Her interest, of course, was more in Will Smith than the man he portrays. And a “sports” movie seemed a natural for one of those forced bonding sessions between us. But it was my wife, who knows little about boxing and likes it even less, who wound up going with her. I was surprised how loathe I was to go. I don’t particularly like biopics, but I really dislike them when my memory of the man figures to be more vivid than the cinematic version. I’m even a Will Smith fan. But I remember Ali, and Will Smith, pretty as he is, talented as he is, is no Ali.
Ali, or at the time Cassius Clay, was my third sports hero, trailing in my youth Ted Williams and then Bill Russell. I was already a huge boxing fan. My parents had a ritual Friday night out with my dad’s family, and I would plant myself in front of the TV for Gillette’s Friday-night fights. I remember Ali’s gold medal in Rome in the 1960 Olympics and, like many of my friends, were wildly enthusiastic about his long-shot championship bid against the thuggish Sonny Liston. When Ali won, the rematch was held in Lewiston, Maine, a town I had actually worked in one previous summer. Out of such minor coincidences, deep loyalties are sometimes born.
Ali was a beautiful fighter with the dazzling speed, it sometimes seemed, of a bantamweight. I refused to believe that the “phantom punch” that knocked out Liston in Lewiston was the least bit suspicious, preferring my conviction that Ali was simply too fast for the human eye or even the camera to register. As much as I admired his fight game, it was Ali’s politics that bound me most deeply to the man. He was our rebel with a cause, and his two recurring themes-racial justice and opposition to the Vietnam War-were dead on for the ’60s sensibilities of me and my friends.
We were, of course, faux rebels, and he was the real thing. While our rebellions may have shaken up our parents a little, they were minor league next to the champ. He simply scared the crap out of Middle America. We loved him for that, his fearlessness and righteousness in and out of the ring. That being said, I never confused him with a saint. Not because of his Black Muslim religion or politics. What really discomforted me was his casual cruelties. Sometimes they came in the ring, like the savage beating he gave Ernie Terrell for disrespecting his Muslim name. And sometimes outside the ring.
I despised his heartless blasts at Joe Louis, my father’s great champion whom Ali, seemingly oblivious to both history and time’s toll on the legend, dismissed as a “Tom.” And I was distressed, too, by his relentless, vicious verbal assaults on Joe Frazier, which, with their emphasis on the ugliness of his dark skin, big lips and wide nose, would have been branded racist out of the mouth of any other man. Still, Ali fit neatly in my roster of heroes. After all, both Ted Williams and Bill Russell were complex and edgy, athletes who were oft-times vilified for their disdainful public demeanor. So for me the complexity of Ali, the contradictions were all part of his appeal. I wasn’t interested in cartoon heroes, and Ali was worthy of a Faulkner novel.
That was pretty much where Ali stood in my mind until 1996 and the Atlanta Olympics. Among the press, the secret of who will carry the Olympic torch the final steps to light the flame always provides a great guessing game. (In Salt Lake, for example, my guess is that the torch finale will be some firefighter-policeman-soldier thing.) When it turned out to be Ali, the press section started nodding as one: Who else could it be but “the Greatest”? What surprised me was that everyone in the stadium and from what I could tell everyone in the country seemed to be nodding in agreement with the choice.
Now, there was, of course, a certain amount of charity in that view. After all, Ali had been ravaged by Parkinson’s. The glazed, shaking man, no longer glib, but now struggling to speak, is hardly threatening any more. Moreover, our society has changed, and time heals many wounds. Still, I felt I had missed something in the transition. When did Ali, this figure who had generated such a bitter divide in this country, this man who was adored and reviled equally, become the national teddy bear?
It isn’t just the movie, which from what I hear and read skips over or sanitizes the harsher elements of his life. It’s that somehow in the adoption of Ali as some kind of national icon, nobody seems very clear any more on exactly what he stands for. I understand the temptation to trot out Ali in this frightening and complex time as the benevolent Muslim, the one man who might provide some religious cover for this country throughout the world. That’s just politics, even if it makes me squirm.
But what’s with Ali getting a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame? And what was that televised 60th-birthday celebration all about? Jon Voight and Jamie Foxx are a couple of swell actors, but their only real relationship with Ali is cinematic. How did they become the designated worthies to pay tribute to Ali? And though I guess it was meant as a gesture of coronation, Mariah Carey singing “Happy Birthday” to Ali a la Marilyn Monroe to JFK was far more parody than tribute. Ali sits there purportedly central, but in fact emotionally peripheral, kind of like Red Skelton near life’s end, still able to claim a seat if not a speaking part at one of the Friars’ roasts.
I’m not seeking to banish Ali from public view. My father battled Parkinson’s the last 25 years of his life, and we were constantly pushing him to get out in public in the face of his own embarrassed retreat. So that would be the last thing I’d ever suggest for our greatest champion. I just hate to see Ali so cheapened. I have this dread that one day I’ll be channel surfing and find him right next to Whoopi Goldberg-Muhammad Ali to block-on “The Hollywood Squares.” He was a complex man, and now he is being transformed into just another one-note commodity. If Ali is indeed all we seem to want to pretend he was, then it is incumbent upon us to help preserve his dignity, whether or not he has the inclination to. He can carry our Olympic torch any time. But let’s cancel his Hollywood ticket.
NFL CHAMPIONSHIP PICKS Bill Parcells had a saying I always liked: You are what your record is. And if that’s the case, both the Philadelphia Eagles and the New England Patriots are fine football teams, deserving of their place in the championship games. But the book is saying something different. Both the Pats and Eagles are being treated as pretenders, getting more points as underdogs than either the very flawed Ravens or Packers did a week ago. That may have less to do with them than with the impressive wins last Sunday by the favorites. Still, it feels like a couple of overlays to me.
PITTSBURGH 17 NEW ENGLAND 16
The Pats this year seem to be destiny’s child. And their only two previous Super Bowl appearances were both in New Orleans, both against NFC powerhouses a la the Rams. That sounds like this year’s scenario. But Pittsburgh’s defense is too quick, its offense too versatile. If Kordell Stewart can’t be pressured into throwing the game away, the Steelers will prevail.
ST. LOUIS 31 PHILADELPHIA 24
The Eagles have manhandled two reputedly strong defenses and Donavan McNabb is in high gear. Put them on grass in the snow or rain back East, and I might even pick them. But the Rams have more turf speed, on both sides of the ball, than any team in memory. Unless Hugh Douglas gets a crack at Kurt Warner and knocks him out of the game like he did the Bears’ Jim Miller last week, the Rams will break Philly’s hearts.
