I recently went to Amazon.com in hopes of finding a biography of Muhammad Ali and came away disappointed. Oh, there was no shortage of books about the former heavyweight boxing champion. But I could not find a single one I would want to read. Some were of the juvenile variety, whereas most were deep into hero-worship—Ali was great, so great, the greatest of all time. That may be true, although Jack Johnson, Jack Dempsey, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, Sonny Liston, Ken Norton, Larry Holmes, Mike Tyson and some others could fight as well. I do not pretend to be a boxing expert, but I have an idea of the general consensus. Those in the know say that Ali’s combination of speed, grace, power, footwork, defensive skills, ability to adjust to changing circumstances during a fight and sheer boxing savvy were unmatched. He does seem to have been the best to ever lace up a pair of Everlast gloves and step into the ring.
I, like so many others, enjoyed watching him fight. Ali was a tremendous athlete who took the “sweet science” to another level entirely. He retired in 1981 with a pro record of 56-5. As is well known, Ali has paid a high price for that success with Parkinson’s syndrome which has left him a doddering, mute, shadow of his former self. Gone are the days when he spoke bombastically, reminding one and all of his brilliance as a boxer and human being.
The book I sought would have done more than flatter Ali. It would have gone into detail about his early life in Louisville, Kentucky. His parents named him Cassius Marcellus Clay, and what a namesake! This Clay was not black but European-American and also a Kentucky native. His life spanned 1810 to 1903, and he was a prominent anti-slavery crusader. In 1849, while giving an emancipation speech, Clay was assaulted by six men. He fought them off and killed one with a Bowie knife. Like his contemporary, John Brown, Clay believed in the equality of the races and was horrified by slavery.
Back to Clay the boxer, who took the Mohammedan name of Muhammad Ali in 1964. He was born into a segregated environment, but he had a stable home life with a mother and a father (both of whom had jobs), and a younger brother. Only later when he fell under control of the Black Mohammedans did he begin constructing a life history wherein he grew up in the projects, wore tattered clothes and roamed the streets looking for scraps of food. And what about the often-told story of Clay returning from the Rome Olympics with a gold medal around his neck, getting into a confrontation with a racist motorcycle gang (another version holds that he was refused service in a restaurant) and tossing it into the Ohio River? Completely bogus. It, too, was concocted with encouragement from the Black Mohammedans. The truth is, Clay just lost his gold medal. The lie made him look heroic and made the honks look bad, which was presumably good. Anyway, it covered up the fact that Clay was an idiot who somehow lost his Olympic gold medal.
Ali, as he came to be known, was a mass of contradictions. He took enormous, obsessive pride in being black. And yet he sometimes made snide remarks about African women, saying they would be prettier if some “white” blood were running through their veins. Making judgments about lightness or darkness of skin is a crude thing, but he did so constantly. Ali was fairly light, as were all four of his wives.
Let us now recall some of the words Ali directed to Joe Frazier, his main nemesis. Frazier, a proud man, had come from much more difficult circumstances than had Ali. He was dark and a fine-looking guy in my opinion. During the lead-up to the “Thrilla in Manila” on October 1, 1975, Ali made some truly loathsome remarks about his pugilistic opponent. (Frazier, I should mention, had quietly donated money to Ali several times during his three years away from the sport after refusing induction into the U.S. armed forces.) “Joe Frazier should give his face to the Wildlife Fund!” Ali declared to a roaring crowd of blacks. “He so ugly [sic], blind men go the other way. He not only looks bad, you can smell him in another country. What will the people in Manila think? We can’t have a gorilla for a champ. They’re going to think, looking at him, that all black brothers are animals. Ignorant, stupid, ugly. If he’s champ, other nations will laugh at us.” On several occasions, Ali called Frazier an Uncle Tom. Frazier a Tom? By no means. He was a rough, tough fellow who took nothing from anybody. You crossed Joe Frazier at your peril.
Frazier never forgave Ali. I realize that persons of European descent, such as me, are not supposed to speak on these matters. PC strictures aside, I say that Ali, who is now 71, has no choice but to take ownership of the above lines. The Muhammad Ali Center in Louisville is a popular place, drawing more than 100,000 visitors per year. It includes photos of him with various heads of state, talking to Howard Cosell after some of his big boxing victories, him on covers of Sports Illustrated and his famous line, “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” I will bet dollars to donuts that it makes no reference to the hyperbolic and hateful words he spoke of another fine boxer, Joe Frazier. Ali’s athletic achievements are—to whatever degree—lessened by such things. Give me a sportsman any day, a guy who honors his opponent and treats him with genuine respect.
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