Remember Muhammad Ali as the Greatest, Not Jeffrey Loria's Stadium Sideshow

 

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“I don’t need no world championship,” he says. “Everybody knows I’m the number one attraction in the world. I’m the champion of the people. You go into the ghettos and ask them who the champ is. You go anyplace in the world and ask them who the champ is. They’ll tell you Muhammad Ali. It don’t matter what happens anymore. I’m still the champ.”

 

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That quote was from 1973. Ali was a few hours north of his home outside Philadelphia, training for what he thought would be a title rematch with Joe Frazier. Though Frazier lost to George Foreman before Ali got his chance at a rematch, Ali would go on to defeat Foreman in the Rumble in the Jungle in 1974 to finally regain his title.

Today, frail far beyond his 70 years, Ali is still the champ. You go any place in the world and ask them who the champ is. They will still tell you Ali.

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“I’m greater than boxing,” Ali said. “I am boxing. Muhammad Ali is the biggest thing in the history of all sports. I’m bigger than the Rose Bowl, the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby, all of them.”

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Ali was brash, but he always backed up his words in the ring. He was greater than boxing at a time when boxing was greater than anything. Ali was, for anyone paying attention, the king of the world.

I never saw Ali fight, though like everyone my age who has been awed by his greatness in and out of the ring, I've watched all the tapes. I was born four days before Ali lost his heavyweight title to Leon Spinks in February of 1978, seven months before Ali would win the title back for an unprecedented third and final time. Nowhere near the fighter he once was, Ali proved he was still a bad man.

I learned everything I know about Ali from my father. Legends are passed down from generation to generation, through storytelling and rose-colored history lessons from those who were there. My father was there—he was so "there" the quotes in this piece came from the cover story my father wrote on the champ in 1973. (It's long, but it is unbelievably worth the click.)

Reading the stories and watching the old clips of Ali floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee, prognosticating when he'd knock out an opponent and choreographing his fights to make sure it came to fruition, are how we should remember Ali.

Ali was an agent of change, in sports, media and society. Generations have grown to adore Ali for who he is and what he stands for, but there was a time where much of the country thought his "I'm a bad man" quote reached far beyond the boxing ring.

Ali went from being an American hero to a loud-mouth, Muslim, draft-dodging social activist and back again, all while still in his boxing prime.

Ali, a borderline illiterate, was a genius in the ring. From former boxer and writer Jose Torres:

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“Muhammad Ali is a genius. He has a power that great fighters never had. Don’t watch Ali’s gloves, arms or legs when he’s fighting. Watch his brains.”

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Now, it's sad to watch Ali's brains and what Parkinson's disease has done to it over the years. Ali fought too long, maybe in an effort to have a few more paydays or stay in the spotlight a little bit longer. Maybe he fought because he thought he could still win.

Now, more than 30 years after his final fight, Ali's body has almost completely broken down. He has been shaking for years, but still seemed to be able to get himself up for the moment when the cameras were on. He couldn't speak in public—perhaps the biggest sin of what the disease has taken away from him (and us)—but for the last decade, Ali still had the presence of greatness wherever he appeared in public.

On Wednesday, when Ali was slowly and excruciatingly carted onto the field to present the first ball with Marlins owner Jeffrey Loria at his new Miami palace, Ali wasn't inspiring. It was just depressing.

Ali didn't look like the champ on Wednesday. He surely didn't seem like the same man who was the greatest of all time. Ali looked like it was time to finally step away from the spotlight. For a man who spent his entire professional career obsessed with how the public perceived him, this can't be how he wants to be remembered.

It's not hard to understand why Loria would ask Ali to appear at the opening of his new stadium. The man's name transcends sports. Muhammad Ali is the greatest name a franchise owner could ever fit into the first paragraph of a press release. Loria also used Ali's celebrity to defray the backlash from his own fans, upset at how the new stadium was funded. Riding out with Ali certainly mitigated a lot of boos directed at the Marlins owner.

Loria keeping his arm around Ali was perverse. If the man is so riddled with disease he needs you to hold him in the cart, or if that was Loria's way of reassuring Ali the fans were cheering for him, it did more harm than good.

If Ali looked that bad when he showed up to the stadium, why couldn't the Marlins figure out a faster way to deliver him to the mound? Why make him endure the ride from center field, out in public for everyone in the world to see what the disease has done to him? Why not let him sit in a luxury box and put him on the big screen?

Anything would have been better than the way it was done. And I know it wasn't just the Marlins exploiting Ali's name. His family was there too. Heck, he was there, waving to the crowd. He could have said no. Someone could have said no.

Nobody did. Be it for money or adulation or desperation, nobody said no. We saw an Ali who, in his advanced state, has become a shell of the larger-than-life man he once was. That's not the Ali I want to remember. I want to remember the Ali my father told me about.

I want to remember the champ.