09/14/2024
"Driving around the old streets reminds me of a time when I was too afraid to walk them ..." -- Muhammed Ali
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'Driving around the old streets reminds me of a time when I was afraid to walk them. I was 16. In the gym, in boxing tournaments, in Central High, I was recognized as The King. I took on any fighter. I walked proud and confident, except when I heard Corky Baker was out on the streets. Whenever I walked through Snake Town or West End, with or without my gang, Corky was undisputed Lord of the Streets and wouldn't tolerate any rival. I had the Golden Gloves ahead of me, the AAU, the Olympics, all of which was confident I'd win. But the crown that would make me feel most confident as a fighter was held by Corky. He terrorized everyone, including me, and beat up everyone, including me, Already I'd made it krown that my ambition was to become the world heavyweight champion, but this made Corky laugh.
His steady job was bouncer for the Dreamland Tavern, where he lifted rowdies and drunkards by the scruff of the neck and tossed them out. He made side money betting how high he could lift the front end of Cadillacs from a flat stance, or occasionally a truck if the bet was good enough. I'd had several run-ins with him, and each time I came out on the bottom. It was beginning to shake me up. I had the feeling that unless I could whip Corky, with all my training, roadwork and boxing science, it really wasn't much use going into boxing as a profession. On the other hand, I felt if I could whip Corky, I could beat anyone in the world.
I had enough confidence to brag about how I might whip him if we ever got into the ring, but someone overheard me and went back and told Corky. He was outraged, indignant, insulted; in fact, he got mad. For weeks, rumors circulated around Louisville's black community about the coming bloody showdown between Cassius Clay and Corky Baker. It created as much stir in the little town as a big fight did years later between Joe Frazier and me, and in its way it was just as important to me. I knew it was suícíde to fight him on the streets with no rules or referee or regulations, so I took him on for a fight in the Columbia Gym. 'That's not real fighting,' Corky said, but the hecklers laughed at him and he quickly accepted.
When the bell rang, Corky rushed out, swinging rights and lefts that nearly took off the referee's head but missed mine. By then I had perfected the art of leaning back, circling, jabbing, and in a few minutes I was pouring lefts into his face from every angle, while nothing he threw hit me. When the round ended, he had thrown so many punches so fast and furious that he was breathing like he had gone 10 rounds. My right crosses had blackened his eye and bIoodied his nose, and his mouth was bIeeding. Before the second round was over he suddenly stopped in the middle of the round, screamed out, 'HeII, no! This ain't fair!' and staggered out of the ring into the dressing room, got his clothes on and left the gym. My classmates from Central High shouted and jumped for joy, lifted me up on their shoulders. I was the new king of both the gym and the streets.
Later, I asked an old friend where Corky was now. Through the years Corky had kept up with my career and we'd gotten to be friends of a sort. 'Corky's deąd. Got kiIIed a week ago.' He went out the way he came in, fighting in the streets.'
- Muhammad Al
