I’m no celebrity worshiper, but there are times when you find yourself in the presence of such acute greatness that you can’t help but just acquiesce. I think Richard Harris described this phenomenon in “Unforgiven,” when he draws the difference between a president (“I mean, why NOT shoot a president?”) and a queen (“You would stand ... how shall I put it? In awe.”)
And so I stood in awe in your presence once, just happy to be in the room, at a book signing for Howard Bingham at an art gallery in TriBeCa sometime in the late '80s, early '90s. I have heard people describe what it’s like be in a room when it hushes over in deference, but that was the most dramatic example of it that I have ever experienced firsthand. Not just in the presence of greatness, but The Greatest.
The crowd parted as you were ushered to the podium, where you waited for your introduction from Bill Cosby ... who was nowhere to be found. I was in the back of the room, on the fringe of the crowd, when I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders. Thinking it was my father, I turned to say something, when I found myself looking into the eyes of the Cos himself, trying to push his way to the stage. “I guess I should get out of your way,” I stammered. Cosby smiled and said, “You’re fine, you’re fine,” as he swung by me and made his way to the stage. A pretty cool night, overall.
Of course, in most families, a momentary brush with the Champ, or even the Cos, would be a dinner-table story for life. I was fortunate to have a sportswriter for a father, who spent considerable time around you and was able to convey to me not just your grace and power in the ring but your fortitude as a human being, your steadfast convictions in what you believed in. In your hometown of Louisville once for the Kentucky Derby, my dad took me on a tour of the place I lived for two years but would never know. In a little downtown square, he stopped the car and said: “I saw Ali speak here in 1974.” You had just beaten Foreman in Zaire, and you were returning to a hero’s welcome in your hometown.
My dad recounts it this way: "Harvey Sloane was the mayor, and he’s presiding over this ceremony and he gets up there with Ali, and there are 10,000 people up in the square. Next to Ali is this little black guy, about 5 feet tall, just grinning. Ali says, 'You know who this guy is?' except he doesn't say 'guy,' he's using the n-word. Harvey Sloane is going like, 'Don't do this to me!' but Ali is just going, 'Not only did I go to Zaire and beat Foreman's ass, but this little n---- is the guy flying the plane!' "
Here is Jet magazine's account of the day, which says that the pilot was Sultan Muhammad, the grandson of the Hon. Elijah Muhammad, but doesn't mention your acknowledgement. Ebony magazine, meanwhile, does mention it, quoting you as saying: "You white folks still think Africans live in trees. Well this man here ain’t no tom-tom beater; he’s a highly skilled pilot who can fly a jumbo jet as good as any white man!”
And that's the Muhammad Ali I'll remember today: the one who took the opportunity of his day in his hometown to not just trumpet his own accomplishments but to trumpet for his entire race.
Happy birthday, Champ. I hope you don't mind, but I got you the same thing I got Martin Luther King for his birthday: A clip from "Coming to America."
And so I stood in awe in your presence once, just happy to be in the room, at a book signing for Howard Bingham at an art gallery in TriBeCa sometime in the late '80s, early '90s. I have heard people describe what it’s like be in a room when it hushes over in deference, but that was the most dramatic example of it that I have ever experienced firsthand. Not just in the presence of greatness, but The Greatest.
The crowd parted as you were ushered to the podium, where you waited for your introduction from Bill Cosby ... who was nowhere to be found. I was in the back of the room, on the fringe of the crowd, when I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders. Thinking it was my father, I turned to say something, when I found myself looking into the eyes of the Cos himself, trying to push his way to the stage. “I guess I should get out of your way,” I stammered. Cosby smiled and said, “You’re fine, you’re fine,” as he swung by me and made his way to the stage. A pretty cool night, overall.
Of course, in most families, a momentary brush with the Champ, or even the Cos, would be a dinner-table story for life. I was fortunate to have a sportswriter for a father, who spent considerable time around you and was able to convey to me not just your grace and power in the ring but your fortitude as a human being, your steadfast convictions in what you believed in. In your hometown of Louisville once for the Kentucky Derby, my dad took me on a tour of the place I lived for two years but would never know. In a little downtown square, he stopped the car and said: “I saw Ali speak here in 1974.” You had just beaten Foreman in Zaire, and you were returning to a hero’s welcome in your hometown.
My dad recounts it this way: "Harvey Sloane was the mayor, and he’s presiding over this ceremony and he gets up there with Ali, and there are 10,000 people up in the square. Next to Ali is this little black guy, about 5 feet tall, just grinning. Ali says, 'You know who this guy is?' except he doesn't say 'guy,' he's using the n-word. Harvey Sloane is going like, 'Don't do this to me!' but Ali is just going, 'Not only did I go to Zaire and beat Foreman's ass, but this little n---- is the guy flying the plane!' "
Here is Jet magazine's account of the day, which says that the pilot was Sultan Muhammad, the grandson of the Hon. Elijah Muhammad, but doesn't mention your acknowledgement. Ebony magazine, meanwhile, does mention it, quoting you as saying: "You white folks still think Africans live in trees. Well this man here ain’t no tom-tom beater; he’s a highly skilled pilot who can fly a jumbo jet as good as any white man!”
And that's the Muhammad Ali I'll remember today: the one who took the opportunity of his day in his hometown to not just trumpet his own accomplishments but to trumpet for his entire race.
Happy birthday, Champ. I hope you don't mind, but I got you the same thing I got Martin Luther King for his birthday: A clip from "Coming to America."
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