Our history in this country upon arrival is a testament to that. How ironic then that a petty theft committed against a 12-year-old would one day have historic, global ramifications. The theft of a red bicycle, conveyed to a white man, by a kid feeling blue. Only in America.
As the story goes, in 1954, a young man known as Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr. approached a Louisville, Ky. police officer named Joe E. Martin to report that his bicycle had been stolen. Fuming, he informed Martin that he wanted to “whup” the thief. Martin replied that if he wanted to whip somebody, he needed to know how to fight. Martin then offered Clay an opportunity to come to a gym to learn the sweet science.
The union resulted with six Kentucky Golden Gloves championships, two national Amateur Athletic Union titles and the 1960 Olympic Gold Medal in the light heavyweight division. Deft footwork and radar reflexes made for an elusive target, and when an opponent missed a stinging jab, he would make them pay. Couple that with hands that can fire hooks and straight punches at a speed that was not only blinding but also accurate, and we had a pugilist with a skill set that was rarely seen in the professional ranks and never seen in a heavyweight.
It all cumulated Feb. 25, 1964, in a shock to the sports world, with a knockout of the fearsome champion Sonny Liston in Miami Beach. The gregarious 22-year-old had proved that he not only had championship talent but also had the knack to market his fights. Hate him or love him, you had to pay attention. With a championship belt in tow, his fists now had the potential to transform his fights into events. That had to have been the thought process of promoters and reporters.
The boxer was probably on board with that future, but he had one more ingredient to add. Soon after his title win, he announced that he had become a member of the Nation of Islam. Cassius Clay was no longer. After a brief stint as Cassius X, the permanent moniker became known the world over. Courtesy of Elijah Muhammad, Cassius X had been renamed Muhammad Ali.
After the name change we saw a change in the style. The athleticism had dwindled. He became more cerebral, more deliberate—more of a fighter. December 11, 1981, that chapter was closed. It was the last time Ali was in the ring as a professional fighter.
They say you are what your record says you are. It’s not a sterling, pristine win-loss record that determines a fighter’s greatness. If that were the case, a fighter with a 56-5 record wouldn’t have much of a claim to be the Greatest, would he? Consider the level of competition. He fought fellow Hall of Famers of a variety of styles. Sometimes you’ll come up short. But more revealing is we never saw him in his prime in the ring. What might have been.
He was what he said he was—one of the absolute best in the ring and blessed with the charisma to sell tickets around the world. But that alone is not why he was the one celebrity of my lifetime that I actually shed a tear for. The other reason was because he was what he said he was—a Black man, entailing all the perfect imperfections that come along with that. Pride, fortitude, integrity and compassion were principles that he held for his people. He talked it, walked it and paid a significant price for it. Honor that! Pound on the left side of your chest in rhythm, as if it is a conga drum, and chant, “The Champ is here!” Honor the spirit of the man and keep him in your heart.
Bye, Champ.
Over and out. Holla next week. Til then, enjoy the nightlife.