Muhammad Ali: One More Heartfelt Tribute for “The Greatest”

By Donald “Braveheart” Stewart

I’m not black. I am not from the Deep South. And I am certainly no boxer. Muhammad Ali should never have touched my life. There is very little that you could take from my life or from his and compare them favorably. But his passing is an event of depth and profound sadness because of all the sporting icons, of all my heroes, his stature is beyond his colour, his heritage or his sporting prowess. I was left unable to explain why I felt as I did, but I was not alone. He was an extraordinary ordinary human being.

That he was human was proven by his treatment of Joe Frazier and the relationship he courted in the mid 70’s with the Ku Klux Klan. A believer in racial separation, at the time of racial segregation, he subscribed to the view that black people should consort with black people whilst white people had no business with blacks.

His description of Frazier as a gorilla and then the worst of all, an Uncle Tom, cut through the knuckle of a hand that had been offered in friendship. Frazier died in resentment and he had every reason to.

Ali also conducted public affairs whilst married including the time when his wife flew to Africa because she saw his mistress on his arm before the Rumble in the Jungle. In an age now of unremitting public scrutiny and commentary he was fortunate not to be fully in a spotlight that he constantly directed towards himself; his good self.

Muhammad Ali therefore had one endearing quality above all others – he was a human being, a man of faults and a man for whom we should have had realistic expectations. That he scaled unrealistic heights, became a man of iconic proportions is not down to his boxing ability alone but it made him the iconic myth that was no myth. It is down to the extraordinary reach of his arms and his charms. He fought like a man possessed and spoke like a man in possession of truth, belief and ability.

But let us start with the boxer. As a fighter, Ali may not have had the best of any attributes. He may not have excelled in anything except one thing – speed. There was nobody quicker, there was no one to match his lightning action and there was nothing people could do to keep up. His ability in the ring is what turned the Louisville Lip into a man of action. It made him the best heavyweight this world has ever seen.

His showmanship and his chutzpah turned boxing from an admirable profession run by dubious suits and questionable morals into an act of faith and high end business. Without Ali, there was no Mayweather, JR. Without Ali there was no Tyson. Without Ali the sport of boxing would be consigned to the books and the memories of those who once followed it. He made it into a world sport. He made it into the sport of conversation. He made it beautiful.

His faith was what he displayed publicly and privately in two astonishing acts. The first, his conversion to Islam, was not undertaken lightly. He was already, as almost every black man was, a target for racism. He now became a target for Christians as he renounced that faith and undertook a radical conversion thanks to the Prophet Elijah. He undertook the mantle of a man of whom the mainstream media and public were suspicious to become a man they were convinced was a dangerous radical.

In an act almost as brilliant as it was disastrous he declared he would not go to fight the white man’s war in Vietnam. It is easy now for people to think this was just defiance but it was not. Muhammad Ali became the largest hate figure imaginable to the press and the public. People who wrote about him being a coward, how he denigrated the memory of good, decent soldiers and made him into a figure the like of which had not been seen since the second world war were relentless. It led to Ali being stripped of his WORLD title by one country; his own country. Thanks to the humility of Ali and his acceptance of the cards that were dealt to him, the US of A is able to bring his head up and wear it with pride for it ought to have hung it in shame in its treatment of their heavyweight champion of the world. But we all have shameless episodes in history and should not craw in derision; Ali did not.

For over 3 years this supreme athlete was denied the opportunity of making his living and entertaining the world. Why? Because the war in Vietnam was an embarrassment that Ali could see, the world could see but those that had lost so much for so little struggled to admit.
Ali did not seek some technicality with which to cloak his intentions but accepted his view was unpopular and likely to lose his friends. He may have not thought it would have led to quite such sanction at the beginning but he would not be silent; he just found a bigger media outlet and shouted louder.

All of this happened before I was aware of who he was. It happened before my father kept me up late to listen on the radio. It happened before I was allowed to sit and watch the black and white pictures of this black man beat another man with skill and speed that was awesome.
This happened whilst my father, a conservative, more than borderline racist, talked in hushed tones of how magnificent this black man was. In his admiration I often heard the phrase, for a black man, but I saw a Titan. I saw no colour, I only saw power and passion. It made me giddy and weak. I became a fan.

And that is what gave me the connection. As I grew up my view of this man grew as I came to know of his struggles. Later in life I came to know of his behaviour. It chimed with my own redemption from addiction and I saw how forgiveness comes, not from without but from within. As Ali forgave, so could I also forgive his transgressions. When his arm rose to light the Atlanta flame for the Olympics, I saw a struggle and I marvelled at its public face. This was not a battle he could rope a dope, float away from, sting or defeat. This was a struggle that became our struggle as he refused, as he did with Vietnam, to hide from those who thought he was wrong. Confronting doubters and being the man to whom millions would aspire is a heavy burden. Ali did ask for it and he did seek it but he wore it with such humility that it did not overwhelm him; it became him.

So hundreds of miles away I did not, as many have done, break down and cry at the news. I just sat and contemplated what he meant to me. And here it is. A boxing legend? A man of the people? An icon of human dignity? A Muslim of faith? A man? Yeah that’s it….

So from over here and from where I was born there is a little known poet from the 18th Century who wrote a wee poem called “Is There for Honest Poverty”. As he sat out the ring for over 3 years, I often wondered if this was what was his message for the world as he stood and kept his dignity. It runs as follows from the pen of Mr Robert Burns in its original language – Scots: –

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that.
Our toils obscure an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The Man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man’s a Man for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, an’ stares, an’ a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that:
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’ a’ that:
The man o’ independent mind
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that;
But an honest man’s abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities an’ a’ that;
The pith o’ sense, an’ pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a’ that,)
That Sense and Worth, o’er a’ the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an’ a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s coming yet for a’ that,
That Man to Man, the world o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.
Now as you might expect, Ali knew of Burns and on a visit to my home town of Ayr he penned a response…
“I’d heard of a man named Burns – supposed to be a poet;
But, if he was, how come I didn’t know it?
They told me his work was very, very neat,
So I replied: ‘But who did he ever beat?’”

RIP Champ…

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