A quiet diner in Louisville.
The kind of place where the jukebox hums and the coffee never runs out.
In the corner, a table bears a little sign: Reserved.
Bud Crawford walks in. Calm, hood up, that slow Omaha stride. He nods at the waitress, then notices the table. Sitting there, larger than life even in stillness, is Muhammad Ali.
Ali grins.
“Well, well, well. Look who stepped in my house.
They call you Bud, the one who shuts big mouths.
I rumbled with giants, I danced in the light,
But you, son, you’re quiet — then end it in one night.”
Crawford (sitting down):
“You did a lot of talking, champ.
Me, I let my hands speak.
You had the whole world’s eyes.
I had to fight just to get noticed.
Tell me… how’d you deal with the hate?”
Ali (laughs, clapping his hands):
“Oh, I love it, I love it! Cold as ice!
Me, I sold the show — you don’t roll the dice.
I told ‘em I’d sting, I told ‘em I’d float,
You don’t need a rhyme — you sink the boat!
And the hate? Hate was my fuel, son.
They booed me, I danced.
They doubted me, I roared.
I turned every hater into a ticket buyer.
You? You turn ‘em into believers.”
Crawford (half-smile):
“Spence was the big fish.
I told everybody I’d catch him.
They laughed.
I caught him.
He didn’t swim again.
That’s how I deal with hate.”
Ali (leaning forward, grinning wide):
“You so bad, you made the Big Fish forget how to swim!
He came in the shark, you sent him out slim.
Porter the bull, you made him quit,
Indongo fell quick, Gamboa got lit.
Canelo wore gold, thought he reigned like a king,
But you stripped his crown — didn’t even hear the bell ring!”
Crawford:
“I had to wait.
They froze me out.
Pacquiao didn’t want it.
Thurman priced himself out.
I stayed patient.
But sometimes, champ, I wonder… why’d it take so long?”
Ali (serious now, voice softening):
“Listen, son. That’s the way of greatness.
See, it’s sweet when they cheer you quick.
It feels good when they love you early.
But that’s emotion. It’s bias.
The beauty of late recognition
Is when the ones who doubted you…
The ones who booed you…
Are forced to admit the truth.
That’s not love, that’s fact.
That’s not hype, that’s history.
Like art they ignored, left in the back —
Years later, they see it, and can’t deny it.
That’s greatness, son. That’s forever.”
Crawford (nodding):
“I like that.
Truth over bias.
Facts over feelings.
That’s all I ever wanted.
When I’m done — no excuses, no asterisk.
Just facts.”
Ali (smiling wide, playful again):
“Facts it is! You’re colder than winter, sharp as a knife.
Me, I rhymed my way into history — you fought your way into life.
Two roads, one mountain. Different storms, same sky.
I shouted my greatness. You whispered yours. But both?
Both will echo forever.”
Bud stands, respectful :
“Gotta go, champ.”
Ali tilts his head, waves him back down :
“Where you going, young man? Sit back down.
Have some lunch with me. Tell me all about Omaha.”
Bud smiles. He sits.
A waitress sets down two menus and looks at Bud : “Didn’t think I’d ever see someone else share this table.”
Ali chuckles:
“Me neither. He showed up 3 times undisputed -and fifty years late, but right on time.”
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