My Time with Muhammad Ali

My friend Muhammad Ali passed away on June 3rd at the age of 74. I want to tell you the part of his story that intersected mine, briefly, when I was a kid.

I was a pudgy early teen when I went to see Ali train. I had my trusty Mamiya Sekor SLR camera and my grandfather, who had once worked as a corner man for the boxing legend Willie Pep. I never thought of my grandfather as racist, but he had genuine trouble calling Cassius Clay by his new name. He was never quite sure Sonny Liston had not taken a dive in that first championship fight. I think that is part of why he begrudged the name change. The day we visited Deer Lake to watch Ali train for the Rumble in the Jungle, all of that changed.

It was a magical era for heavyweight boxing. Thanks to Ali’s showmanship the purses climbed, and incredibly talented athletes pointed themselves at boxing. I do not think we will see that generation again.

Personally, Ali was larger than life to me. I had no real concept of the color of his skin, any more than I knew Bruce Lee was Chinese. Heroes take the nonsense out of life. One of my friends in Southeastern Pennsylvania arranged the visit. I do not remember which one. I do remember being there in the presence of someone I had read about in magazines.

I tried to make myself as small as a not quite pubescent body would let me. Ali was not alone. Angelo Dundee was there overseeing the training. Drew “Bundini” Brown was exhorting and building him up jab by jab. The atmosphere was electric.

Try as I might to remain invisible, Ali came over, shook my hand, and welcomed me. He chatted briefly with my grandfather about some of the great old timers, white and black. I left with two or three rolls of black and white film that contain shots no one else on the planet has, and an autographed “Float Like a Butterfly Sting Like a Bee, Thrilla in Manila” T shirt I have been offered thousands of dollars for. I never sold it.

More than the photos, I left with the memory of being in the presence of greatness and a true gentleman, and an athlete who still inspires me today to be better than my average white genetics would suggest I could be.

I saw Ali work out. I saw Ali the man, the leader. To me, he was the Greatest.

My grandfather became a fan. He never called him Cassius Clay again. He was Muhammad Ali.

For a while I felt sorry for George Foreman. Then George came back and wrote his own story.

I thought a long time afterward about Ali’s ability to turn nearly every person who met him into a fan. It was not his stature as an athlete. It was not his willingness to stand by his own beliefs when persecution was the cost. I think I got a small glimpse into the man himself. He was humble in a way that disarmed you. Ingratiating without trying. He let everyone in the room see their own potential for greatness, and made you believe overcoming anything was possible.

I will miss him as a friend, because for the length of one handshake and one smile he was completely present in front of me.

If President Obama meant Ali fought for everyone when he said “Ali fought for us,” I agree. He shouldered the burdens of social injustice with grace, and he was everyone’s champion. He showed all of us what we could become.

Of that, I am certain.

Dr Dave

I went back to Deer Lake many years later for a seminar put on by my friend Matt Furey. My original karate sensei George Dillman was there, as was the grandson of the great wrestler Farmer Burns. I would not be surprised if I wound up back there again. The circular nature of life never stops surprising me.

— Doc