145th Street Read Free

Willie said.
    There was some talk about the cops making us lie down on the ground. Big Joe was mad about that, but the party lifted everybody out of their bad mood. I ate some more ribs, some fried chicken, and a mess of potato salad. Some folks got into an argument about whether the Fourth of July was a better holiday than Memorial Day, and they really enjoyed that, too. It was the best holiday I had had since Christmas and just about the best party.
    I went on home and told my moms about the funeral and the party and she said it was okay if Big Joe wanted to waste his money but if she had any extra money she would have bought a new sofa.
    About three-thirty the next morning I heard sirens again and I looked out the window and saw that there were two police cars and an ambulance down in the street. I thought the police were looking for that crack they had heard about, but later in the day I heard that Cassie, who lives on the third floor, had called them because her husband was beating on her. They took him away and their two little girls were in the street crying.
    That’s what 145th Street is like. Something funny happens, like Big Joe’s funeral, and then something bad happens. It’s almost as if the block is reminding itself that life is hard, and you have to take it seriously.
    The word on the street was that Cassie went to Big Joe and got the cash she needed to get her husband out of jail. Cassie probably wasn’t going to pay him back the money and Big Joe knew it, but he lent it to her anyway.
    “And the next time I have a funeral,” Big Joe said, “I better hear you there crying and carrying on.”
    Cassie smiled and went on up 145th Street toward the subway.

W e were all sitting around on the rail outside of Big Joe’s place, trying to figure out which was the best fighter of all time. We’d had this conversation before but what got everybody mad this time was Willie Murphy. Willie was in his thirties, or maybe even older, and was the kind of guy who thought that just because he was old it meant he knew more than anybody.
    “You have to go with Joe Louis being the best fighter of all time,” Willie said. “Joe held the championship for longer than anybody.”
    “That’s because he didn’t have to face Ali,” Tommy said.
    “How about Roberto Duran?” Pedro was sitting on a folding chair that was chained to the gate that covered Big Joe’s place.
    “Duran’s not a heavyweight,” Willie said. “When you talk about the greatest fighter of all time you have to talk about heavyweights.”
    “Why?” That’s what I said.
    “Because you do,” Willie answered.
    Now, that was a lame answer and everybody there, with the exception of Willie, knew it.
    The conversation was getting to be stupid and I knew it was going to get worse, because Mr. Lynch was coming down the street. Mr. Lynch was so old he had washed dishes at the Last Supper. Whatever you said he would bring up something from a thousand years ago that nobody ever heard about.
    “What you young people talking about?” Mr. Lynch motioned for Pedro to get off the chair.
    “These know-nothing kids thinking Ali could’ve taken Joe Louis.” Willie started flapping his lips again. “Ali couldn’t have taken Joe Louis if Joe was fighting with a paper bag over his head.”
    “Ain’t none of them could beat Jack Johnson,” Mr. Lynch said, parking his old butt on the chair. “Jack Johnson was the champion of the world and he fought all over the world.”
    “Ali would have eat him up,” Willie went on. “Now, that’s one thing I know.”
    Just when I was heated up enough to go upside Willie’s head we heard this squealing on the corner and we looked up and saw two police cars come tearing around the corner. They pulled up right in front of us and the cops come out with their guns out. Now, I wasn’t a fool and I knew when the police come tearing like that they’re looking for somebody. I did just like everybody else leaning on that