Muhammad Ali and Me

LAST week in the media, on the 50^th anniversary of American boxer Muhammad Ali’s international debut, everybody from President Barack Obama to silly-man Billy Crystal paid glowing tribute and shared their personal anecdotes.

At this historic juncture, it’s only natural for readers of this blog to be curious about how I myself influenced The Greatest.

It’s not an obvious leap to make – that a humour columnist must have been a major player in the life of the most famous prizefighter of the 20^th century – but make it, you have. And of course, you’re right -- the Champ would have been The Chump without yours truly.

Cassius Marcellus Clay was born in 1942 in Louisville, Kentucky, and his early life passed by as if it had no consequence whatsoever. I was born in 1958 in Winnipeg, which, like Louisville, contains two “i’s.” I suppose the young Clay spent his youth punching bullies and being kind to strangers and getting sweaty in the summer and cold in the winter, not unlike myself.

Apparently he was first steered toward boxing by a police officer and boxing coach who spotted Clay when he was upset about the theft of a bicycle. I’ve ridden a bicycle. Our eerie connection does not end there.

Clay soon went on to win six Kentucky Golden Gloves titles, two national Golden Gloves titles, and the Light Heavyweight gold medal in the 1960 Summer Olympic Games in Rome. At that time, I was consuming a great deal of Golden Corn Syrup and owned several pairs of gloves. Coincidence?

No matter what his achievements, in those early days Clay was still subjected to insults because of his race. He claimed in his 1975 autobiography that he threw his Olympic gold medal into the Ohio River after a “whites-only” restaurant refused to let him in. Meanwhile, I once saw a documentary in which the Ohio River was mentioned.

In 1960, Clay turned pro. He quickly took the spotlight because of his ability to predict which round would spell the end for his opponents, and his colourful boasts about his prowess.

It was during his battle for Sonny Liston’s title that my relationship truly began with Cassius Clay. I was six at the time. During his pre-game weigh-in, the Louisville Lip sent me a psychic message pleading for bits of trash talk he could fling in the direction of Liston, whom he had already insulted as “the big, ugly bear.”

A bit of a wunderkind when it came to rudeness, I replied (through mental telepathy), “Why don’t you claim that you can float like a dust mote, and sting like lemon juice on a cut?” Clay was later misquoted as saying he could “float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.” Clumsy though it was, the phrase had the desired effect and at 22, he won the title and captured the world’s imagination.

By 1967, Clay had converted to Islam and had taken the name Muhammad Ali, while, with similar religious conviction, I had gone to Sunday School and joined the choir. In 1967, he refused to be drafted into the U.S. Army on the grounds that “(I) ain’t got no quarrel with them Viet Cong.” Ali was stripped of his title and had his boxing license suspended. I sent him positive thoughts offering my support, as, I’m pretty sure, did Billy Crystal.

In 1970, Ali began fighting again, and in 1971, he met Joe Frazier at Madison Square Gardens in “The Fight of the Century.” Frazier defeated Ali -- his first professional loss. He was so crushed that I didn’t get any psychic messages from him for a year.

Nevertheless, just prior to Ali’s 1973 fight with Ken Norton, I sent him a bit of telepathic advice -- suggesting, simply, “Duck.” Sadly, my counsel got lost in the ether, and Norton broke Ali’s jaw.

It was 1974 by the time Ali was ready to take on champion George Foreman in Kinshasa, Zaire – the so-called Rumble in the Jungle. Ali had become an underdog, something he and I often discussed telepathically. It was a subject on which, unfortunately, I was a bit of an expert.

Steered by my special insight, I suggested that Ali needed to come to his senses. I recommended he pursue a practical trade, like promoting pet rocks, as boxing was obviously not his forte. He failed to listen and instead took dancing lessons, which supposedly helped him avoid Foreman’s punishing hooks. Ali took the fight in the seventh round. In an emotional psychic telegram, I offered congratulations, but reiterated that I still felt pet rocks were the way to go.

In 1975, Ali met Joe Frazier for the third time in a bout called the Thrilla in Manilla. It was, as you’ve probably guessed, my wit informing the Champ’s prediction that it would be “a killa… and a chilla… and a thrilla… when I get the gorilla in Manilla.” Unfortunately, he took out my reference to sarsaparilla, which I personally had thought was the clincher. Still, his hunch proved correct – Frazier, eyes swollen shut, had to concede the fight.

At this point, Ali and I had become distant. I cannot tell a lie -- his instant rejection of a new career path in pet rock promotion had hurt me. Personally, I was also adopting a more pacifistic lifestyle, no longer knocking my younger brother into next week but only into tomorrow. I was certainly growing up – but was The Champ?

Also, frankly, I had gotten tired of Ali’s boasting. You can only hear “I’m the greatest” one million times in a row before you get sick of it and start making snide remarks, like, “Yeah, but only at one thing.” What with his sassy retorts, that made for heavy psychic traffic.

Thus, Muhammad Ali and I eventually parted ways. You won’t find me in any of the books or stories about him. But I have no regrets. In my heart of hearts I know that behind every Greatest, there are an awful lot of crucial nobodies.