Dear Editor,
“When we reached the bottom of the steps, the television cameramen who had been held up by the guards focused their lights on us while a platoon of military police scuffled to keep them behind a rope that blocked the end of the corridor.
“Muhammad,” a reporter yells, “did you take the step? Are you in the Army?”
“Can we just have a minute Champ?” another shouts.
“What did you do? Can you just tell us, yes or no?”
I keep walking with the captain, who leads me to a room where my lawyers are waiting. “You are free to go now,” he tells us. “You will be contacted later by the United States Attorney’s Office.”
I step outside and a huge crowd of press people rush toward me, pushing and shoving each other and snapping away at me with their cameras. Writers from two French newspapers and one from London throw me a barrage of questions, but I feel too full to say anything. Covington gives them copies of a statement I wrote for them before I left Chicago. In it I cite my ministry and my personal convictions as reasons for refusing to take the step, adding that “I strongly object to the fact that so many newspapers have given the American public and the world the impression that I have only two alternatives in taking this stand – either I go to jail or go into the Army. There is another alternative, and that is justice.”
By the time I get to the bottom of the front steps, the news breaks. Everyone is shouting and cheering. Some girls from Texas Southern run over to me, crying, “We’re glad you didn’t go!” A black boy standing next to H. Rap Brown shouts out, “You don’t go, so I won’t go!”
I feel a sense of relief and freedom. For the first time in weeks I start to relax. I remember the words of the reporter at the hotel: “How will you act?” Now it’s over, and I’ve come through it. I feel better than when I beat the eight-to-ten odds and won the World Heavyweight Title from Liston.
Eskridge pushes me to a cab waiting at the corner.
“You headin’ for jail. You headin’ straight for jail.” I turn, and an old white woman is standing behind me, waving a miniature American flag. “You goin’ straight to jail. You ain’t no champ no more. You ain’t never gonna be a champ no more. You get down on your knees and beg forgiveness from God!” she shouts in a raspy tone.
I start to answer her, but Covington pulls me inside the cab.
She comes over to my window. “My son’s in Viet Nam, and you no better’n he is. He’s there fightin an you here safe. I hope you rot in jail. I hope they throw away the key.”
The judge who later hears my case reflects the same sentiment. I receive a maximum sentence of five years in prison and ten thousand dollars fine. The prosecuting attorney argues. “Judge, we cannot let this man get loose, because if he gets by, all black people will want to be Muslims and get out for the same reasons.”
Four years later, in June of 1970, the Supreme Court unanimously reverses that decision 8-0, but now this is the biggest victory of my life. I’ve won something that’s worth whatever price I have to pay. It gives me a good feeling to look at the crowd as we pull off. Seeing people smiling makes me feel that I’ve spoken for them as well as myself. Deep down, they didn’t want the World heavyweight Champion to give in, and in the days ahead, their strength and spirit will keep me going. Even when it looks like I’ll go to jail and never fight again.
“They can take away the television cameras, the bright lights, the money, and ban you from the ring,” an old man tells me when I get back to Chicago, “but they can’t destroy your victory. You have taken a stand for the world and now you are the people’s champion.” – Pages 212 to 214, Chapter Six, The Induction, The Greatest – My Own Story, Muhammad Ali with Richard Durham. Granada Publishing Limited/Mayflower Books Limited. 1976.
Walk good champ, and thank you.
Yours sincerely,
IMRAN KHAN
