Boxing matches were always a fixture in my household — growing up, both my father and grandfather were avid fans of the sport, primarily, its heavyweight division.
My Saturday evening’s throughout the year were often spent watching Mike Tyson, Evander Holyfield, Buster Douglas and Riddick Bowe step inside the ring. At the ripe age of 7, I became infatuated with the sport. The power, the discipline, the sheer strength put on display by these warriors captivated me.
My grandfather never cared for many of the more modern heavyweights. “These boxers today, David James, they have no originality, no pizazz. They all go out into the ring, swing their fists and wait to catch a man with his hands down,” he’d say to me. There was only one true great in the history of the sport, according to him: Muhammad Ali.
Everything I thought I had come to learn about the sport changed after watching the 1964 heavyweight bout between Ali and Sonny Liston. That fight has always epitomized boxing for me: the look of cold, bloodthirsty hunger on his face, as he stood tense over his opponent, who was laid out.
Muhammad Ali stands over fallen challenger Sonny Liston, shouting and gesturing shortly after dropping Liston with a short hard right to the jaw in the first round of their title fight in Lewiston, Maine.
Ali was the most thrilling if not the best heavyweight ever, carrying into the ring a physically lyrical, unorthodox boxing style that fused speed, agility and power more seamlessly than that of any fighter before him.
My infatuation with boxing was immediately replaced by one for Ali. I read books, watched all of his old fights, studied his interviews. He was, in my opinion, as polarizing a superstar as the sports world has ever produced — both admired and vilified. The statement he made the morning after defeating Liston for his first heavyweight title has been embedded in my brain since the day I heard it: “I don’t have to be who you want me to be; I’m free to be who I want.”
Ali, in his own words, was the “prettiest, the most superior, most scientific, most skilfullest fighter in the ring”.
Few would disagree.
And while Ali the boxer will be remembered as a three-time world heavyweight champion, it wasn’t until I began to learn about Ali the person that he truly touched my life.
As frequently as he did inside of the ring, Ali also made headlines outside of it. His critiques of racism, the Vietnam War and his conversion to Islam were just a few of the loudest events he championed away from the ropes.
“My conscience won’t let me go and shoot them,” Ali said in his refusal to serve in the U.S. Army to go fight the Vietcong. “They never called me nigger, they never lynched me, they didn’t put no dogs on me.”
“How can I shoot those poor people?” he added. “Just take me to jail.”
Just take me to jail. I heard these words rings from the mouth of the world champion, a sexy fighter with nothing in front of him but fame and fortune. He was willing to check himself into prison before compromising his own moral compass to fight in an unjust war. Just 24 years old.
Ten years later, Ali would go toe-to-toe with George Foremen. The fight known as the Rumble in the Jungle. By then, Ali, and his infamous speed and agility inside of the ring, had regressed dramatically. Reporters didn’t ask whether or not Ali would lose the fight, but how long he might last.
“If you think the world was surprised when Nixon resigned, wait till I whup Foreman’s behind,” Ali replied.
Ali was the underdog when he met George Foreman on Oct. 30, 1974, in Zaire, but in the eighth round, in a blur of punches, he knocked out Foreman to regain the title.
After he walked away from the ring, Ali was naturally celebrated for the champion he was. He soon began giving speeches on emphasizing spirituality, peace and tolerance, and also began undertaking self-employed diplomatic trips to Africa and Iraq. Despite the crippling effects of his Parkinson’s Disease, Ali, as much a champion as ever, continued to fight.
In 1999, he became the first boxer to be featured on a Wheaties box. During the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta, Ali appeared before the world to light the cauldron. His willingness to appear in that event despite the crippling effects of his Parkinson’s touched me forever. Always fighting.
In 2005, calling him the greatest boxer of all time, President George W. Bush presented the Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor one can receive, to Ali during a White House ceremony.
Through boxing, Ali found boundaries, discipline and stable guidance. Through studying Ali, I found the same. He taught me to always speak my mind, represent what’s right in every situation and to always, always keep fighting. His relationship with Howard Cosell was my introduction to the world of journalism. Inspired by Ali’s own public service, I began dedicating exponential amounts of time volunteering in my community.
In 2008, I was fortunate enough to finally meet the man who represented so much of how I’d grown and developed as a son, friend and person. Unsure of what to say, I asked Ali how his feet were treating him these days. “No more athletes foot,” he promptly replied in his usual quick-witted demeanor.
Ali transcended time. He represented what he thought was best, and he never changed.
In his own words: “I won’t miss fighting, fighting will miss me.” And now the world will. The Greatest of All Time.
