Muhammad Ali and Mortality
Muhammad Ali and Mortality
By Patrick ConnorFor days on end the world has been desperate to fill the veritable crater that Muhammad Ali's death created -- with words and tears, but re
By Patrick Connor
For days on end the world has been desperate to fill the veritable crater that Muhammad Ali's death created -- with words and tears, but really with anything that can occupy enough time to process the loss. Ali teased about his immortality for decades, but his passing at age 74 sadly reminded everyone that "The Greatest" was indeed mortal, shaking up the world one final time.
In remembering Ali the human being, it's easy to forget Ali the fighter. Boxing could have been little more than a vehicle for his ambition to manifest itself, and Ali may have gone on to be great at something else had he not chosen the sweet science. He did, though, and the sport was never the same.
At only 17-years-old Ali was headlining amateur fight cards and hogging the spotlight at national tournaments. A reporter on hand at the National AAU Boxing Championships in 1959 called Ali (then Cassius Clay) "the classiest contestant the amateur field has seen in years." He was compared to Joe Louis, one of the most popular American sports figures of all time, except he fought with a natural speed and athleticism that Louis never possessed. His potential was endless, but that wasn't enough; he needed something else to fight, and after winning the gold medal in the 1960 Olympics he got it.
Ali traveled back home to Louisville, Ky. expecting a hero's welcome, but instead the racial prejudice he had encountered before winning gold in Rome was amplified. Honoring his country by becoming the best light heavyweight on the planet meant nothing when he couldn't even get restaurants to serve him because of the color of his skin.
Later in 1960 Ali turned professional, and though boxing had seen its share of surprising quickness and agility, they had never been cross-pollinated with his Ali's brand of swagger. Prior to Ali, there would always be some claim a fighter made but couldn't possibly back up. Ali made sure his grandstanding was justifiable.
But Ali was ultimately human, and the dichotomy between the immortal and the ephemeral was a constant theme in his life, even if it took him years to understand it. When Ali was 54, he was visited by author David Remnick. "That's the only time I was ever scared in the ring," Ali told Remnick. "Sonny Liston. First time. First round. Said he was gonna kill me." You wouldn't have known it, though. Ali's vital signs suggested that he was calm as could be. Remnick said that Ali watched his 22-year-old self on television just as one of us would: with admiration in his eyes.
A figure so elegant and magnificent could not last. The in-ring blood sacrifices that Ali continually made through the 1960s and 1970s added up, eventually robbing him of his wonderful speech and unbridled facial expressions. With every glaring sign of his descent came a sort of forced introspection from the rest of the world. After all he had done to and for us, what had we done to one of our most beloved figures?
The world got its first glimpse of Ali's fate almost exactly 20 years ago, at the Opening Ceremony of the 1996 Olympic Games. As he trembled while lighting the Olympic Cauldron, clearly struggling with the symptoms of his worsening Parkinson's Disease, the world held its breath. It was perhaps only then that we could comprehend the price that "The Greatest" would be made to pay for becoming boxing nobility. The 20 years we've had to prepare for Ali's death weren't enough.
When Joe Louis, the man Ali had been compared to at such a young age, passed in 1981, Ali said, "From black folks to red-neck Mississippi crackers, they loved him. They're all crying. That shows you. Howard Hughes dies, with all his billions, not a tear. Joe Louis, everybody cried." Ali became more polarizing than Louis, who was far less likely to rock the boat, but still we all cried.
While Louis was a masterful combination puncher who still holds a title defense record, Ali successfully built his style on ego, embarrassing anyone insolent enough to challenge him in the ring. Like Jack Johnson, Joe Gans and Kid Chocolate before him, Ali helped blaze new stylistic trails, popularizing certain techniques that are still utilized today. Ali the man changed the world immeasurably, but Ali the fighter provided direct inspiration to generations of fighters. He became boxing.
The "Thrilla in Manila." The "Rumble in the Jungle." The "Drama in the Bahamas." The "Phantom Punch." And finally, "The Greatest." All are terms or phrases embraced by the American lexicon, and any self-respecting boxing fan can tell you what these things mean, but not without a bombardment of emotion and memories. One moment becomes two, and those two become all of them. That is the very definition of power and influence. That is Muhammad Ali.
For days on end the world has been desperate to fill the veritable crater that Muhammad Ali's death created -- with words and tears, but really with anything that can occupy enough time to process the loss. Ali teased about his immortality for decades, but his passing at age 74 sadly reminded everyone that "The Greatest" was indeed mortal, shaking up the world one final time.
In remembering Ali the human being, it's easy to forget Ali the fighter. Boxing could have been little more than a vehicle for his ambition to manifest itself, and Ali may have gone on to be great at something else had he not chosen the sweet science. He did, though, and the sport was never the same.
At only 17-years-old Ali was headlining amateur fight cards and hogging the spotlight at national tournaments. A reporter on hand at the National AAU Boxing Championships in 1959 called Ali (then Cassius Clay) "the classiest contestant the amateur field has seen in years." He was compared to Joe Louis, one of the most popular American sports figures of all time, except he fought with a natural speed and athleticism that Louis never possessed. His potential was endless, but that wasn't enough; he needed something else to fight, and after winning the gold medal in the 1960 Olympics he got it.
Ali traveled back home to Louisville, Ky. expecting a hero's welcome, but instead the racial prejudice he had encountered before winning gold in Rome was amplified. Honoring his country by becoming the best light heavyweight on the planet meant nothing when he couldn't even get restaurants to serve him because of the color of his skin.
Later in 1960 Ali turned professional, and though boxing had seen its share of surprising quickness and agility, they had never been cross-pollinated with his Ali's brand of swagger. Prior to Ali, there would always be some claim a fighter made but couldn't possibly back up. Ali made sure his grandstanding was justifiable.
But Ali was ultimately human, and the dichotomy between the immortal and the ephemeral was a constant theme in his life, even if it took him years to understand it. When Ali was 54, he was visited by author David Remnick. "That's the only time I was ever scared in the ring," Ali told Remnick. "Sonny Liston. First time. First round. Said he was gonna kill me." You wouldn't have known it, though. Ali's vital signs suggested that he was calm as could be. Remnick said that Ali watched his 22-year-old self on television just as one of us would: with admiration in his eyes.
A figure so elegant and magnificent could not last. The in-ring blood sacrifices that Ali continually made through the 1960s and 1970s added up, eventually robbing him of his wonderful speech and unbridled facial expressions. With every glaring sign of his descent came a sort of forced introspection from the rest of the world. After all he had done to and for us, what had we done to one of our most beloved figures?
The world got its first glimpse of Ali's fate almost exactly 20 years ago, at the Opening Ceremony of the 1996 Olympic Games. As he trembled while lighting the Olympic Cauldron, clearly struggling with the symptoms of his worsening Parkinson's Disease, the world held its breath. It was perhaps only then that we could comprehend the price that "The Greatest" would be made to pay for becoming boxing nobility. The 20 years we've had to prepare for Ali's death weren't enough.
When Joe Louis, the man Ali had been compared to at such a young age, passed in 1981, Ali said, "From black folks to red-neck Mississippi crackers, they loved him. They're all crying. That shows you. Howard Hughes dies, with all his billions, not a tear. Joe Louis, everybody cried." Ali became more polarizing than Louis, who was far less likely to rock the boat, but still we all cried.
While Louis was a masterful combination puncher who still holds a title defense record, Ali successfully built his style on ego, embarrassing anyone insolent enough to challenge him in the ring. Like Jack Johnson, Joe Gans and Kid Chocolate before him, Ali helped blaze new stylistic trails, popularizing certain techniques that are still utilized today. Ali the man changed the world immeasurably, but Ali the fighter provided direct inspiration to generations of fighters. He became boxing.
The "Thrilla in Manila." The "Rumble in the Jungle." The "Drama in the Bahamas." The "Phantom Punch." And finally, "The Greatest." All are terms or phrases embraced by the American lexicon, and any self-respecting boxing fan can tell you what these things mean, but not without a bombardment of emotion and memories. One moment becomes two, and those two become all of them. That is the very definition of power and influence. That is Muhammad Ali.