“It was alone, in my room, spent, proud, muscles fatigued, my restlessness abating, that I felt steady and content once again. It was in this way I began to believe: I was still the one in charge of my life. I began to believe I would survive this place”
Photo-Illustration: by Preeti Kinha; Photos: Getty Images This article was featured in One Great Story, New York’s reading recommendation newsletter. Sign up here to get it nightly.
The year Muhammad Ali was 12, his parents bought him a red-and-white Schwinn bicycle for Christmas. He went by Cassius Clay in those days, and lived in Louisville, Kentucky. He rode his new bike down to a festival being held at the Columbia Auditorium because he knew about the free samples they were giving out: candy, holiday popcorn. While at the festival, his bike was stolen, and when he asked around for the police, someone directed him to an officer by the name of Joe Martin.
In Riyadh, soccer was no longer available to me. My second-floor bedroom window overlooked, cruelly enough, a playground. I’d press my nose against the glass, stare down at the boys as they kicked up dust, a ball at their feet. A few times I tried to join them, but my abaya just got in the way, made me overheat, wrapped itself around my crane legs, slowed me down. After a while, I just stopped trying, hung up my cleats for good.
I had a new routine now. Each day after school, I would rush home, slide a tape in, sit too close to the screen. I studied Ali, the way he didn’t flinch, how he aimed with such tidy, surgical precision, each punch ripping the air: sharp, hard, on purpose. He worked muscle and blood. He never gave up, and rarely lost. He teased his way across the ring, nimble, always on the lip of danger.
After Muhammad Ali medaled at the 1960 Summer Olympics in Rome, the New York Times ran a six-column headline, sub-headed: “Cassius Clay, an 18-year-old Louisville light heavyweight, gave the United States its third gold medal in boxing.” Back in Kentucky, Ali, celebratory, hopped on his bike with his buddy, Ronnie, and motored into downtown Louisville. When it started to rain, they parked and ducked into a little restaurant. Ali had his medal around his neck, hadn’t taken it off since Rome.
The Singer gloves gathered dust, deflating in the depths of my closet. Mariah and Paula were swapped out for Jared Leto. I taped Jared to my mirror where he stared at me, wearing a jean jacket and a dreamy expression, looking like he could be my boyfriend.
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