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physical therapy. The walk did him enormous good, building up the strength in his body. When he felt powerful enough, he went back to the sport he loved, helping to start the Hillcrest Heights Boys Club boxing team. During those bleak moments in the hospital, he made a deal with the Lord: Let me walk again and I will stay out of trouble.
    During the late 1960s, Bobby fought in sanctioned AAU matches, knocking out everyone he faced, and made it to the 1968 Olympic Trials. It was quite a comeback.
    Now it was my turn to see the legend up close. Was I concerned? You bet I was, especially after finding out that Dave Jacobs would not be in my corner because his wife was ill, leaving me in the hands of Janks Morton. I felt abandoned. Jake was my primary trainer, and nothing against Janks, but this was not the time to make such a significant change. A boxer’s connection with his trainer is almost too complicated and intense for words.
    Bobby was the defending Golden Gloves champion, and if that were not challenging enough, the fight was to be staged on his turf. Hillcrest Heights, or Little Italy, as it was known, was affluent, safe, and primarily white. While I do not recall any specific racist slurs, let’s just say I was not greeted with the warmest reception in the world. The place was jammed, roughly 500 people squeezing into a gym fit for maybe 250, many sitting on top of one another on the windowsills, fire codes broken everywhere.
    I was wrong to worry about Janks. He made me believe in myself that night as no one ever did. “We’re going to do it,” he said over and over.
    Janks encouraged me to box, box, box, and . . . box. One glance at the confusion on Bobby Magruder’s face and I could tell he never saw anyone that fast in the ring. I danced in circles, pausing for a moment to fire a jab and then darting away from his right hand. I stayed in the middle of the ring. When he got me into the corner, I spun out of his reach. He connected with several decent shots, but I was never close to being knocked down. After I was awarded a split decision, the fans could not believe it. Their hero was not invincible, losing to, of all people, a black kid from Palmer Park!
    In later years, there would be famous tussles against such legends as Duran and Hearns and Hagler, with much larger stakes, but no fight ever meant more to me than the triumph over Bobby Magruder. By defeating the man in D.C., I became the man, and if I could beat Bobby, I could beat anybody. We fought twice more, for the Golden Gloves title, and in the finals of the AAU tournament. I won both times, but it was our first duel that propelled me to the next level.
    Week after week, the fights came, as did the victims, in D.C. and around the country. Some were harder than others.
    One of the most memorable was an encounter with Larry Hinnant, a black fighter who was also from the D.C. region. I didn’t prepare too thoroughly, as I had knocked him out before and assumed I’d have no trouble again. I soon learned never to assume anything in the ring. In the second round, Hinnant landed a shot out of nowhere, which almost put me on the canvas. I woke up in time to capture the decision, yet while I won over the judges, I didn’t win over the spectators, who booed the verdict. I couldn’t blame them. Hinnant, the underdog, fought with courage. I didn’t. I was fortunate that my superior talents bailed me out.
    Shortly after Hinnant came Dale Staley. Staley resembled the late actor/teen idol James Dean. Every strand of his hair was in place. When the bell rang, however, Staley turned into a savage and he made no apologies. Rules? Dale Staley did not believe in rules. He believed in using his head, elbow, knee, or any other body part to hit his opponent, and most of the time he got away with it. The fight was held at Prince George’s Community College, and the gym was packed. It was like facing Bobby Magruder all over again.