Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. One man's interpretation of Muhammad Ali

 

“July 19, 1996 was a warm, albeit, wet evening in Atlanta, GA as a crowd of 83,000 watched gold medal swimmer Janet Evans carry the Olympic torch around the track of what would become Turner Field, home of the Atlanta Braves.

The eyes of the world watched as the Summer Olympics kicked off in the United States for the first time in twelve years.  As Evans ascended the 140 foot high scaffold to light the Olympic torch, she was met by another Olympic icon who had come to symbolize grace, courage and above all: humility. Yet, Muhammad Ali had never been a humble man.”

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That’s how I opened a paper I wrote in 2014 on Muhammad Ali.

I was taking an American History class in college and was assigned a short three page research paper on a 20^th century historical figure of my choosing.

I thought for awhile about choosing John F. Kennedy, an American icon in his own right. However, I’d researched Kennedy more times than I could count.

I thought about choosing a great military figure like Eisenhower or Douglas McCarthy.

Instead, I chose Ali.

As I poured over the pages and pages of documents and online articles and read books about Ali’s life, the three-page assignment turned into ten pages, then 20, then 30.

When it was done, my three-page research paper had turned into a 55-page colossus. You can read the whole thing here if you are so inclined. One day, I hope it will be the start of a book.

For now, putting it together stands as one of the most fascinating and enthralling journeys I’ve ever been on. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to keep writing it, it’s that I didn’t want to stop.

Had I stopped before I felt I had at least touched on a little bit of each piece of Ali’s life and remarkable career, I would have not only been cheating his story, I would have been cheating myself.

I’m an overweight white guy in my early 20’s. Muhammad Ali and I could not be more different human beings.

Yet, when I first came across that famous quote where he told reporters why he decided to stand as a conscientious objector to the war in Vietnam, I began to understand the gravity of Ali’s legacy.

“Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home and drop bombs and bullets on Brown people in Vietnam while so-called negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs and denied basic human rights,” Ali asked.

“I ain’t got no quarrel with no Vietcong. Ain’t no Vietcong ever called me n*****.”

The first time I read that, I realized why Ali mattered.

It’s almost shameful for me when I hear him described as a “boxer.” Even though he was indeed the greatest boxer who has ever lived. Just watch his 1966 fight with Cleveland “Big Cat” Williams” if you disagree. However, to call him a “boxer” dumbs down his legacy more than I can stand.

He was not just a boxer. He was a warrior.

In the ring, he went to battle with a fierce right hand and the fastest feet you will ever see on a heavyweight.

In court, he battled for his right to speak out against unjust violence. The world never got to see the best years of Ali’s career because of that battle.

Then, in the last three decades of his life, he battled against a disease he knew would eventually deliver a final knockout blow.

When the news came down late Friday night that Ali had finally been released from his 32-year-long battle with Parkinson’s disease, I was both profoundly saddened, and deeply relieved.

Boxing has lost its greatest icon.

The world has lost one of greatest men of the last century.

I’ve lost a personal hero. I think we all have.

However, in the last several years, his health had been declining rapidly. Parkinson’s disease had stripped him of his ability to speak or walk. No one deserves that kind of suffering.

As Friday night turned into Saturday morning and I continued to process the news of Ali’s passing, I was reminded of a quote I pulled from an interview Ali gave to the Today Show in the mid 90’s.

Had most been dealt the hand Ali was in the last years of his life, they likely would have complained. No one would have thought less of him if Ali had dared to ask why he’d been stricken with that terrible condition.

Ali never complained. He never asked for pity. In fact, Parkinson’s only strengthened his character.

“It is only a trial from Allah,” Ali said. “God tries you with wealth. He tries you with fame. This is simply another trial. See, I’ve conquered the world. I’ve had all the fame. They say I’m the world’s most known man.”

“I’ve made money, wine, women and song. And, you know, twenty-five years later, it’s over like that. I thought I enjoyed it, but it’s only for losers.”

“I think about my death five times a day, when I pray. This life is short. This life is the first step towards the eternal life. I believe in Allah, so I don’t fear it.”

Whether I die next week, whether I die next year, I don’t know when I’ll die. I don’t want pity. I’ve done more than I could have ever hoped for. This is my trial. If I prove my faith and allegiance to Allah, he will bless me. I want to do that.”

This is how I ended my 55-page treatise in 2014.

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“So, as Janet Evans finished her climb up the scaffolding at the Olympic Stadium in Atlanta, GA in 1996, the crowd roared as a familiar face appeared atop the stairs.

There was Muhammad Ali.

He had won Olympic gold. He had been the heavyweight champion of the world three times. He had stood up for his beliefs and defeated the greatest military industrial complex in the world. And, through his personal struggle with Parkinson’s disease, he had become a silent symbol of strength for the world to admire.

As U.S. President Bill Clinton tearfully looked on, NBC’s Bob Costas described the emotional moment.

“Look at him. He is still such an incredible presence; exuding nobility and stature. And, the response he evokes is part emotion, part excitement, but especially respect.”

But, as Ali gripped the Olympic torch in his right hand and raised it high above his head, his left hand began to shake.  He described his feelings at that moment in an essay titled, “I am still the greatest” for National Public Radio:

“When the moment came for me to walk out on the 140-foot high scaffolding and take the torch from Janet Evans, I realized I had the eyes of the world on me. I also realized that as I held the Olympic torch high above my head, my tremors had taken over.

“Just at that moment, I heard a rumble in the stadium that became a pounding roar and then turned into a deafening applause. I was reminded of my 1960 Olympic experience in Rome, when I won the gold medal.”

“Those 36 years between Rome and Atlanta flashed before me and I realized that I had come full circle.”

There is a difference between the word “best” and the word “greatest” that goes beyond simple semantics.

To be the “best” at something means simply that no one is better than you at that one particular thing. However, greatness is something much bigger.

In order to be “the greatest,” one must transcend that particular thing, whether it’s a sport, a hobby, or a career.

You can argue whether Muhammad Ali is the “best” boxer of all time. However, it is impossible to argue his greatness.

Ali is the most iconic man in the world.

While many know him simply as a boxer, it was his choice to refuse induction into the U.S. Army during the Vietnam War and his personal struggle with Parkinson’s disease that made him, as he put it, “bigger than boxing.”

In the end, the champ is exactly what he told us he was. Muhammad Ali is, was, and will always be, the greatest of all time.”