A Son of the Rock

I woke up this morning to the sad news of the death of Muhammad Ali.

He was quite simply the best boxer of my lifetime, arguably of all time. To see him (albeit only on television) suddenly do that rapid shoe shuffle in the middle of a fight was to understand he had changed the game. This was new, someone who did not merely box: he performed. In the process he elevated boxing to something close to an art form.

That was not all though. His influence went way beyond his sport. Motivated by the racism he still endured despite winning an Olympic gold medal for his country – he was refused service at a whites-only establishment in his home town and threw the medal off a bridge into the river – he did not take the situation lying down but resolved to use whatever celebrity he gained to emphasise he, and other people like him, were as worthy of respect and consideration as anyone. It must have taken a great deal of courage to refuse being drafted into the army, saying he had no quarrel with the Vietcong, that they hadn’t called him names, taken his nationality, raped or lynched him.

Despite his occasional brashness the British public certainly loved him; his charisma, showmanship and general impish good humour (one particular interview with Michael Parkinson where he showed a darker side notwithstanding) outweighing any faults.

Most sadly it is likely that it was boxing that robbed him of his wonderful mobility; too many blows to the head cannot be good for your health and may have contributed to his contracting Parkinson’s disease. In one respect though he has done well. It hardly seems like nigh on twenty years since he lit the Olympic flame at the Atlanta Games, when his illness was all too apparent but he nevertheless transcended it with great dignity.

He became what he claimed to be: the greatest. The world is a smaller place without him in it.

Muhammad Ali (born Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr): 17/1/1942 – 3/6/2016. So it goes.