But, Coach, It Helps Me Relax

Iused to hear trainers and managers, during my amateur days, commenting on the poor showing of certain fighters with sad shakes of the head. "Serves him right. I told him to stay 'way from that trim. That pussy ruined him." Listening to them, I prayerfully resolved to avoid sex at all costs. And up until the 1958 Golden Gloves, I was glowingly successful, without even a struggle. What I wanted in life was to be a spectacular, winning performer. And if turning my back on sex was what it took, I would be like a nun.

Nowadays, many doctors and researchers have come to entirely different conclusions on sex and the athlete. But when I first entered competitions, we younger fighters listened with rapt attention to the old pros who testified on the evils of sex. One or another would account for his defeat or near knockout by telling some hot, juicy tale of his fatal encounter with an unexpected piece of pussy, while the managers and trainers would nod amen.

If they saw us younger fighters, their "protégés," trying to make it with a girl, they'd take us aside and say, "Kid, you got to make pussy think you're dead. Stay away or it'll ruin you." Then they'd glide over to the girl, take over and leave us wondering why pussy could be so bad for us and so good for them.

"You don't know how to handle it yet," Donnie Hall, my best friend among the older boxers, would patiently explain. I had grown up in Louisville with Donnie, a tall, well-built, black heavy with beautiful teeth and flashing eyes, who defeated opponents with the same ease with which he acquired the prettiest girls.

"How do you handle it?" I asked him one day when we were preparing for the Golden Gloves trials. He had won Louisville's heavyweight division and I had won in the light-heavy.

Donnie glanced around to see if anyone was listening. "When we get to Chicago, I'll show you." He winked. "Right now, play it cool. Don't fool around with women. Keep your strength." With that, Donnie, who was four years older than me, strolled off to join his latest girlfriend.

I hardly needed the warning; I had just turned 16 and I was miserably shy and bashful. It took all the courage I could muster to even approach a girl. If that's to be my only problem, I thought, I've got the championship in the bag.

It was a cold February in 1958 when our team got to Chicago and huddled together in the St. Clair Hotel, a few blocks from icy Lake Michigan. There were six of us who wanted to go on to become pros: Ed Whitaker, Davie Hilton, Elmer Dennison, Bill Wikstrom, Donnie Hall and me. To us, winning the Golden Gloves meant getting the "master's degree" we needed for professional work.

I had already lost one shot the previous year when I was taken out in Louisville because the doctor found something irregular about my heartbeat. It cleared up, whatever it was, but too late for me to enter the tournament. And that year, most of all, I wanted to return home a champion.

The huge Chicago Stadium with three boxing matches going on simultaneously under those hot white lights, with screaming, cheering, booing crowds, was the most awesome spectacle I'd ever participated in. Half the states sent fighters to Chicago, the other half to New York. And the eight winners would fight each other for the national title.

Certain cities became known to us for the caliber of their fighters. We'd say, "Ooooooowwweee, he comes from Cleveland. He must be tough." Or Detroit, Omaha, Toledo, Dayton, Chicago, Wichita. Little two-by-four towns were put on the map by the courage of their unknown fighters. And I wanted to put Louisville on the map for something other than whiskey and horses.

So I studied fighters in those rings like an honor student would his textbooks. Some wild, unorthodox; some poised, polished like the best professionals. I examined styles, stances, moves, feints, jabs, crosses, hooks, bobs, weaves. And I adopted all I could from those who made the trade--bloody, vicious and savage as it might be--an art. As Sugar Ray, Kid Gavilan, Johnny Bratton had done. They were the Picassos among fighters and they made it all seem a thing of pride, poise, courage, strength, class.

In the Golden Gloves, they arrange for the lighter fighters to eliminate each other first. Then they bring out the heavies. After my preliminaries, I went up to Donnie's room and found him standing flat-footed, touching his toes before the mirror. He showed me an article fore casting my next night's battle: "A fight coming up that (continued on page 112) It helps me Relax (continued from page 106) should be of main-bout caliber sends Kent Green against Cassius Clay of Louisville. Clay was a standout performer last night."

Donnie laughed and slapped me on the back. "You can take this guy with one hand tied behind you. I got mine made, too. Let's go out." When I asked where we were going, he said, "I wanna see if you can handle it. How you been doin' with it, anyway?"

"Fine," I said, not daring to admit I hadn't been doing anything with "it." I don't know why I was so eager to follow him, instead of resisting and sticking to my rigid resolve not to break training. Maybe because the heaviest load a fighter carries between fights is the boredom, the weariness, that comes from waiting, waiting.

We caught a cab on Michigan Avenue, and when the driver asked where we wanted to go, Donnie said, "Where the women are."

The driver did a double take and said, "How much you expect to pay?"

"Well ...," Donnie sounded smooth, hip, "just take us to the best place you know."

"This'll cost you extra," the driver said before he pulled his flag down. He drove us to the South Side and let us out near 47th and Calumet. Donnie paid the fare, slipping in something extra, and the driver said, "Just start walking."

We were in front of a corner pawnshop under the el. An old woman in a knit cap, galoshes and a man's overcoat was standing on an orange crate, preaching the Gospel to people rushing by to catch the train. We started walking.

A few blocks down Calumet Avenue, two prostitutes came up behind us, one black, the other white. The white one looked at me with a fixed smile: "You looking for some fun?"

I said, "Yes.... Well, no, ma'am, we just walking--"

But Donnie cut me off. "Sure, ba-bay, we lookin' for some fun. What's it gonna cost?"

I envied the smooth, self-assured way he took over and wished I could handle myself that way.

"Well," she was saying, "what do you want to pay?"

Donnie hedged. "How much you want?"

"Seven and two," she said.

Donnie turned to me as though I was Mr. Authority. "Cash, is seven and two all right with you?"

"Sure," I said, without the slightest idea what it meant. A few minutes later, when I learned it meant seven dollars for her and two dollars for the room, I couldn't believe the high price.

They took us back to a building we'd just passed, up three flights of rickety wooden stairs with graffiti-covered walls. We reached a hallway where an old white man, sitting in a little cashier's cage, closed his window tight when we came up.

The white woman calmed him down. "Dad, everything's all right," she said, and we stepped up and paid the seven and two.

Donnie started popping his fingers and asked in a loud voice, "Which one you want?"

I was too ashamed to speak so loud. It didn't seem right. Wouldn't one feel slighted if she wasn't chosen first? So I whispered in Donnie's ear, "I'll take the colored one." She was the best-looking of the two--younger, about 30, a little neater. But when she started toward a door down the hall, I told Donnie I was going back to the hotel. "Got to get up early. Exercise!"

The woman saw me pull back and said, "Awww, don't worry, honey, everything'll be all right. Just don't worry." Her manner wasn't sexy at all, more like a nurse telling a new patient not to be afraid of a minor operation.

Donnie went down the hall and pointed for me to follow my woman, who had gone into a room near the top of the stairs. I got just outside the door and stood there, sweating, nervous, miserable.

•

I'm back in Louisville ... seven or eight years old ... running up and down alleys with the gang, looking into bedroom windows that have the shades or blinds up ... disappointed in never really seeing anything but peeping in anyway. We never see what we're looking for. Donnie's mother calls us "bad little rascals."

"Let's find us a new bedroom tonight," somebody says.

"I know us a good place. I saw a place down the street with no shades up or nothin' and last night I saw everything that went on."

And I say, "C'mon, man, let's go see that!"

So we run for about four or five blocks. In the dark, we go up to the window and we peep and peep and don't see nobody. And it gets real late. Then the man and woman come in and start taking off their clothes, and just before they get them off, the man turns the light out. That makes me mad.

•

I took a deep breath, went inside and closed the door. She was sitting on the bed, opening a pack of cigarettes.

"Hurry up. We haven't got all night."

"Hurry up what?" I said.

"Take your clothes off."

I crossed the room to the light switch and cut all the lights out.

"What you cut them lights out for?"

"I gotta take off my pants," I said.

"Well, goddamn, don't you think I know that? Why'd you cut them lights out?"

All I could say was the truth: "I don't want you to see me with my pants off."

She sat there stone-quiet for a while. I had managed to slip my shoes and socks off before she struck a match to light her cigarette.

"Wanna smoke?" She offered me the package.

"No, ma'am. I don't smoke. Prize fighters are not allowed to smoke, ma'am." The match had lit her face up and I could see her eyes on me in the dark, wide and wondering. "I'm in the Golden Gloves," I went on, trying to get myself on familiar ground so we could at least have something to talk about. "I'm going to be light heavyweight champion, and then--"

"Nice," she said. "Ready?"

•

I follow Sandra Hanes and Charley Heard all the way home from a party.... I watch them kiss and kiss and kiss for what seems hours. And when I see Charley in the hall next day at school, I say, "How did you ever get Sandra Hanes to go out with you? She won't go out with me."

He just looks at me with pity and says, "Look, man. You can fight, but you got to learn to talk. Talking is where it's at. Words, words, man. The way you hug the background, you never be hip. You got to step on out and get it. Talk, talk, talk, man. Talk to people. I can't fight a lick. Women like words. Talk."

•

The match had burned out and it was pitch-dark again and I was about to take off my long underwear. Then I thought I saw a tiny ray of light from the window. I went over and pulled the shade down tight, to shut out that little light still coming in.

"What the hell you pulling the shades down for? You some kinda...." She was surprised, maybe even a little frightened.

I said, "Don't I have to take off my underwear?"

She was stone-quiet again. I just stood there against the wall, my eyes getting accustomed to the darkness. Then I saw she had stripped off her clothes and was lying on the bed. The blood went to my head. It was the first time I'd seen a woman naked ... what was I supposed to do ... ?

•

Gwendolyn--the first girl I ever kiss--lives in a little two-room frame house around the corner from me.... I'm 15 and devoted to boxing. Every week I'm on Tomorrow's Champions. I pass her house: "Oh, Cassius Clay. I watch you all the time on TV." She beckons me to the porch, where she has a record player going, and we listen to the Platters, Little Richard, the Dells, Ella Fitzgerald, and she has me come back week after week.

(continued on page 166) It helps me relax (continued from page 112)

One night, as I'm leaving, she says, "Cash?"

"Yes?"

"Don't you ever kiss anybody?"

I'm startled. I stand like a tree.

"Well, at least hug me," she says.

And I slowly press her body against mine, surprised how warm and good it feels.

"Kiss me, Cash."

I don't know what to do. I feel faint, but I finally put my lips against hers. Then I back up and say, "Well, I'll see you tomorrow." And I walk about a half block before looking back. And there she is, waving. My fight is scheduled the next day on Tomorrow's Champions, but I don't sleep all night.

•

"What do you intend to do?" the woman on the bed asked me. "Make up your mind what you want to do...."

I couldn't move. How could I tell her I didn't know what to do? What was I expected to do?

•

Aretha--the first girl I really love--I see her in the halls of Central High, too frightened to say anything to her. To attract her attention, I come to school with a size-too-small T-shirt on, to make my muscles look like they bulge. But she walks right by me. Then I try to get her attention by taking my friend Ronald King's head and pretending to ram it into the lockers: B-o-o-o-m-m.... B-o-o-o-m-m. She should say, "Ooooeee, what's he doing to that boy?" and come over to see. But she keeps on going.

I don't know how to talk to girls, how to approach them. I ride my motor scooter real fast, turn the corners like I'm going to fall off, all to make Aretha look at me, make her think I'm brave and daring. She keeps on walking.

Then one night, after a basketball game, after Central High beat Flagg J., I come out the big front entrance and see her walking home by herself. I hurry up to catch her on the corner and force myself to say, "Is your name Aretha?"

"Yes."

"My name's Cassius Clay."

"I know. I've seen you around."

She's so pretty, beautiful black eyes, warm dark face, thick eyelashes. I just say, "I'm going your way. Can I walk with you?"

"If you want to."

And we walk. She has on perfume and the smell is wonderful. My heart is pounding real fast. I've never liked a girl before the way I like Aretha. She lives in Beachwood Apartments, one of the housing projects, on the second floor. When we get there, I get up my nerve. I don't care whether she slaps me or not. I have to kiss her. It must last for a minute and a half, and when I come up for air, I'm so dizzy I reel, fall back and hit my head against the steps. I hear her scream. When I open my eyes, she is leaning down and patting me on the face to bring me around.

"What happened?" she asks. "Are you serious? You fainted. I thought you were just playing."

I say I don't know what happened. "I just passed out." Then I run all the way home, to the other side of town, 13 miles away ... people are looking at me like I'm crazy ... and I just run all the way.

It takes about three days before I have enough nerve to face her again. Finally, I lose track of her. I get so wrapped up in boxing, in the Golden Gloves, that I concentrate all my attention on that. I don't have time for girls or parties, because every morning I have to get up and do my roadwork. If I don't win a national Golden Gloves, then I'll never get to the Olympics. And I have to be The Champion.

•

"Come on, let's do it," she said softly.

"Yes, ma'am."

She pulled me to the bed and said, "Do you want a trip around the world?"

"A trip around the world?" I asked. "What's a trip around the world?"

"Well, that's some of everything."

"Some of everything? What are you talking about?"

She never answered, just leaned over and bit me on the neck and put her tongue in my ear and started biting my back. "Well, come on," she said. "Let's do it."

I got on top of her, but I still didn't know what to do. I felt panicky.

"Why don't you cooperate a little?" she asked.

I told her the truth: that I'd never been with a woman before.

She grabbed me with both her hands, pulling me to her. "Just push," she said. The panic left and all of a sudden I felt like a man. In a man's position. "Just go up and down," she said. So I went up and down, up and down, until finally she asked, "Aren't you through? Hurry up. Aren't you through?" But I just kept on going up and down. She said something like "Did you? Did you reach your climax?" I didn't know what she was talking about. "Didn't you get a ticklish feeling? A sensation?"

I said, "No." There was nothing else to say.

She pushed me off and I got up right away and started to put on my pants. She stood up and cut the lights on.

I hollered, "Hold it! Hold it!" And I cut the lights right back off.

"What's the matter with you?" she shouted.

"I don't have my clothes on yet," I explained. I couldn't look at her.

When I got dressed and went on back downstairs and stood in the hall waiting for Donnie, I began to feel miserable again. What had I done wrong? I must have left out some of the steps, because it was another half hour before Donnie came down, walking like he was in pain.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"She took too much out of me," he said with pleasure.

"What could she take out of you?" I said. "Can't you handle it?"

"She really laid it on me," he said as we got in the cab. He went to sleep on the way back. And all he said before he went to bed that night was, "Boy, she really put something on me."

I'll never know for sure whether the experience had anything to do with my performance the next night with Kent Green, but he defeated me on a second-round TKO. Perhaps it was only the feeling of guilt because I hadn't followed the rules of the trainers, but it was a painful defeat. And Donnie, also favored to win, lost badly, too.

I really wanted to win the Golden Gloves. Already, I'd begun to love having my name known. In Louisville, when my name first started getting into the newspapers, I'd run to the neighbors and say, "Hey! My name's in the paper. My picture, too."

"Which one you?" an old woman once asked me when I showed her a group of Golden Gloves applicants. "About a hundred in the picture. Which one you?" she said, adjusting her glasses.

"Can't you see? That's me, right there in the middle," I said, surprised she didn't recognize me.

Even if I was just one of a hundred, I was there.

That year, even though I hadn't won the Golden Gloves, I felt a new pride walking the halls of Central High. All those girls I used to look at, wondering how they looked without clothes--I now had some idea. Well, I thought, now I know. I feel better. I been with a woman. I know. It was enough for a while. But gradually I found myself wanting to see another. Could I be so sure the non-prostitutes looked exactly like my prostitute? Because that prostitute was really too old. And these younger girls looked better. I'd always wondered before why men could become so easily upset over women. Ice cream, pop and hamburgers were far more attractive. But now I found myself going to parties, learning to talk, losing my inhibitions.

Then one day I got whipped by Jimmy Ellis, my only amateur loss in Louisville, and as I sat the next morning nursing my wounds, I realized I had been with a woman the night before that fight, too.

•

"What effect does sex have on a fighter's performance?" I once sat with a group of reporters, fighters and handlers who were asking Harry Wiley that question. Wiley, a brilliant trainer, worked with Sugar Ray Robinson for 24 years, had (continued on page 238) It helps me Relax (continued from page 166) been in the corners of Baby Joe Gans, Kid Chocolate, Henry Armstrong, Joe Louis, knew the habits of Jack Johnson, Sam Langford, Jack Dempsey, Harry Wills, had been an Olympic boxing coach and had come to camp for my 1970 fight with Ellis. I was amazed at his detailed knowledge of every aspect of a fighter's life.

"On sex activities for fighters," Wiley admitted, "I'm of the old school. You find most prize fighters have enormous sex drives. I've seen the time when you had to feed some of them saltpeter to keep them cooled off. They build up this tremendous store of vitality and drive, and just a few rounds in the ring is not enough release."

"How about Liston?" someone asked. "How was he?"

"One of the worst," Wiley said. "Liston used to take his sex drive out on opponents. I heard they told Liston that Lena Horne would see him if he whipped Patterson, that the only thing standing between him and Lena was Floyd. He slaughtered Patterson in the first round in both fights. Patterson was lucky he came out alive. They used to tease Liston, telling him a beautiful woman was out there waiting for him, but if he didn't knock his opponent out by the third, she wouldn't see him. Then they'd set a woman at ringside, and at the end of the second round, she'd get up and walk down the aisle and they'd whisper to Liston, 'Well, there you go. You lost your chance.' Liston would hurry to get the fight over."

"I heard you had trouble with Sugar Ray," one reporter said.

"Don't believe it. At his peak, Sugar Ray was the best-disciplined fighter in the trade. He valued his looks too much to take a chance on getting hurt in the ring. When it came time for him to stop, his will power was like iron. He could sleep next to Venus without touching her. But some of my others ..." Wiley groaned. "Uncontrollable."

"Kid Chocolate?" someone asked.

"Kid Chocolate was bad, an awful hound. Joe Gans was, too. But the worst I ever had was Henry Armstrong. How he ever won and held three world titles with all the women he went through...." Wiley shook his head. "A glutton. Almost as bad as Sonny Liston. I blame a big part of Joe Louis' decline on his getting too much.

"The only fighter I ever saw just the opposite was light heavy champion John Henry Lewis. I remember John Henry Lewis' manager, Gus Greenlee, calling me in, telling me how upset he was over Lewis' listlessness, his unresponsiveness. I took Lewis aside, asked him when was the last time he'd had a woman.

"'Over a year,' he said.

"I screamed to Gus, 'Listen, this guy's got to get laid!'

"Then we got a woman. Like good medicine, he got better. Of course, Lewis was unusual like that." Wiley turned to Pacheco [Ali's ringside doctor], who has known me ever since I first came to Miami. "You heard of any like that, Doc?"

Pacheco laughed. "The closest I could come to that was Muhammad Ali in those days when he was Cassius Clay. His Louisville sponsors had him staying at a hotel on Second Avenue, a hotel loaded with pimps, hustlers and prostitutes going after him every day. They'd come up to him, asking, 'What you want, kid? You want a broad or a sissy? Let me get you somebody. Whatever you need, we got.' And he'd turn 'em down stone-cold, not even a bit of interest. Even when they tried to trick him to take a picture with his arms around a broad, he'd jump away as if they'd asked him to pose next to Hitler." He shook his head as if those days were long gone. "In fact, it got so bad around Second Avenue that for years hustlers thought he was a funny.

"'You know, I think this guy may be a little queer,' one hustler told me. 'Maybe he don't know it yet, but I think we could turn this guy.' He winked. 'Man,' I told him, as I knew this hustler--he had come to my office many times to get a shot or a prescription--'man, leave the new kid alone, for Christ's sake.'

"'But the guy won't do a thing with women,' the hustler tells me. 'This guy got to be funny.'

"Ali's not like John Henry Lewis, but in those days he had only one thing in mind--winning the championship. That's why the gamblers bet on young Cassius. I knew the best gambler in Tampa, and I wish I'd taken his advice. When he first sized up Cassius, he came and told me, 'There's a kid just come down here named Cassius Clay. If you bet on him every time he fights, you'll be a rich man, 'cause he won't lose a single fight. I believe his thing is sexual control. And he's got it.'

"In those days, Sonny Liston was considered the coming power, Floyd Patterson had the title, but the gambler told me this kid would go through Floyd and Liston and he'd go through every heavyweight up there or who was coming up. He'd never lose a fight. 'I tell you, I go by his sex control,' the gambler said. 'I believe in it. Any kid who can control his sex can win the title. I believe it. If you double on everything, you'll win on Cassius and you'll come home rich.'

"I wish I had listened to that guy. There was a headwaiter at a big hotel in Los Angeles who did just that. He started out with a hundred-dollar bet on Cassius. Then he doubled the winnings every fight. Soon he had enough to buy himself a Cadillac convertible and his wife a Mercedes-Benz, and all that before Cassius fought Liston.

"After the Liston fight, I saw him and I said, 'You must have really gotten well with Sonny Liston's fight.' He just smiled and said, 'Man, don't even talk about it. I don't think I'll work for the rest of my life.' He said that discipline and self-control was the thing that would make Cassius a champion. It's the discipline and self-control that makes it--"

"I don't agree with that at all," Bundini [Drew Brown, assistant trainer, Ali's corner man] cut in. He had been sitting silent all the time and listening to the trainers. "It's not that at all. It's freakishness that makes a champion."

They all turned and looked at him as he sat there with his bleary eyes and baby face, the only thing innocent about him; otherwise, he's the most thoroughly profane person I've ever met, inside boxing circles and out.

"Every champion I've ever known is a freak," Bundini said as though he was the undisputed authority. Then he named the great fighters he had been associated with, names I won't mention only because they would be shocked to be defined like this. "Freakishness crawls out of their little finger. It's in all their bones and down to the tip of their toes. They can't help it. That's the thing that makes a champion. Now, you take Mel Turnbow over there." He pointed to Turnbow, one of the strongest fighters in the ring but one who always had trouble keeping himself from being knocked out.

Turnbow, a 6'6" giant from Ohio, heard Bundini and came over with his odd walk and his pants that always seem too tight and never quite long enough for his legs.

Bundini frowned. "You're built too strange to be wearing store-bought clothes. You ought to have your clothes tailor-made. Ain't no store-bought clothes in the world that'll fit your ass and size."

"I buy 'em off the rack, just like you do," Turnbow retorted.

"That's why you look so peculiar," Bundini said. "It's a good thing you're a prize fighter and you're strong. The way those pants make your ass jog--God! Let's hope you never get put in jail--all that round-eye goin' to waste, you turn even me into a sodomite."

Turnbow stood up defensively, as though Bundini was really prepared to rape him.

"What I was going to say," Bundini went on, "is that even with all those muscles and power, long arms, the thing that's missing from Turnbow is he's not a freak. There's not a freakish bone in his body." He shook his head sadly, as though he was giving a profound opinion.

When Wiley wanted to read opinions on the subject from scientists, he was shown the response from Dr. Warren R. Guild of Harvard Medical School, who had done extensive research on the effect of physical intercourse on athletes. Dr. Guild wrote: "If I were Muhammad Ali's physician (which obviously I am not), I not only would not discourage him about sex, I would be on the positive side, definitely recommend and encourage him to have intercourse with his wife a night or two before the bout to ensure better sleep and have increased vigor for the competition. The above response is a summary of our studies on this subject, the details of which I will not go into, as they are too complicated. Physical intercourse," Dr. Guild concluded, "does not in any way sap one's strength or make one weak."

Then a reporter told Wiley that Masters and Johnson and psychologist William Harper supported Dr. Guild's thesis.

The old trainer, who had eaten, slept and worked in the corners of the greatest fighters for two generations, sat thoughtfully for a while, said he was reanalyzing the case of Baby Joe Gans, of the Armstrongs, the Langfords, the Harry Willses, and finally concluded, "I don't believe the doctors understand what builds up inside a fighter. A little piece to an average athlete is all right, but prize fighters don't play around with small-size pieces. They never researched real prize fighters. I have."

Angelo Dundee [Ali's chief trainer] nodded in agreement. "Without it a fighter gets mean, angry, willing, anxious to fight. With it he purrs like a pussycat. It's psychological, maybe, more than physical. You keep a fighter away from women, keep him in camp pounding bags, punching fighters day in and day out, and when he gets in the ring, he's ready to take it all out on his opponent.

"Who wants to fight after good loving? All wars are brought about by leaders who never had good loving. Take Hitler, Mussolini, Napoleon. How about all those war hawks? Those who fuck well want to be peaceful. We can't have prize fighters like that.

"A fighter who has sex regular, the way these doctors talk, would be a placid, easygoing pussycat with no drive, no resentment, no anger. The doctors don't know the fight game."

Now that I am near the end of my career, the controversy rages on just as it did when I stepped into the ring at the age of 12. The only difference being, now when I climb the steps for the fight, I hope the scientists know what they're talking about.

Copyright © 1975 by Muhammad Ali, Herbert Muhammad and Richard Durham.