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BY
JIM BLACK
FEW
of us are fortunate enough to get the opportunity to meet our heroes.
I
have been blessed these past 40 years in my job as a sportswriter to meet many
of those others can only admire from afar.
But
if I had to pick just one from the many it has been my privilege to encounter
up close and personal - from Pele to Palmer, Baxter to Best, Nicklaus and
Watson and their Duel in the Sun - it’s no contest.
It
was 20 years ago and Muhammad Ali had come to Glasgow to promote the
publication of a pictorial history of his career.
HowardBingham’s “A Thirty Year Journey” charts Ali’s rise from Olympic gold medallist
at the Rome Games of 1960 to his status as a three-time world heavyweight
champion, the only man to achieve the remarkable feat.
Ali
declared himself to be “The Greatest.” Others will argue a case for Jack
Dempsey, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano or Mike Tyson et al. But, for me, Ali was
the Greatest and always will be.
Not
only was Ali the most famous sportsman on the planet, he was arguably also the
most famous human being of his generation.
Ali
transcended Presidents and Prime Ministers. They knew his name in the deepest
jungles of Africa and the wilds of the Australian outback.
He
is also a controversial and charismatic figure who has polarized opinion. But
it has never mattered to me that he changed his name from Cassius Marcellus
Clay, converted to Islam, and refused to be conscripted into the U.S Military.
I
idolised Ali and still do, so having the opportunity to meet the man
face-to-face in October 1993 represented one of the most memorable experiences
of my life.
I
can still recall the butterflies in my stomach and the dry mouth as I
approached the King of the World that Friday afternoon for a brief audience
lasting no more than five minutes.
In
truth, there was never any hope of conducting an in-depth interview, not least
because the hellish disease which has ravaged his body and mind had already
taken hold.
Ali
sat behind a small desk next to his close friend Bingham. His facial features
appeared unchanged. Still handsome and clean-cut, Ali was smartly suited and
booted and exuded a presence that permeated the entire bookstore.
I
could think of nothing better to stammer than “Muhammad, can I shake the hand
that shook the world?”
He
nodded, rose slowly and offered his right hand. I took it and I swear had he
been wearing a ring of papal proportions I would have kissed it. Instead, I
settled for a simple handshake.
I
cannot recall for exactly how long I held the hand that “shook the world” but I
do remember telling him what he meant to me and when I had finished my wholly
inadequate delivery, he replied in a barely audible voice hardly above a
whisper, “Thank you.”
I
think I wanted to burst into tears at that point. Here was my all-time hero, a
victim of Parkinson’s syndrome, thanking me when all I wanted to do was stand
and soak in every moment of an experience that will stay with me for the rest
of my life and one that I doubt will ever be surpassed.
I
can still picture clearly in my mind as if it were only yesterday the
fine-boned fingers of hands that had inflicted such terrible damage in the ring
and yet appeared to belong to a concert pianist.
Ali
hid those hands from view most of the time due to a developing tremor and the
book signing consisted of Bingham pasting down labels bearing Muhammad’s
signature in the flysheets of his splendid book.
Having
secured my own copy and been photographed with my hero, I slowly and
reluctantly left the stage for others to savour their moment in the company of
true greatness.
Of
course the cynicism that has grown in me over the years, dealing with the
inflated egos of much lesser mortals, was not nearly so prevalent back then.
But even if it had been it wouldn’t have made a scrap of difference.
I
am not sure how long I remained on a high, but, suffice to say, when I entered
my local that evening I was already partially drunk on adrenalin.
And,
like a boy with a new toy, I proudly showed off my signed copy, explaining in
detail to all those who were willing to listen that I had achieved a lifetime’s
ambition.
One
of the assembled drinkers, a Glasgow businessman offered me £1,000 for my
prized possession. He would still have been wasting his time had he tried to
tempt me with ten times as much.
Some
years ago, someone asked me if I had really wanted to meet my hero when he was
no longer perfect.
You
bet I did, for whenever I catch sight of Ali in his wheelchair I don’t see a
figure with a broken body.
I
still see only the Adonis who transformed boxing and who transcended all other
sportsmen of his or any other generation.
Ali
has enriched the lives of so many, so why should he now be shut away in his
twilight years?
