Becoming Holyfield Read Free Page B

to see it. When I was very young it seemed huge and fine, but that just shows you how oblivious a kid can be to hardship, because it was a run-down little nothing of a bungalow. But all my memories of the place are fond ones, at least if you don’t count my dog getting shot.
    My brother Bernard and I were the babies of the family, so while everyone else was either in school or working, we got to roam around the quiet neighborhood playing with other kids. This came with a small measure of guilt, though, because our older brothers and sisters didn’t have time for that. They all worked, and worked hard, even the ones in school. Mama didn’t plan for us to live in a shack forever and just accept whatever life handed us. She was a devout Christian who tried to live by the teachings of the Bible, and what that meant to her was that you had a duty to work hard and try to better yourself. It didn’t matter what you did—Mama cooked in a restaurant—but as long as you were doing it, you had to do it well and with an eye toward making things better and better.
    Grandma Pearlie Beatrice Hatton was confined to a wheelchair and wasn’t able to work, but she had plenty of energy and found ways to burn it off. Most of the ways usually had something to do with disciplining Bernard and me, which she did often and with a lot of enthusiasm. She also did it with a lot of old-time religion. I didn’t mind the whuppings so much; hardly a day went by that I didn’t get scratched and bruised playing sports in empty lots so I got used to dealing with pain pretty early, and Grandma’s idea of a “whupping” was usually just a sharp pinch on the arm. It was the religious lectures that drove me nuts, because while she was quoting from the Bible, I could hear other kids outside laughing and having a great time. Once in a while, without thinking, I’d say, “Couldn’t you just go ahead and pinch me already so I can go back outside?” That usually backfired, because she’d say, “No!” and realize I really wasn’t paying attention, which only brought on more fire and brimstone and sometimes the switch, which that “frail” little lady used like she’d trained for it. It got even worse after Bernard and I saw someone in the house late at night and Grandma decided that it was an angel come to bestow God’s blessing on us. Once that happened, she got even more zealous about making sure we turned out right. But, just as with Mama, we knew Grandma loved us, and we loved her right back. Later in life I’d come to think a lot about those Bible lessons, too. I wonder if Grandma knew at the time that, even though a lot of what she tried to teach us had no immediate effect, it would pay great dividends later.
    Mama moved all of us, including Grandma, back to Atlanta when I was four. We stayed with my eldest sister JoAnn for the first few months. She lived in her mother-in-law’s house, and when all of us were added in, there were fourteen of us under one roof, but I don’t have a recollection of anyone minding very much. By the time I went to kindergarten at E. P. Johnson Elementary School, we’d moved into our own place.
    Bernard and I figured to pretty much pick up where we’d left off in Atmore and roam around the new neighborhood looking for any kind of games we could get into. But Grandma got real protective now that we were in the “big city” and subject to all kinds of new dangers and bad influences. The reins were on pretty tight and that meant even more disciplining from her, because when the choice came down to sticking to the front yard or risking getting our arms pinched if we wandered off, it was a pretty easy decision. Adding disobedience to our list of sins made Grandma even more zealous, which made her more protective and tightened the apron strings even further, which made Bernard and me even bigger sinners when we disobeyed