Muhammad Ali 1942-2016

The Greatest walking the walk, 1967
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"Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake,
for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven."

Jesus of Nazareth
From the Sermon on the Mount

"No Vietcong ever called me a nigger."

Muhammad Ali
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One of my more peculiar personality traits is that I am totally indifferent to sports. I cannot remember what I was doing earlier this year while everyone else was viewing the Super Bowl. I might have been taking a drive in the country - or perhaps I was watching C-SPAN. I might have been curled up on the sofa with a good book. Even a bad book would be preferable to the Super Bowl. I'm not trying to make myself out to be some kind of cultural supremacist;  I might very well have been passed out drunk somewhere. The point I am trying to make is this: Football, baseball, basketball, hockey, golf, lacrosse, polo, croquet - you name it - I could not care less if I tried. In fact, there is only one "sport" that I have an opinion on and a passion about: boxing - I hate it. I find boxing, in general, a barbaric spectacle; and boxers, in particular (and I'm being gentle here), I find "uninteresting". Sorry.

This being the case, why have I always adored Muhammad Ali? I just can't figure it out....Then again, maybe I can.

It was with a real sadness that I received the news early this morning that Ali passed into eternity late last night after struggling with Parkinson's Disease for the last thirty-two years of his life. This is a milestone, folks; make no mistake about it.

I'm hesitant about pointing out with any degree of pride that Ali and my maternal grandfather both hailed from Louisville, Kentucky. When Grandpa Clements was growing up, that town was a nice place to live. Of course, that would be the case for a white kid whose father was a prosperous and respected tobacco farmer. That certainly was not the case for a little black child named Cassius Clay. One of his earliest memories was being in a department store with his mother on a blistering hot summer day, and wanting a drink of water - only to be gently told by her that he could not relieve his thirst - not there - because his skin was too dark. One can only imagine the psychic toll this must have taken - not only on this kid - but countless millions of other black kids growing up in the America of that time.

When his bicycle was stolen as an adolescent, he complained to a Louisville police officer that he was going to "whup" the boy who took it if he ever got his hands on him. History doesn't record if young Cassius ever got his bike back. What it does record is that the cop, Joe Martin, explained to him that if that was the case, he'd better learn how to box. The kindly man arranged for the kid to meet him at the local gym where he was a boxing coach. How different this world would be today but for the decency and foresight of Officer Joe Martin. Here's looking at you, Joe, we owe you one!
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Malcolm and Muhammad, 1964
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From the beginning of his time in public life, going all the way back to the year 1960, it was clear to the most casual of observers that this "negro" was very different indeed. He didn't take any shit from anyone, for any reason whatsoever - consequences be damned. Like it or not, a new day had arrived in the "land of the free", and Clay. along with millions of other African Americans of his generation, was determined to assert himself as a human being, proud and unafraid. The hell with those moronic and evil Jim Crow laws. No more of that "Stepin Fetchit" jazz. He "knew his place", alright. And that place was wherever the hell he chose to be, whenever the hell he chose to be there. This son-of-a-bitch was the real deal - you'd better believe it.

This was made all-too-clear in 1967 when Clay - now a convert to Islam who renamed himself, "Muhammad Ali" - refused to put on an American military uniform and be sent off to Vietnam. At a hearing on the matter, when the bailiff ordered him to step forward, he called him by his old slave name, "Cassius Clay". Ali refused to acknowledge it. He could have lost everything, and, in fact, he did lose everything for a while. He lost his title of Heavyweight Champion and his right to legally box. For four, long years, he was effectively out-of-commission; a has-been. Only a legal technicality saved him from serving time in prison. In a move that could only be defined as pure spite, the government seized his passport in order to keep him from fighting abroad.

By 1971, Muhammad Ali was back in the ring, back in the public's favor. By then, we had all come to realize that Vietnam was - until that time anyway - the worst military blunder in American history. We understood at that moment that, like all great men and women of historical significance, he had been years ahead of the curve. It was never a question of America forgiving him. He forgave America before being asked to. Class act, that Ali.

You have to give credit to any man - black or white - who, in 1967, was able to look America in the eye and tell them, "To hell with your goddamned war."

MY own little claim to fame is that I was fortunate enough to meet Muhammad Ali. It was the spring of 1989, and I was working on the top of two-sections of scaffolding on the northwest corner of Broadway and West 39th Street in New York City. I glanced to my left, and there he was - the freakin' Greatest! - standing on the other side of 39th with a man I did not recognize. I've never been one to bother celebrities but, please forgive me, I couldn't resist this opportunity. I got down to street level and gingerly crossed the street. Very timidly and shyly, I approached him. 

"Hi!" I said softly. He smiled back at me. I then, very gently, gave him three pats on the back. "I just wanted to give you that", I said. He smiled again and gave me a thumbs up. I returned to my job site and went back to work, not quite believing what had just happened. It was such a sweet moment.
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Within two-or-three minutes he was surrounded by well wishers, people who wanted to show him how much they loved him. By this point in time, he was already exhibiting the symptoms of the Parkinson's that claimed his life last night. I watched him as he attempted to sign a few autographs. Soon the crowd was almost overwhelming and the police had to escort him and his friend away. He was never in any danger, but it was definitely getting getting a bit out-of-hand. In spite of that, it was obvious to me that he appreciated the love. How could anyone not love Muhammad Ali? Even Joe Frazier loved Mohammad Ali. Hell, even I loved Mohammad Ali. For someone who despises the institution of boxing as much as I do, that says all you need to know about the man. What was it about Ali?

I'm not in a position to write intelligently about the career of Muhammad Ali. As stated earlier, sports has never really been my shtick. I do vividly recall the Frazier fights and remember being pleased that Ali came out the victor the second time around. All I can tell you is that I admired the man and loved him for his courage. Isn't that enough?

Muhammad Ali is dead. Give me some time to adjust to this.

Tom Degan
Goshen, NY

SUGGESTED VIEWING:

One of the most spectacular failures in the history of commercial television was Jerry Lewis' variety/talk show, which ran for about two months in the autumn of 1963. It premiered to great fanfare in September, and was gone by mid-November - a complete bomb that took Lewis years to recover from, both personally and professionally.

But there were, at least, a couple of memorable evenings: One of them was the night Jerry interviewed a very young Cassius Clay, as Muhammad Ali was then known. This is in two parts:

Part One: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JK6Yoq3xhH8

Part Two: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I77mo8SFvBs

There'll never be another like him. Stop waiting.
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FAB FOUR ACTION FIGURES meet THE GREATEST
February, 1964