There are moments in sports history that don’t happen under lights, don’t get replayed on network television, and never make it into official records.

They happen in the in between spaces, locker rooms, practice facilities, hotel lobbies, where the performance ends and something roar begins.

This is the story of one of those moments, and it started with a sentence that hung in the air like a bad joke no one wanted to laugh at.

You’re just a simple piece of meat.

Jim Kelly said it, not whispered, not muttered.

Said it clear enough that the clang of iron plates seemed to pause for half a second, just long enough for everyone with an earshot to register what had just been put on the table.

It was 1973, maybe early 74.

Accounts vary, but the venue doesn’t.

A private gym in Los Angeles, the kind of place where actors came to build movie muscles and athletes came to maintain reputations.

The walls were unfinished concrete.

The mirrors were smudged with handprints.

The air tasted like rust and old sweat.

And if you stood still long enough, you could hear your own breath over the hum of the ventilation system that never quite worked.

Jim Kelly was there because he belonged there.

6’1, about 200 lb of fast twitch dominance with shoulders that looked like they’d been carved out of mahogany and a frame that suggested both explosion and endurance.

He’d already made a name for himself.

Karate champion, rising film star, a man whose physical presence commanded rooms before he even opened his mouth.

Kelly moved through that gym the way apex predators moved through their territory.

Casually, but with an understanding that nothing there could challenge him.

He worked the heavy bag like it owed him money.

His footwork was quick, sharp, economical.

His hands were fast enough to make you blink and wonder if you’d missed something.

Bruce Lee was there because he was always there.

Not always in that specific gym, but always somewhere working.

If you knew where to look in LA in the early ‘7s, you’d find him refining, testing, iterating.

He was smaller, 5’7, maybe 135 lbs if he’d eaten that day.

Next to Kelly, he looked like a different species.

Narrow-waisted, wiry, compact in a way that seemed almost in congruous with the reputation that was beginning to follow him around.

His shirt was off.

His body was a map of visible musculature.

Every tendon and fiber outlined under skin that looked like it had been shrink wrapped.

But he wasn’t big.

Not by gym standards, not by Hollywood standards, not by any standard that involved standing next to Jim Kelly.

And that’s where the sentence came from.

Kelly said it with a grin.

Not malicious, not cruel, just confident.

The kind of thing you say when you’re used to being the most physically impressive person in any given room and you’ve spotted someone who clearly isn’t.

It wasn’t even aimed as an insult.

Not really.

It was observation, assessment.

the kind of thing fighters say to each other in training environments when they’re measuring, testing, figuring out where someone fits in the unspoken hierarchy of the room.

But the room didn’t take it that way.

The gym went quiet in that specific way gyms do when something’s about to happen.

Not silent.

Iron still clanked.

Someone’s breathing was still audible in the corner.

A radio was playing somewhere in the back.

But the quality of the noise changed.

People stopped midset.

A guy holding a 45lb plate just held it, staring.

Another guy on the bench didn’t rack his bar.

He just left it hovering over his chest, eyes flicking sideways.

Everyone who’d heard it was suddenly paying attention, and everyone who hadn’t heard it could feel that something had shifted.

Bruce Lee didn’t react immediately.

He was in the middle of something, some kind of movement drill, shifting weight, testing angles.

His feet were bare on the concrete.

His hands were loose.

He looked like he was solving a problem in his head.

Something mechanical and precise the way engineers look when they’re running calculations.

He didn’t stop moving, but something in his posture changed.

Not his face.

His face stayed neutral, but his center of gravity dropped half an inch.

His shoulders settled.

His hands, which had been moving in slow exploratory arcs, went still.

Then he looked at Kelly.

It wasn’t a staredown.

It wasn’t a challenge, not in the cinematic sense.

It was something quieter and more unsettling.

It was the look of someone who’ just heard something interesting and was deciding what to do about it.

Kelly was still grinning, still loose, still confident.

He wasn’t backing down, wasn’t apologizing, wasn’t clarifying.

He’d said what he said, and he stood by it.

Why wouldn’t he? He had every reason to believe it.

He was bigger, stronger, more decorated in competitive fighting disciplines.

If you lined them up side by side and asked 100 people in that gym who would win in a straightup physical confrontation, 98 would have picked Kelly without hesitation.

Bruce Lee took two steps forward.

Not fast, not slow, just deliberate, the kind of steps that close distance without announcing intention.

He stopped about 6 ft away, still in that low, settled posture, weight distributed in a way that didn’t look like standing and didn’t look like fighting, but somehow suggested both.

“You think so?” he said.

His voice was quiet.

Flat, no anger in it, no edge, just a question.

Kelly shrugged, still grinning.

“I’m just saying, man.

You’re fast.

I’ve seen you move.

But size matters.

Strength matters.

You’re what? 130 135.

That’s a weight class thing, Bruce.

It’s not personal.

Lee nodded slowly like he was considering it.

Like maybe Kelly had a point.

And maybe he did.

On paper, he absolutely did.

Weight classes exist for a reason.

Physics exists for a reason.

Force equals mass times acceleration.

And if your mass is 70 lb lighter, you need a lot of acceleration to make up the difference.

Everyone in that gym knew it.

Kelly knew it.

Lee knew it.

But something about the way Lee was standing made it clear that the conversation wasn’t over.

10 seconds, Lee said.

Kelly’s grin faded just a little.

Not gone, just adjusted.

“What? Give me 10 seconds,” Lee said.

“If I’m just meat, it should take you less than that.

” And that’s when everyone in the gym realized they weren’t watching a conversation anymore.

They were watching a test.

Kelly’s expression didn’t change much.

Still confident, still composed, but there was a flicker of something else now, a recalibration happening behind his eyes.

He’d been in enough competitive situations to know when someone was calling your bluff versus when someone was actually putting something on the table.

This felt like the latter.

He straightened up slightly, rolled his shoulders once, and gave a small nod.

Not agreement exactly, more like acknowledgement.

The kind of nod that says, “All right, if that’s how you want to play it.

” “10 seconds,” Kelly repeated almost to himself.

Then louder, “All right, let’s see it.

” The gym’s ambient noise, the rhythmic clank of weights, the scuff of shoes on concrete, someone’s labored breathing three stations over, didn’t stop, but it receded into background static.

Everyone who was close enough to understand what was happening had stopped pretending to work.

A couple of guys drifted closer, not crowding, but repositioning, angling for a better view.

No one said anything.

There’s an etiquette to these moments, an unspoken understanding that you don’t narrate them while they’re unfolding.

You just watch.

Jim Kelly was a specimen.

That’s not editorializing.

It’s taxonomy.

His background was legitimate.

multiple karate championships, black belts in styles that emphasized both form and function, a competitive record that suggested he knew how to handle himself when things got real.

He’d fought in tournaments where points were scored with contact, where you couldn’t just dance around and hope for a judge’s favor.

His hands were conditioned, his footwork was sharp, and his understanding of distance and timing was refined through years of actual application.

When he moved, it was with the kind of fluidity that comes from proprioceptive awareness, knowing exactly where your body is in space, exactly how much force you’re generating, exactly when to commit and when to faint.

And he was strong, not gym strong in the inflated mirror muscle sense, but functionally strong, the kind of strength that translates into performance.

His punches carried real torque, generated from the hips and transmitted through the shoulder girdle with minimal energy loss.

His kicks had snap and penetration.

When he hit the heavy bag, it didn’t just swing, it jolted, the chain rattling violently at the ceiling mount.

Watching him work was watching somebody who understood leverage, who could make 200 lb feel like 250 when it needed to.

Bruce Lee, standing six feet away with his hands at his sides, looked like he’d wandered in from a different event entirely.

He wasn’t small in the emaciated sense.

There was clearly muscle there, dense and functional, but he occupied space differently.

Where Kelly’s physicality announced itself, Lee’s physicality whispered.

His lats flared slightly under his arms, his abdominals were visible in sharp relief.

His forearms showed the kind of vascularity that suggests low body fat and high tension capacity, but none of it added up to mass.

If you put him on a scale next to Kelly, the difference would be staggering.

If you put him in a lineup with average gym goers, he’d look fit, but unremarkable.

Nothing about his appearance suggested he could do anything Kelly couldn’t do better.

Harder, faster, except for one thing.

The way he was standing, it wasn’t a fight stance.

not in any classical sense.

His feet were about shoulder width apart, one slightly forward, weight distributed in a way that looked almost lazy.

His knees were soft, not locked, micr flexed just enough to maintain spring tension without broadcasting readiness.

His hands hung loose at his sides, fingers slightly curled, but not fisted, and his shoulders were down, not pulled back in a posture of defiance, not hunched forward in anticipation, just down, neutral.

His head was level, chin neither tucked defensively nor exposed carelessly, and his eyes were focused on Kelly without being fixed.

He looked like he was standing in line at a bank.

He looked like he was waiting for a bus, but everyone watching could feel it.

He wasn’t waiting for anything.

He was ready.

Had been ready.

Would continue to be ready whether Kelly moved or not.

Kelly took a step forward, closing the distance to about 4 ft.

He dropped into a more recognizable stance now.

Lead foot forward, back foot angled, hands coming up into a modified guard position.

not tentative, not cautious, just structured.

He was treating this like what it was, a demonstration, maybe, but one that required a degree of respect.

You don’t challenge someone in front of an audience and then sleepwalk through it.

Kelly’s weight shifted slightly forward, and his lead hand extended, probing the distance, measuring.

Lee didn’t move.

Kelly fainted, a small, quick jab.

Nothing committed, just testing reaction time.

Lee’s head moved maybe an inch, a tiny rotation that took him off line from where the punch would have landed if it had been real.

No hands came up to block.

No feet shuffled back to create space.

Just that fractional adjustment, efficient to the point of being almost imperceptible.

Kelly tried again, this time with a low kick, not full power, but enough to see how Lee would handle it.

The kick came in fast.

A sharp arc toward Lee’s lead leg.

The kind of strike that would buckle the knee if it landed clean.

Lee lifted his foot, didn’t step back, didn’t shuffle, just lifted it about 3 in and let the kick pass underneath, then placed it back down in exactly the same spot.

The whole thing took maybe a quarter second.

Kelly’s kick hit nothing but air, and the momentum carried him slightly off center.

Not badly.

Not enough that he was vulnerable, but enough that he had to reset.

The guys watching were starting to understand something, though they probably couldn’t have articulated it yet.

This wasn’t about Lee being faster, though he clearly was.

It wasn’t about him being more skilled, though that was becoming apparent.

It was about the way he was controlling the engagement without actually engaging.

Kelly was the one initiating, the one moving, the one expending energy, and Lee was just responding minimally, precisely, like he was conserving something.

Kelly stepped in harder now, committing to a combination, jab, cross, roundhouse kick, a classic sequence, well executed, the kind of series that would overwhelm most people through sheer speed and force.

His jab came in straight and fast.

His cross followed with his full body weight behind it.

His kick whipped around with enough torque to crack ribs.

Lee moved.

Not away, not back.

He moved into the combination, threading through the space between Kelly’s punches.

His body angling, twisting, compressing into a shape that seemed to occupy less volume than it had a second before.

Kelly’s jab missed by millimeters.

His cross hit the space where Lee’s head had been, but wasn’t anymore.

His kick sailed past, and suddenly Lee was inside Kelly’s guard.

Close enough that Kelly’s reach advantage meant nothing.

Close enough that Kelly’s power couldn’t generate properly.

Close enough that Lee’s hand touched Kelly’s chest.

Not a push, not a strike, just contact.

Fingers spread flat against the sternum, palm making light contact, no visible force behind it.

And Jim Kelly went backward, not stumbling, not falling, but moving, driven back across the concrete floor like someone had attached a cable to his spine and yanked it.

His feet scraped, trying to find purchase, his arms windmilled slightly, trying to regain balance, and he backpedled four, maybe 5 ft before he managed to plant and stop himself.

The gym was silent now, completely silent.

The guy with a 45lb plate had set it down.

The guy on the bench had racked his bar and was sitting up staring.

Someone had turned off the radio, or maybe it had been off the whole time, and no one had noticed.

Kelly stood there, breathing slightly harder now, looking down at his chest where Lee’s hand had been.

There was no mark, no bruise forming, no evidence of impact, but he’d felt it.

Everyone could see that he’d felt it.

Bruce Lee hadn’t moved from the spot where he’d made contact.

He was still in that same low, settled posture, hands back at his sides, breathing unchanged.

He wasn’t grinning, wasn’t gloating, wasn’t even looking particularly satisfied.

He just stood there, waiting to see if Kelly wanted to continue.

Kelly looked up.

The grin was gone now, not replaced with anger or embarrassment, but with something more complex.

Recognition, maybe.

the look of someone who’s just been shown something they didn’t know existed.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

“What the hell was that?” he said.

Lee’s expression didn’t change.

“That was 3 seconds,” he said quietly.

“You’ve got seven left.

” Kelly didn’t move immediately.

He stayed where he’d stopped, one hand coming up slowly to rest against his sternum where Lee’s palm had made contact.

He pressed slightly as if checking for injury or maybe trying to understand the physics of what had just happened.

His chest felt fine.

No sharp pain, no deep ache, nothing that suggested tissue damage or even significant impact.

But the displacement had been real.

He’d felt the force.

Felt his body respond to it involuntarily.

Felt his balance break and his feet scramble to compensate.

It wasn’t like being hit.

It was more like being moved.

like gravity had temporarily shifted directions and he’d had no choice but to follow around them.

The gym had transformed into something closer to a gallery.

More people had drifted over now, forming a loose semicircle at a respectful distance.

No one was coaching.

No one was offering commentary.

There’s a particular kind of silence that descends when trained people watch something they don’t immediately understand.

Not confusion exactly, but a collective holding of breath while the brain works to categorize what the eyes are seeing.

A couple of the guys watching were martial artists themselves, trained in systems that emphasize structure and technique, and you could see it in their faces, the slight narrowing of eyes, the unconscious mimicking of stances, the mental replay of what they just witnessed, trying to reverse engineer it.

Jim Kelly was doing the same calculation, but with more urgency.

He’d been in enough competitive environments to know the difference between a lucky shot and a demonstration of something systematic.

What had just happened wasn’t luck.

It was too controlled, too precise, too replicable looking.

Lee hadn’t wound up, hadn’t chambered, hadn’t broadcast intention through any of the usual telegraphs.

No weight shift, no shoulder rotation, no hip engagement that Kelly could detect.

The force had seemed to originate from nowhere and arrive fully formed.

and that violated Kelly’s understanding of how strikes worked.

“7 seconds,” Kelly said, more to himself than to Lee.

He rolled his shoulders again, shook out his arms, reset his stance.

The grin didn’t come back, but something else did.

Focus.

The kind of focus that appears when you stop treating something as an exhibition and start treating it as a problem that needs solving.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

His weight settled lower.

His hands came up, but in a tighter guard now, elbows in, protecting the center line.

Bruce Lee hadn’t moved.

He was still standing in that same maddeningly neutral position.

Hands loose, posture relaxed, but somehow compressed, like a spring that’s been wound, but not released.

His breathing was steady.

In through the nose, out through the mouth, no exertion, no adrenaline dump.

If you’d walked into the gym at that moment without context, you’d have thought he was meditating.

But his eyes were tracking, not fixed on Kelly’s hands or feet or shoulders, but taking in the whole picture, the entire kinetic system, reading intention before it became movement.

Kelly committed this time.

No more testing, no more probing.

He came in with intent, a fast combination, high, low, high, designed to overwhelm through tempo and angle variation.

Lead hook to the head, rear low kick to the thigh, straight right hand following through.

It was well constructed, the kind of sequence that forces defensive reactions that makes you choose what to protect and accept that something’s getting through.

His hook came in tight and fast.

His kick had real bad intentions behind it, and his straight right was thrown with his full mass behind it.

The kind of punch that ends conversations.

Lee didn’t block any of it.

Instead, he moved in a way that seemed to defy the geometry of the attack.

As Kelly’s hook came in, Lee’s head wasn’t there.

It had shifted along a plane that took it outside the arc of the punch by a margin so small you could barely see it.

As the low kick came up, Lee’s leg moved.

not away from the kick, but with it, matching its trajectory for a fraction of a second, so that the impact became a glancing thing, force dispersing across the surface rather than penetrating.

And as Kelly’s right hand came through, Lee had already rotated, his torso angling so that the punch traveled past his ear, close enough to feel the wind, but far enough to make no contact.

And then Lee was inside again.

This time both hands came up.

One touching Kelly’s lid elbow, the other making contact with his ribs.

Not punching, not striking, just connecting.

Fingers spled, palms against skin and muscle.

For a half second, nothing happened.

Kelly was mid- combination, momentum still carrying him forward, his weight committed to the punch that had just missed.

His body was extended, balanced on the edge of its range of motion.

Then Lee’s hands moved.

Not a push, not a pull.

something else, a redirect, a rotation.

Kelly’s elbow went one direction, his ribs went another, and suddenly his body’s structural integrity collapsed.

Not because anything broke, but because the architecture that holds a human body upright and functional.

The coordination between muscle groups, the alignment of joints, the distribution of force through the kinetic chain, all of it unraveled at once.

Kelly felt his feet leave the ground, felt his center of gravity shift outside his base of support, felt the world tilt.

He landed on his back on the concrete floor hard enough that the impact drove the air from his lungs in a sharp exhalation.

Not injured, Lee had controlled the descent enough that Kelly’s head didn’t bounce, his spine didn’t compress wrong, but down.

definitively down, flat on the ground, staring up at the ceiling, his brain trying to piece together the sequence of events that had put him there.

Bruce Lee was standing over him now, but not in a dominant or threatening way.

He’d simply followed Kelly’s body down, maintaining proximity, and now he was looking down with that same neutral expression, calm and unreadable.

His hands were at his sides again.

His breathing was still steady.

He looked like he’d just finished a light warm-up.

5 seconds, Lee said quietly.

Kelly lay there for a moment longer, not because he was hurt, but because he was processing.

His competitive instincts were screaming at him to get up, to reset, to continue.

But another part of his brain, the part that had kept him alive in actual fights, the part that knew when to recognize a mismatch, was telling him something different.

This wasn’t about continuing.

This wasn’t about proving toughness or resilience.

This was about understanding that he’d walked into something he hadn’t been prepared for.

He sat up slowly, carefully, checking his body’s responses as he moved.

Everything worked.

Nothing was damaged, but something had changed.

Not physically.

He was the same person he’d been 5 minutes ago.

Same strength, same speed, same technical knowledge.

But his understanding of what was possible had shifted.

He’d been moved twice now, both times with minimal visible effort, both times in ways that bypassed his defenses and his physical advantages, and Lee still had 5 seconds left.

The guys watching hadn’t made a sound.

A couple of them had unconsciously taken a step back, as if proximity to what they were witnessing carried some kind of risk.

One of them, a boxer, by the looks of his stance and the way his hands hung, was shaking his head slowly, not in disbelief, but in something closer to reverence.

Another one had his arms crossed, face set in concentration, like he was trying to memorize every detail so he could study it later.

Jim Kelly got to his feet.

He stood there for a moment, looking at Bruce Lee, and something passed between them.

Not words, not gestures, just a kind of acknowledgement.

Kelly’s shoulders dropped slightly.

The tension that had been coiling in his body for a fight released, replaced by something else.

Not submission, not defeat, but recognition.

The recognition that this wasn’t about who was tougher or stronger or more decorated.

This was about who understood something fundamental that the other person didn’t.

I’m good,” Kelly said, and his voice was different now, quieter, stripped of the casual confidence that had characterized it earlier.

Not beaten, not humiliated, just real.

I don’t need the other five.

Lee nodded once, a small economical movement.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t offer his hand to help Kelly up.

Didn’t gloat.

Didn’t launch into an explanation of what he’d just done.

He simply stood there waiting to see if Kelly meant it or if the competitive pride would resurface and demand another round.

Kelly meant it.

He brushed off his shorts, rotated his shoulders one more time, and took a step back, creating space.

The physical conversation was over, but the mental one, the one where Kelly replayed those 10 seconds over and over, trying to understand the mechanics of what had happened, that conversation was just beginning.

Someone in the back of the gym exhaled loudly and the sound seemed to break whatever spell had settled over the space.

The ambient noise returned gradually.

Someone racked a weight.

Someone else turned the radio back on.

Conversations resumed in low murmurss.

But no one approached.

No one asked questions.

There are moments that demand dissection and analysis, and there are moments that demand silence and contemplation.

Everyone there understood which kind of moment this was.

Bruce Lee walked back to the area where he’d been working before Kelly’s comment.

He picked up a towel, wiped his face and hands methodically, draped it over his shoulder.

He didn’t look back at Kelly, didn’t check to see if anyone was still watching.

He just returned to what he’d been doing, as if the previous 3 minutes had been a minor interruption rather than a demonstration that would get retold in gyms across LA for years to come.

Jim Kelly stood there a moment longer, watching Lee move through whatever drill or exercise he was working on.

The movement was hypnotic in its precision.

Weight shifting, angles changing, hands following invisible paths through space.

It looked like shadow boxing, but not quite.

It looked like Carter, but too loose, too adaptive.

It looked like dance, but too purposeful, too rooted in function.

Kelly watched for another 30 seconds, then turned and walked back to where he’d left his gym bag.

He didn’t leave immediately.

That would have looked like retreat, and whatever had just happened, it wasn’t something that required retreat.

He picked up his water bottle, took a long drink, then grabbed a pair of hand wraps, and started working on the heavy bag again, not with the same aggressive confidence as before, but with something more measured, thoughtful.

His punches were still powerful, still technically sound, but there was a deliberateness to them now, like he was asking questions with each strike rather than making statements.

The other guys in the gym gradually returned to their routines, but the atmosphere had shifted.

Conversations were quieter, movements were more considered.

It was as if Lee’s demonstration had reminded everyone that there were levels to this, levels of understanding, levels of capability, levels of efficiency, and that maybe the pursuit of size and strength, while valuable, wasn’t the complete picture.

Bruce Lee finished his movement sequence, picked up his shirt from where he draped it over a piece of equipment, and pulled it on.

He moved toward the exit without ceremony, without acknowledgement.

As he passed near Kelly, he paused for half a step and spoke without looking directly at him.

“Meat has weight,” Lee said, his voice just loud enough for Kelly to hear.

“But it doesn’t have intelligence.

It doesn’t adapt.

It doesn’t control itself.

” He paused.

“You’re not meat.

Don’t let anyone tell you that you are, including yourself.

” Then he continued toward the door and was gone.

Kelly stopped mid- punch, his fist still pressed against the heavy bag.

He stood there motionless, processing what had just been said.

It wasn’t an insult.

It wasn’t even a correction.

It was something closer to an offering, a reframing of the entire interaction.

Lee hadn’t been trying to humiliate him or prove superiority.

He’d been responding to the premise, to the idea that physical capacity could be reduced to simple mass and force.

The story spread as these stories do.

Different versions emerged over time, but the core remained consistent.

Jim Kelly had made a comment about size and strength.

Bruce Lee had asked for 10 seconds, and in less than that time, something had happened that changed how Kelly and everyone who witnessed it thought about what strength actually meant.

Years later, Kelly would occasionally be asked about it.

He never denied it happened, never downplayed it, but he also never framed it as a loss or an embarrassment.

Instead, he’d describe it as educational.

Bruce showed me something that day, he’d say.

He showed me that there’s a difference between being strong and being effective, between looking dangerous and being dangerous.

The guys who were there that day carried their own versions forward.

The lesson wasn’t that strength didn’t matter.

Everyone in that gym knew it mattered.

The lesson was that strength without control, without precision, without understanding, was just potential energy that might never get properly applied.

What Jim Kelly learned in those 10 seconds, or more accurately, in the 5 seconds it actually took was something you can’t learn from a textbook.

He learned it kinesthetically through his body’s involuntary response to forces it couldn’t predict or counter.

He learned that the human body isn’t just a collection of muscles that produce force.

It’s a system, and systems can be disrupted in ways that raw power can’t prevent.

Bruce Lee didn’t invent that knowledge, but he’d refined it, systematized it, stripped away the mysticism, and reduced it to something functional.

That day in the gym wasn’t about ego or dominance.

It was about information transfer.

Kelly had presented a thesis that physical superiority was straightforward and measurable.

Lee had presented an antithesis that it was contextual and complex.

The comment that started it, “You’re just a simple piece of meat,” was probably meant as locker room banter, but it touched on something deeper, something about how we categorize human capability.

And Lee’s response, both physical and verbal, was a rejection of that categorization, not through argument, but through demonstration.

10 seconds.

That’s all he had asked for.

He’d only needed five.

And in those 5 seconds, he’d done more than win a challenge or prove a point.

He’d change the terms of the conversation.

Some athletes win competitions.

Some break records.

Some redefine what their sport looks like.

and some, very few, change how people think about what’s possible.

That’s what happened in a concrete floor gym in Los Angeles sometime in the early ‘7s.

The lesson was delivered, received, and remembered, and Jim Kelly, to his credit, never forgot it.

Claude is AI and can make mistakes.

Please doublech checkck responses.