The Ali of my memories

Muhammad Ali died over the weekend, and the world is that much dimmer for it. Though I had only met him once, his imprint on this writer, sports and society will last forever. He was not only an outstanding athlete who made use of his physical gifts and huge personality, he fought the fight for what is right in society, and stood firmly on the side against sending young men to die in a war they had no stake in. In an age before the Internet and even the explosion of television in all its forms, he was the very definition of a cultural icon. We would do well to remember what he stood for, as the most identifiable athlete in the world for over 50 years, before the geometrically expanding media catapulted Michael Jordan and his generation to the forefront of our relentlessly voracious consciousness. 

The young Cassius Clay took up boxing after his bicycle was stolen as an adolescent. He was not blessed with power, but agility and hand speed. Soon, the “Louisville Lip”, as he was called, was making headlines, both in a positive and negative way. Ali won the 1960 Olympic gold medal boxing as a light heavyweight, signaling the golden age of heavyweight boxing, as he was followed by heavyweight gold medalists Joe Frazier (1964) and George Foreman (1968). But he also called attention to the hypocrisy in American society when, in an apocryphal story, he supposedly tossed his Olympic medal into a river after being refused entry into a restaurant upon his return to the US, because of the color of his skin. This turned the hot spotlight onto Ali, and it would never leave him. 

As a professional boxer, Ali took a page from radio interviews he had heard of pro wrestler Gorgeous George, a master of self-promotion. He painted simplistic (and sometimes inaccurate) portraits of his opponents, making himself out to be the epitome of the sport, and everyone else a slave to the white establishment. In an interview with Al Jazeera upon Joe Frazier’s death in November of 2011, I recalled how, growing up, Ali was the white hat, and Frazier was the evil gorilla, a harsh, false image of the man who even helped Ali through his financial troubles when he had been stripped of his boxing license. A fabrication that built animosity between the two, heightened when Ali helped light the Olympic flame in Atlanta in 1996, and Frazier publicly wished Ali had fallen into the fire and burned to death, instead.

That was the era of mandatory military service for all healthy American males of adult age. But Ali refused to enlist, unlike all the other celebrities of that time. He said that the Vietnamese had never done anything to him, never called him names, never abused African-American women. He loudly proclaimed he would rather stay at home and fight racism where it lived. He could have kept his mouth shut and his head down, and kept boxing, but no. His sacrifice? Three years of his prime as a professional athlete, years he would never get back. His beliefs were fortified even more as a devout Muslim, in an age when all sorts of inconsistencies in American life were being brought to light. So Ali chose to suffer oppression, amplified by his being a proud black man who was simple standing up for his rights and beliefs.

Of course, Ali is dear to the Filipino people, who have a mall named after him, of all things. Ali was a sensation when he came to the country over four decades ago for the “Thrilla in Manila”, the sports and social highlight of the year, one part of his thrilling trilogy with Frazier. Quiet, conservative Filipinos were amused by and enamored of this noisy American who said what most of us thought, and was not ashamed to be his own person. As a young boy trying to fit in, to me he was a beacon of hope and strength, proof that you did not need to be afraid, and that even if you were alone, that was okay. If you did what was right, you would not be alone for long. 

Ali also became the symbol for a sport that knew it had to evolve. Stricken with Parkinson’s disease in 1984, he was a living clarion call for reform in the sport, a sign that not everything was okay, similar to how American football had to address the thousands of cases of chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE), brain trauma among former NFL players that redefined the sport 30 years later. Ali’s loud boasting was reduced to a whisper and a mischievous smile, his firm grip a shaky grasp of a pen for fans asking for autographs. Entering the 21st century, a sports apparel company released a Muhammad Ali collection to help him out with medical expenses. But today’s generation seemed disconnected with this giant figure from their parents’ time, forgetting that Ali was an example for all time. 

At those selfsame Atlanta Olympics, I had my first, indelible encounter with The Greatest. It was halftime of the gold medal game in men’s basketball, and the latest iteration of the “Dream Team” was about to break the game open against Vlade Divac and his countrymen. As the crowd made for the restrooms and concession stands, an announcement went up over the public address system. The president of the International Olympic Committee, Juan Antonio Samaranch, was going to make a special presentation. I found it odd since the game wasn’t over yet, and stayed at my broadcast position a few tiers up from the floor. I had a direct line of sight down the tunnel into the locker rooms, and could make out a golf cart slowly crawling up the ramp, with a chubby male figure in a red collared shirt in the passenger seat.

The public address announcer explained how Ali had lost his 1960 gold medal, and that the IOC was now bestowing upon him a replica of that same medal. The crowd was on its feet. The American players, all rich and famous NBA veterans, were in awe, too shy to even approach Ali, until Charles Barkley, true to his nature, broke through and gave him a big bear hug. Ali whispered something, and they all laughed, completely disarmed, and everything was right with the world. As I explained what was going on to the Philippine audience, a murmur gradually swept through the crowd of close to 35,000 at the Georgia Dome. The murmur turned into a roar, a chant not heard in a generation: Ali! Ali! Ali! Electricity went down my spine, and I, along with half the people in arena, cried unashamedly. He had meant so much to so many.

Ali was indeed many things to many people: a fighter for freedom of choice, the first man to win the heavyweight title three times, a spokesman for minority rights, and so much more. Movies have been made about him (“Ali” starring Will Smith, and Apollo Creed of the “Rocky” films was based on him), songs have been composed for him (“The Greatest Love of All” was the theme of his autobiographical film where he played himself), books have placed all his deeds under a microscope. In an era where public figures give us safe, non-committal answers to hard questions, Muhammad Ali spoke the truth, and lived his life the way he wanted to. I pray we remember what he meant universally, regardless of the personal cost. With his death, a part of nobility died, as well.