When I got up this Saturday morning (June 4, 2016), I was told by my son that Muhammad Ali (Cassius Marcellus Clay) had died as I slept during the night.  Ali had been taken to the hospital due to severe complications he had been inflicted with because of Parkinson’s disease, which he had contracted back in the mid-eighties.  Most of the experts and people who study these things have postulated that his condition came about due to him taking many blows to his head and body during his illustrious boxing career.  Once I found out that he had been taken to the hospital and was put on life support, I knew that I would have to put something in my column about this iconic man whose boxing career and persona was truly bigger than life.  Perhaps no other athlete and few non-athletes have had the worldwide notoriety and acclaim as Muhammad Ali.  Whether you loved him, liked him, or despised him for his braggadocios, flamboyant, and bombastic talk as the once acclaimed “Louisville Lips”, you had to respect him for his skill, speed, talent, and mastery in the ring.  His ability to outfox, overwhelm, and often predict the exact round that he would subdue or knock out his opponent put Ali in a league by himself.
At one time in the late sixties through the seventies, Ali was the most recognizable individual on the face of the earth, with the exception of none.  My admiration of and fascination with Ali goes all the way back to when he technically knocked out (TKO) Sonny Liston in the seventh round in February of 1964.  I was 12 years old and in the seventh grade.  Everyone thought that Sonny Liston, the big brute, was going to destroy Ali, whose name was Cassius Clay at the time.  Liston was a 7-1 favorite to win the fight because of how he had completely destroyed former heavyweight champion Floyd Patterson in two first round knockouts.  He had quipped that if he fought Clay, he might get locked up for murder.  From that time on, when Ali as an underdog, had defied the odds and put a whipping on Liston, I became an admirer and fan.  I was there listening to the round by round commentary that aired on the radio from that moment on.  When he beat Floyd Patterson, I was there.  When he taunted and severely punished Ernie Terrell, I was there.  When he fought Joe Frazier in Madison Square Garden back in 1971, I was there watching on a wide screen via closed circuit television in the Springville, Massachusetts Civic Center.  Being a college student back then, me and a few of my college buddies had snuck into the center because we wanted to get as close as we could to watch our hero, our idol annihilate Smoking Joe Frazier.  To my total dismay and anger, Ali proved to be human after all.  Frazier was able to floor him with a hard left hook to the jaw.  He quickly got up, but lost the fifteen grueling rounds bout on points.  Infuriated and disappointed at the fall of my idol, I went back to my dorm at this predominately white college with a chip on my shoulder.  Fretting and fuming over Ali’s humiliating (to me) defeat, I was met by a white guy we called Zeke, who immediately started taunting me about Ali’s defeat.  We had made Ali our champion and symbol of defiance and protest against what we termed back then as a white racist system.  Actually, I should not have been so disturbed about Ali being defeated.  I really had more in common with Joe Frazier than I did with Ali.  We were both from South Carolina, him being from Beaufort and I being from Dillon.  He was a black man with a Judeo-Christian background as was I.  Nevertheless, I had been drawn into the mystique and charisma of Ali.  So as Zeke continued to poke fun at me and to belittle my fallen champion, I responded in rage and kicked him in the back part of one of his knees and pushed him backward to the floor.  There were some other white guys present who had grown quite familiar and fond of me because I had established rapport with them who were startled and shocked by my rage and assault of Zeke.  Needless to say, things would never be the same between us again.  Although we would continue to speak in passing, they viewed me in suspicion from that time on until I left the college.  By the way, that incident almost got me expelled from the school.  In 1974, right before I was brought back to a true relationship with Jesus Christ, I almost converted to Islam primarily as a result of Ali’s influence and defeat of George Foreman.  I had told myself that if he defeated George Foreman and regained his title as the heavyweight champion of the world, I was going to convert to Islam and be a Black Muslim.  Well, he won, but I never did keep my misguided intention or pledge because the power of human prayer and divine intervention and purpose annulled it completely.  Nevertheless, I have remained an admirer of Muhammad Ali over the years.  I remained a loyal fan during the “Rumble in the Jungle,” his second and third fights with Joe Frazier, as well as the times he fought Ken Norton and Michael Spinks.  I wept when he was embarrassed and beaten up by Larry Holmes during his last bout in the ring.  His skills were gone, his speed was gone and Father Time had taken his toll.  Many believe that it was this particular fight that caused Ali to be battered to the breaking point and therefore predisposed him to contract the disease that ultimately killed him.
Before I conclude my piece on Ali, I want to share a quite humorous account of him that happened while he was a passenger on a plane.  
The stewardess who had the responsibility of serving him in the first class area of the plane asked him to fasten his seat belt.  To her request, Muhammad Ali boastfully said, “Superman don’t need no seatbelt.”  The stewardess politely responded, “And Superman don’t need no plane either.” Ali laughed at her words and fastened his seatbelt.  
Muhammad Ali was, in my estimation, the greatest boxer who ever lived and an athlete whose life, influence, and impact transcended the sports arena.  He was in the truest sense of the term a living legend and icon whose like we will perhaps never see again.  My sincerest regret about the saga of Cassius Marcellus Clay, who became Muhammad Ali, is that he never became a fan, a believer, and worshipper of truly the greatest Hero and Champion of the ages who never lost a fight – Jesus Christ Who is blessed forevermore.