Muhammad Ali: A Tribute to the Greatest (15 page)

“What were you thinking when you looked down at Foreman on the canvas?”

“It felt good.”

“But what was going through your mind?” I pressed.

“I didn’t think. Things just happened.”

The perfect metaphor for Ali’s life, if ever there was one.

That same year, Muhammad and I traveled around the United States to speak with students about the need for tolerance and understanding. One person who was particularly supportive of our efforts was Roy Jones, who attended several gatherings with us including one at Locke High School in Los Angeles.

When Muhammad was introduced in Los Angeles, he received his usual roar of acclamation. But Roy got something extra. When his name was mentioned, a substantial number of the girls screamed the kind of scream reserved over the decades for Elvis Presley, the Beatles, and other heartthrobs. Muhammad didn’t miss a beat. Feigning jealousy, he stood up from his chair, smacked his fist into the palm of his hand, and challenged Roy to fight. Roy responded. And for thirty seconds, two great fighters sparred for an adoring crowd.

Muhammad and Roy were having fun. But as fighters, they were also measuring each other.

“He’s good,” Muhammad said afterward. “He has good moves, and he’s fast.”

“I was surprised at how well Ali moved,” Roy acknowledged. “He’s got a lot more left than most people realize.”

But as usual, Muhammad had the last word. “Take my advice,” he told Roy when it was over. “Get a gun.”

I also remember the year that Muhammed telephoned to wish me a Merry Christmas. “Think about it,” I suggested. “A Muslim calling a Jew to wish him well on a Christian holiday. There’s a message in that for anyone who’s listening.”

“We’re all trying to get to the same place,” Muhammad told me.

And the Ali magic remains. It always will. A while back, Muhammad was at a party, surrounded by the usual chaos that accompanies his presence. Men who would rarely think of hugging another man fell into his embrace. Women were asking for kisses. There were requests for autographs and photographs when, amidst it all, a mother brought her four-year-old daughter over to Ali.

“Do you know who this is?” she asked her child.

The four-year-old nodded reverentially and told her mother, “It’s the Easter Bunny.”

“I’M COMING BACK TO WHUP MIKE TYSON’S BUTT”

1988

Author’s Note: This is the piece referenced above that I wrote for Ali prior to our meeting in October 1988. Muhammad had respect for Mike Tyson as a fighter, but considered him beatable. It was his view that Iron Mike would have knocked out Joe Frazier, but that George Foreman would have kayoed Tyson. Even when Mike was undefeated, Ali told me, “Tyson is predictable, the way he moves his head. He has fast hands, but he’s slow on his feet and my hands were faster than his. The way to beat Tyson is with a fast jab, a hard right hand; and if he hits you, you have to be able to take a punch.”

Still, many commentators saw things differently. And I sensed that Muhammad was a bit miffed by the view that Iron Mike would have beaten him. Thus, I wasn’t surprised when my telephone rang on the night of February 11, 1990, moments after James “Buster” Douglas dethroned Mike Tyson in Tokyo. “What do you think people will say now when someone asks them, who was greater, Mike Tyson or me?” Muhammad asked rhetorically. “Buster Douglas saved me the trouble of coming back and whupping Mike Tyson myself.”

P
eople are weeping and crying all the time these days, because Mike Tyson is heavyweight champion of the world. He’s a bully, and no one can beat him. But that don’t mean nuthin’. They said Sonny Liston was unbeatable, and I beat him. They said George Foreman was unbeatable, and I beat him. They say Tyson is unbeatable, but I’m coming back. I got a time machine, and I’m coming back to whup Mike Tyson.

Mike Tyson is too ugly to be champion. He’s got gold teeth. He’s got bald spots all over his head. I used to call Joe Frazier “The Gorilla,” but next to Tyson, Joe Frazier was like a beautiful woman. Everyone I fought, I had names for. Sonny Liston was “The Bear.” George Chuvalo was “The Washer Woman.” Floyd Patterson was “The Rabbit.” George Foreman was “The Mummy.” Mike Tyson is ugly; he’s ugly like King Kong, so I’m calling him “Kong.”

And Tyson is nuthin’. He never fought no one. He fought Larry Holmes when Holmes was an old man. He fought Trevor Berbick, and Berbick was a crazy old man. He fought Tyrell Biggs, and Biggs was an amateur. Michael Spinks was a light-heavyweight. Tony Tubbs; he was an embarrassment. Bonecrusher Smith; he lost the first nine rounds against Frank Bruno. Tyson never fought Sonny Liston; he never fought Joe Frazier; he never fought George Foreman; like I did, fighting all of them in their prime.

So I’m coming back to whup Mike Tyson. It’s the biggest fight in the history of time. Bigger than David against Goliath; bigger than Napoleon against England and Russia. Too big for home television. Too big for closed circuit. They’re putting this fight on special 3-D closed-circuit with cameras and lenses like you ain’t never seen before.

And the whole world is holding its breath. Everyone’s rooting for me, but they’re saying, Muhammad Ali, he’s just a man and now he’s fighting Kong. They’re saying Mike Tyson is too strong, too mean. He hits too hard.

Here’s how it goes.

Round One
: It’ll be all over in one; that’s what they’re saying. And Tyson comes out for the kill. Ali’s dancing, jabbing. Pop-pop-pop-pop. Tyson swings—WHOOSH—hits nuthin’ but air.

Pop-pop-pop-pop.

WHOOSH. Tyson hits nuthin’ but air again.

Pop-pop-pop-pop. At the end of the round, the television people are adding up their punch-stats, and they can’t believe it. Muhammad Ali; 107 jabs, 92 landed. Mike Tyson; 40 punches, and he didn’t land one.

Round Two
: It’s just like round one.

Pop-pop-pop-pop.

WHOOSH.

Pop-pop-pop-pop.

WHOOSH.

Ali is pretty. The crowd’s going wild. Ali! Ali!

Tyson lands a punch, but it don’t do no harm.

Round Three
: Ali’s landing right hands. It’s early in the fight, and already Tyson’s left eye is starting to close. Women and children are holding their breath. Ali looks good. He’s better than good. Muhammad Ali is the greatest, but there’s nine more rounds to go, and Tyson is getting dirty now. He’s butting and thumbing, throwing elbows and hitting low.

Round Four
: Pop-pop-pop-pop. Ali is still dancing. Floats like a butterfly, but he stings like a bee. Pop-pop-pop-pop. Tyson is bleeding; the left eye. He’s cut and the blood is flowing down. The experts is shaking their heads. Muhammad Ali is making Tyson look like a child.

Round Five
: Tyson is taking a bad whuppin’. The crowd’s going wild. Ali! Ali! Tyson’s getting tired. Ali’s talking to him, asking, “Who’s the greatest?” Tyson won’t answer, so Ali hits him four-five-six right hands.

Round Six
: It’s the Ali Shuffle. Two billion people ’round the world, they’re jumping up and down, hugging each other, weeping with joy. It’s the real Ali. Not the Ali who lost to Larry Holmes; not the Ali you thought was old. This is Muhammad Ali, who destroyed Zora Folley; Muhammad Ali, who done in Cleveland Williams.
Ali! Ali!

Round Seven
: Tyson’s gold teeth get knocked out into the crowd, and you can see his mother-in-law running after them. The crowd’s in a state of histomania. Ali’s punching so fast now, no one can hear the pops. It’s p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p. Ali winds up for a bolo punch. The crowd is praying. They’re pleading, don’t take no chances; don’t get careless with Tyson. But Ali’s still winding up for the bolo, and Tyson’s moving closer. Tyson is getting ready. He’s gonna kill Ali. The crowd holds its breath. Tyson leaps with a left hook. But Muhammad Ali throws a right hand. It’s faster than a speeding bullet. Faster than the punch that knocked down Sonny Liston. The eye can’t see it, except with a super slo-mo replay camera.

TYSON IS DOWN ! ! !

Tyson gets up at seven.

Ding! There’s the bell.

And now Tyson is mad. He’s embarrassed. He’s been humiliated. He’s coming out for the next round, determined to put Muhammad Ali down.

Round Eight
: Tyson charges out of his corner, throwing punches like wild. He’s spitting blood. There’s fire in his eyes. He’s doing everything he can. And . . . . OH NO ! Ali is tired. Ali has stopped dancing. After seven rounds with Kong, Ali’s legs is gone. Ali’s moving back. Tyson comes in for the kill. Ali’s in a corner; he’s in trouble. Tyson is ugly. He’s a monster that has to be fed, and Muhammad Ali is the monster’s meal.

Tyson with a left. Tyson with a right. The whole world is covering its eyes.

Wait a minute ! ! !

IT’S THE ROPE-A-DOPE ! ! !

Muhammad Ali tricked the monster, and now Ali is coming back strong.

Ali with a left. Ali with a right. It’s Muhammad Ali; the greatest fighter of all time.

AND TYSON IS DOWN ! ! !

The count is one, two . . . .

Tyson’s eyes is closed!

Three, four . . . .

He’s not moving!

Five, six . . . .

We have a brand new champion!

Seven, eight . . . .

This is the greatest moment of all time!

Nine, ten . . . .

It’s all over! It’s all over! The tyrant is dead! Long live the true King!

MUHAMMAD ALI AT NOTRE DAME:
A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

1998

N
otre Dame versus Michigan, 1990. The first game of the season for two of college football’s most fabled institutions. Notre Dame was the top-ranked team in the country. Michigan was rated as high as number two, depending on which poll you followed. The game had been sold out for months and was the hottest ticket in the nation.

Meanwhile, Howard Bingham and I were tired. Howard is Muhammad Ali’s best friend. I was Ali’s biographer. It was the day before the game, and we’d been reading aloud for five days. More specifically, we’d been reading the manuscript for
Muhammad Ali: His Life and Times
—all one thousand pages—with Muhammad and his wife Lonnie. I’d just finished the first draft of the book and wanted to make sure it was factually accurate. Also, I knew that reading it aloud would be the best way to elicit further thoughts from Muhammad.

Howard and I are sports fans. And since Notre Dame is only a twenty-minute drive from the Alis’ home, we thought it would be fun to go to the game. Ali doesn’t care a whole lot about football. But his presence opens doors; he likes big events; and he’s a sweetheart when it comes to doing things for friends. Thus, my call to the Notre Dame Athletic Department: “Would it be possible for Muhammad Ali to buy three tickets for tomorrow night’s game?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Let me call you back,” the woman said. Five minutes later, the telephone rang. “How do we know the tickets are really for Mr. Ali?”

“That’s easy,” I told her. “He’ll pick them up in person.”

“All right; come by the Athletic Department today before five o’clock.”

“Do you want Muhammad to bring his driver’s license for identification?”

“That’s not necessary. I think we’ll recognize him.”

Shortly before noon, we drove to Notre Dame to pick up the tickets. The Athletic Department wanted to give them to us, but we insisted on paying; a small gesture given their open-market value. Then we went home, read
Muhammad Ali: His Life and Times
for another five hours; read some more on Saturday; and drove back to Notre Dame.

The game was scheduled for 8:00
P.M.
Central Standard Time. We arrived around six o’clock. The weather was perfect and the scene surrounding the stadium was quintessential bigtime college football. Tens of thousands of fans had set up grills and were barbecueing everything from hamburgers to shrimp. Many of them didn’t even have tickets to the game. They just wanted to be near the action and their reaction to Muhammad was as expected. As we walked around, we heard a lot of “Omigod! It’s Muhammad Ali.” And Muhammad has certain opportunities that aren’t available to the rest of us. For example, he can walk around a tailgate party until he finds something that looks particularly good to eat, and what he invariably hears is, “Muhammad Ali! Please join us.”

In other words, we ate quite well thanks to the generosity of strangers. Then we went inside the stadium to our seats, which happened to be on the fifty-yard line. That was nice for us and, I suspect, also good for Notre Dame recruiting since the folks around us were suitably impressed by Ali’s presence.

Muhammad sat between Howard and myself. Notre Dame was coached by Lou Holtz. Its brightest star was Raghib Ismail, who was joined in the backfield by Rick Mirer, Tony Brooks, Ricky Watters, and Rodney Culverhouse. Michigan was in its first year under new head coach Gary Moeller, who had the unenviable task of succeeding Bo Schembechler. But his job was made easier by the presence of Elvis Grbac, Jarrod Bunch, Jon Vaughn, and Greg Skrepenak.

It was a great game. Notre Dame surged to a 14-3 lead, and it seemed as though everyone on earth was singing, “Cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame.” Then Michigan began to roll and scored three unanswered touchdowns, whereupon “Hail to the victors valiant” was very much in vogue.