An appreciation: Muhammad Ali's road to greatness
Fate intervenes in our lives in so many unexpected ways. Would Muhammad Ali have become the most recognizable athlete of the 20th Century if his brand-new bicycle hadn’t been stolen when he was 12, and still unaware of his eventual destiny? Would the future three-time heavyweight champion have lived out his life in virtual anonymity as Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. had not a caring Louisville, Ky., police officer suggested he channel his anger over the missing bike into a constructive outlet like, say, boxing?
It might be inferred that that bike thief – whose identity never was determined – did as much to shape the life and legend of boxing's most charismatic figure as did Ali's longtime trainer, Angelo Dundee, or his signature opponents Sonny Liston, Joe Frazier, George Foreman and Ken Norton, or his controversial religious advisers Elijah Muhammad and Malcolm X, or the legions of young, disaffected people in the turbulent 1960s and '70s who came to view the handsome, outspoken fighter as a symbol of their own struggle against what they believed to be a repressive American society.
Boxing was the principal platform that made Muhammad Ali who and what he was, but it was not the only one. His almost incomprehensible celebrity – some would say notoriety – was also fueled by his conversion to Islam, his refusal to be inducted into the United States Army because of his opposition to the Vietnam War and his 43-month forced exile from boxing at the height of his career because of what his supporters considered to be as courageous and principled a stand as anything he achieved in the ring.
Muhammad Ali – self-proclaimed “Greatest of All Time,” political and social activist, polarizing symbol of one of the most divisive eras in American history – finally was outpointed by the one foe, the Grim Reaper, that no boxer can fend off indefinitely. Ali – 74 years old and in declining health for decades because of the debilitating effects of Parkinson’s syndrome – passed away on Friday in a hospital in the Phoenix area. But as is the case with an infinitesimally small percentage of human beings, he is likely to be as or more renowned in death as he was in life.
The gradual metamorphosis of Muhammad Ali, boastful firebrand, into a sympathetic, respected and, yes, widely beloved figure might be surprising to those who once were on the opposite side of that yawning philosophical divide, but it is indicative of the transformative effects time can have on someone’s image as public perceptions shift. In the interim since his final boxing match, a 10-round points loss to Trevor Berbick on Dec. 11, 1981, in Nassau, the Bahamas, Ali had been presented the Presidential Citizens Medal by President George W. Bush on Jan. 25, 2005, and the Liberty Medal in Philadelphia, in celebration of the 225th anniversary of the ratification of the U.S. Constitution, on Sept. 13, 2012. He undertook missions to developing countries to deliver food and medical supplies, in addition to serving as a fundraiser for Special Olympics and the Muhammad Ali Parkinson Research Center in Phoenix. He was named “Sportsman of the 20th Century” by Sports Illustrated and “Sports Personality of the 20th Century" by the British Broadcasting Company. He even helped facilitate the freeing of 15 Americans and two Canadians during a face-to-face meeting with Iraq’s brutal dictator, Saddam Hussein, in Baghdad in 1990.
At the Liberty Medal ceremony, Joe Louis Barrow II, son of the late, great heavyweight champion Joe Louis, acknowledged the difference – and the similarity – between his father and Ali, who was seated to the side wearing dark glasses and a dark suit.
"Like my father when you entered the sport of boxing, the world was in turmoil, much as it is today," Barrow said. "The two of you made opposite choices – my father choosing to volunteer in World War II and you, for religious convictions, refusing to serve in Vietnam. In different ways, you both defended the ideals of the Constitution. But time has shown you were both on the right side of history."
There might be some continuing dissent as to that assertion, but beyond dispute is Ali's status as one of the finest fighters ever to lace up a pair of padded gloves. His accomplishments are impressive enough for those who choose only to regard him on a statistical basis. As an amateur he had 100 wins in 108 bouts and claimed six Kentucky Golden Gloves titles, two National Golden Gloves titles, an AAU national title and an Olympic gold medal in Rome in 1960. Moving on to the pros, he was 56-5 with 37 KOs, thrice won the heavyweight championship, was unanimously inducted as a charter member into the International Boxing Hall of Fame in 1990. But those figures alone do not begin to describe a transcendent figure that was, simply, an original beyond replication.
There were two Alis, really. There was the lithe, sleek, pre-exile version whose balletic movements and blurring hand speed transformed a brutal sport into an art form, and the older, heavier model whose ability to absorb frightful punishment and come back firing was no less mesmerizing. Choosing between the two Alis is like asking an Elvis Presley fan to decide between the rebellious, hip-shaking 1950s rock 'n' icon and the plumper, jumpsuited incarnation playing Vegas in the '70s.
"Ali before the layoff was a better fighter than Ali after," his late trainer, Dundee, said in 1995. "What a lot of people don't realize, and it's sad, is we never saw him at his peak. The Ali who fought Cleveland Williams and Zora Folley was the best he could be at that time, but he was getting bigger and stronger and more experienced in the ring. What was he, 25 years old when they made him stop? Those next three years would have been his peak. If he had continued getting better at the rate he was going, God only knows how great he would have been."
So all fight fans should now offer silent thanks to that bike thief who made off with Cassius Clay Jr.'s shiny new ride in the summer of 1954. Young Cassius had pedaled to the Louisville Service Club, where local businessmen were giving away free balloons and ice cream to the kids. When he discovered his bike was missing, an incensed Clay was directed to a Louisville police officer, Joe Martin, who was also the boxing coach at the nearby Columbia Gym.
"If I find out who stole my bike, I'm gonna whup him," Clay told Martin.
Replied Martin: "You better learn to fight before you start fighting."
So Clay arrived the next afternoon at the Columbia Gym, where he became enthralled with the rat-tat-tat sound of other kids hitting the speed bags, the thud of their punches on the heavy bags, the grace of their rope-skipping. He continued to come back every day, each visit helping formulate his plan for what he could and would do to make his mark in the world.
Thus was the indifferent, daydreaming student (he finished 376th out of 391 students in his graduating class at all-black Central High) set on his path to immortality, or as close to it as flesh-and-blood humans can possibly come.
For the most part Ali eagerly embraced his fame, but there were moments of introspection when he found it confining. During a 1983 visit to Jackson, Miss., for the Medgar Evers Homecoming, he mused about how someone who had experienced so much could actually miss the little things that others take for granted.
"My dream is to go somewhere and not be recognized," he said. "To go to the beach, to the amusement park with the kids and not have to stop and sign autographs all the time. But being famous is not so bad. Everybody enjoys being recognized and admired. Anyway, you get used to it."
Did he ever.
