The Boy & The Bicycle

THE BOY & THE BICYCLE.

As the boy and his best friend rode their bikes into town, he enthused about what a great day they would have.
‘We’ll have the greatest time! The greatest time!’ he said.
The fair was in town for the weekend. It was going to be just wonderful. Everyone from town would be flocking to the park. The boy and his best friend planned to spend all afternoon at the fair. There was rides, all screams and screeching wheels, and stalls where you could win anything from a football to a goldfish.
They wandered around the fair, taking it all in. They rode the fairground rides. In between rides, the boys drank Coke from glass bottles and munched on popcorn and candy from striped paper bags. These were the days you remembered, the days that went down in legend.

They’d had a great afternoon, but eventually it was time to head home. Completely exhausted but still buzzing with excitement and wonder at the day they’d had, they headed away from the fair and back out to the street. It had been just the perfect day.
As they left the fair and turned the corner the boys noticed their bikes, and the older boys that were climbing onto them. Surely the day couldn’t finish with the boys getting their bikes stolen.
The boy and his friend swore and hollered as they ran towards the bike thieves. The older boys laughed and made rude gestures before riding away on their bikes.

While his friend was disappointed at the loss of their bikes, the boy was absolutely raging. Anger burned in his eyes and reddened his cheeks.
‘We should hang around here for a while to see if the boys come back. If they do head back this way, we can get our bikes back.’ The boy said.
‘What are you gonna do if they do come back? They’re twice our size.’ His friend shrugged.
‘I don’t care. I’ll whup the pair of them.’ The boy insisted.
His friend knew the boy well enough to let him rant, let him vent and get it all out. If you let the boy rant and rave, he would eventually run out of steam, and calm down. If you told him to calm down and tried to placate him, that would only get him even more worked up.
‘You can hang around and wait for a kicking, if you like, but I’m going home.’ His friend said.
He paused, waiting for the boy to make his mind up.
‘You coming?’ He asked.
‘I’m staying.’ The boy insisted. ‘If those guys come back this way, I’ll take care of ‘em.’

Shaking his head, and grumbling about how a great day had such a bad ending, his friend headed to catch the bus home.
The boy was fuming at the theft of their bikes. He paced up and down, angrily ranting at the top of his voice.

Officer Martin heard the shouting and yelling from outside his basement boxing gym. If he wasn’t on duty, at the station or in out his patrol car, Martin was down here teaching boxing. He’d been running the gym and teaching boxing for a few years and was pleased with the way the boxing club was going. He would hold amateur events every now and then so the wannabe boxers could show off the skills they’d learned.
He told the guys to carry on by themselves for a moment and when outside to see what all the commotion was.
The boy was over the road, pacing up and down the pavement, shouting and cursing. He was stamping his feet and flailing his arms in anger and outrage.
‘Afternoon, son. I’m Officer Martin. What’s got you all hot under the collar?’
The boy explained how their bikes had been pinched by these older boys.
‘My friend and I, we saw them riding off, we just couldn’t catch them. If they come back they’ll get what’s coming to them.’ The boy said.
‘How old were these boys?’ asked Officer Martin.
‘I’d say maybe fifteen, sixteen.’
‘And how old are you?’
‘I’m twelve.’ The boy said.

The officer smiled gently at the boy. He seemed to be almost fizzing with pent up energy. The officer decided it might be an idea to give the boy a focus for all that energy.
‘I’m gonna whup the two of them!’ The boy insisted.
The officer stifled a laugh at the thought of this little feller wanting to take on the older lads.
‘We may not be able to get your bike back, but if you come back here at noon tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to box. There’s a class here. You’d be more than welcome.’
Martin pointed to the boxing gym in the basement of the building.
‘What good would that do?’ The boy asked.
‘Then, if you did ever catch up with the fellers that stole your bike-’
‘I can whup them?’
‘Well, let’s just say, you’d be able to take care of yourself.’
‘Noon tomorrow?’ The boy asked.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I’ll be there.’ The boy nodded.

Martin found that boxing taught young people discipline and respect and gave them a focus and a purpose. Sometimes that was all these kids needed. A hot-headed kid could be moulded into a focused dedicated fighter. It was all about channelling that energy.
There was something about the glint in the boy’s eye, the officer knew he’d show up. He had a good feeling about the lad. If he put in even half his energy, and paid attention, he could be a decent fighter.
The boy headed down the street to catch the bus home.
‘What’s your name?’ The officer called after him.
The boy stopped and half-turned.
‘Cassius Clay.’

Cassius Clay would change his name to Muhammad Ali and go on to become the greatest boxer in history.