy to explain to a child. Louisville’s economy was booming in the years after World War II, with thousands of new manufacturing jobs. Tobacco plants, distilleries, and tire factories offered steady employment, although black workers were routinely paid less than white workers and routinely denied promotions. In 1949, the annual median income for black workers in Louisville was $1,251, while the median income for white workers was almost twice that, at $2,202. Black workers got the dirtier and more dangerous jobs, not only the lower-paying ones. Often, black men worked in the service of white men as waiters, caddies, and shoeshine boys, where docility was not just a job requirement but also necessary for survival. For black women, prospects were even worse. A handful worked as secretaries, hairdressers, or schoolteachers, but 45 percent of all black women who worked in Louisville did the same thing as Odessa Clay—they walked or rode buses to well-to-do neighborhoods, where they spent their days cooking and cleaning for white families, carving their identities from the stone slab of white supremacy. The scraps of leftover food they were permitted to take home helped feed their families, and the money they earned not only paid the household bills but purchased prayer books for their churches.

According to his mother’s recollections, Cassius quickly made a merciless judgment: that the world was for white people. He recognized it long before he could have understood it as he watched his mother return home, exhausted after caring for white families, then summoning energy to care for her own.

Sometimes, when he was a child and still learning how society made distinctions about race and how much those distinctions mattered, Cassius Jr. would ask his mother whether she was black or white. She was, after all, much fairer than her husband. But Odessa wasn’t light enough to pass for white, nor did she try. The shade of her skin and the genetic influence of her white ancestors mattered little in her day-to-day life. As far as the laws and customs of Kentucky and the United States of America were concerned, the Clays were black—or colored, to use the term more commonly applied at the time—and that racial designation determined where they could eat, where they could shop, where they could work, where they could send their children to school, where they could live, how they would be treated if they broke the law or were accused of doing so, whom they married, how they would be cared for if they got sick, and where they would be buried when they died. Cassius knew that he was permitted to play in Chickasaw Park, Ballard Park, and Baxter Square but not in Iroquois Park, Shawnee Park, Cherokee Park, Triangle Park, Victory Park, or Boone Square.

Signs of inequality were everywhere. The homicide rate for black people in Louisville was about fifty-six per hundred thousand in the mid-1950s, compared to three per hundred thousand for white people. The death rate from natural causes was 50 percent higher for blacks than whites. But if those signs didn’t register for a young, energetic boy growing up in the West End, a more glaring one did. It was called Fontaine Ferry Park, the city’s most popular amusement park. It was within walking distance of the Clay house on Grand Avenue, and only whites were allowed. On summer weekends, thousands of Louisville residents would arrive by car, ferry, or trolley. To the black children who lived in nearby neighborhoods, it was more than tantalizing to have it out of reach; it was torturous. The black neighbors of Fontaine Ferry Park could hear the rattle of the rollercoaster cars and the frightened screams of the riders. They could smell the overcooked grease and fried dough and smoking beef. They could watch the parade of sunburned families in station wagons leaving each night. They could hardly miss the message as to whose fun mattered and whose did not.

We’d stand by the fence, Rudy Clay said, but we couldn’t go in.

As a little boy, Cassius Clay Jr. lay in bed crying, asking why colored people had to suffer so. He asked why everyone at his church was black but all the portraits of Jesus were white, including the portraits painted by his father.

Young Cassius Clay also learned about discrimination from his grandfather Herman Heaton Clay, the man who had gone to prison for murder at the turn of the century. Herman boasted that he had been a talented baseball player in his youth—so talented that he might have played professionally if big-league baseball hadn’t been off limits to black men at the time. Herman Heaton Clay, Cash Clay, and Cassius Clay Jr. all understood that they had to live with the effects of slavery, that the country had been built by slave labor, that their work and even their identities had been stolen from them, and that slavery had left behind a caste system that relegated black and white Americans to dramatically different lives, at least for the foreseeable future.

Herman died in 1954, when his grandson was twelve. The same year, the Supreme Court of the United States ruled in Brown v. Board of Education that the U.S. Constitution prohibited segregation in public schools. Reaction in the South was swift and brutally negative. Some states began maneuvering to deny funding to integrated schools. In Mississippi, white business leaders and politicians organized the White Citizens Council to resist integration and defend white supremacy. Leaders of the Ku Klux Klan urged supporters to resist the mongrelization of the white race that integration would bring. The summer after Brown, fourteen-year-old Emmett Till traveled from his home in Chicago to spend time with relatives in the small Delta town of Money, Mississippi, population fifty-five. More than five hundred black people had been lynched in Mississippi since officials began keeping count in 1882. The state’s governor had recently declared black people unfit to vote. Till’s mother, anxious about sending her son to the South in the summer of 1955, warned him that it was important to behave in the manner that white Mississippians expected of young black men. He was to answer them with yassuh and nawsuh and to humble himself if necessary to avoid confrontation.

But, like Cassius Clay Jr., who was only six months younger, Emmett Till could be feisty. He ignored his mother’s warning. One day in Money, Emmett was standing outside a grocery store, showing friends a picture of his white girlfriend from Chicago. One of the kids dared Emmett to go into the store and talk to the white cashier. Emmett accepted the challenge. On his way out of the store, he reportedly told the cashier, Bye, baby. A few days later, the cashier’s husband and another man broke into the house of Till’s uncle and dragged Emmett out of his bed. He was pistol-whipped and ordered to beg forgiveness. When Emmett refused to beg, he was shot in the head. His killers used barbed wire to tie a heavy cotton-gin fan around the boy’s neck and then threw his body into the Tallahatchie River. An all-white jury needed only sixty-seven minutes to acquit the accused men. If we hadn’t stopped to drink pop, one juror said, it wouldn’t have taken that long.

Till’s mother insisted on an open casket so the world would see her young son’s mutilated face, and Jet magazine published photos from the funeral that became seared in the consciousness of many black Americans. Till became a martyr for civil rights and inspiration to countless activists. Soon after the trial of Till’s killers, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on an Alabama bus, setting off waves of protest.

Cash Clay showed his sons photos of Emmett Till’s disfigured face. The message was clear: This is what the white man will do. This is what can happen to an innocent black person, an innocent child, whose only crime is the color of his skin. America, according to Cash Clay, wasn’t fair and never would be. His own career was proof. He had the talent to be a great artist, didn’t he? Yet he was almost forty years old and painting store signs for meager pay, with almost no chance of earning his way out of the cramped, four-room cottage where his family lived. Only money would give the black man a shot at equality and respect, Cash told his boys.

Cassius Clay Jr. absorbed his father’s words. At age thirteen, he didn’t talk about changing the world or improving the plight of his people. He didn’t talk about getting an education and striving to do something meaningful with his life. He talked, as his father did, about making money.

Why can’t I be rich? the son asked his father once.

Look there, his father said, touching the boy’s walnut-colored hand. That’s why you can’t be rich.

But every son comes to believe he can be more than his father, that he is not beholden to his position in the line of his ancestors, not tethered to that soul-crushing concatenation formed in a past beyond his control, and Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. was no exception. At an early age, he talked about owning a hundred-thousand-dollar house on a hill with fancy cars in the garage, with a chauffeur to drive him around, with a chef to prepare his meals. He vowed to buy one house for his parents and another for his brother. He would keep a quarter of a million dollars in the bank for emergencies.

By the summer of 1955, the summer of Emmett Till, he had an idea of how he might make that money.

3

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The Bicycle

Late one afternoon in October 1954, twelve-year-old Cassius pedaled his bike through downtown Louisville, his brother perched on the handlebars, a friend riding alongside, when a sudden rain forced the boys to seek shelter. They scrambled into the Columbia Auditorium, at 324 South 4th Street.

The Louisville Defender, the city’s black newspaper, was sponsoring a Home Service

Reviews for Ali

[kaulsu · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Wow. The book was hard to finish because I was in tears. Ali was an American hero. He wasn't without faults. He fell in with the wrong crowd (multiple times, it seems). He never learned to control his sexual appetite. But he transcended his youth, he stood up for what he believed, he dared to dream of greatness, he was kind.I would have given the book 5 stars except that I was not interested in the blow-by-blow boxing commentary on each fight. I'm sure there are many, many readers who will give it the extra star.