We will never see another like Muhammad Ali

It has been a year and a bit since we moved into our new house. In that time our books have moved three times, from piles in the corridor to a cupboard and, now, to piles in the bay window. They are in an organised mess, leaning towers hidden behind a wingback chair next to the fireplace.

I have two books on Muhammad Ali. I wanted them after the news The Greatest had died. They were in the piles. It took me less than a minute to find them. The first was ‘The Greatest: My Own Story,’ written by Ali with Richard Durham. The second, ‘King of the World,’ by David Remnick of the New Yorker. The latter is perhaps the best sports book I have ever read, an extraordinary work.

I never got to meet Ali. The closest I came was interviewing his daughter, Laila Ali, when she fought at Emperors Palace in February 2007. It was her last professional fight and ended in a first-round TKO over Gwendolyn O’Neil. I was also lucky enough to share a newsroom with Alf Khumalo for many years, and he never tired of talking about his time shooting Ali, from the Rumble in the Jungle to being offered a job as Ali’s personal photographer. Bra Alf could tell a tale and shoot a picture.

Ali inspired some of the best writing, both by sports writers and those who flitted in and out of the sport. The British sports writer and anti-apartheid advocate, Ian Wooldridge, penned this while on assignment in Zaire: “The sun had the audacity to rise over Central Africa yesterday while Mr Muhammad Ali was still speaking.” I spent all of Saturday reading the tributes to Ali. I’ve hated and loved it, words I wish I had written.

Remnick wrote for the New Yorker that Ali was: “the most fantastical American figure of his era, a self-invented character of such physical wit, political defiance, global fame, and sheer originality that no novelist you might name would dare conceive him - Eventually, Ali became arguably the most famous person on the planet, known as a supreme athlete, an uncanny blend of power, improvisation, and velocity; a master of rhyming prediction and derision; an exemplar and symbol of racial pride; a fighter, a draft resister, an acolyte, a preacher, a separatist, an integrationist, a comedian, an actor, a dancer, a butterfly, a bee, a figure of immense courage.”

Kevin Mitchell, in the Guardian, was just as perfect: “Whoever Ali was, there was only one of him. Categorically, there will not be another. I doubt we could stand the excitement.”

I doubt we could.

Sing like butterflies

I read on Twitter Phat Joe was allegedly suspended by the SABC because he played R Kelly’s ‘World’s Greatest’ in memory of Ali, which was in breach of the 90 percent local content ruling. The SABC have denied this. No matter. It’s not even the best Ali tribute song. Do yourselves a favour and get ‘Muhammad Ali’ by Faithless.

I see your face in front of me, still grainy;

From that old black ‘n white TV.

My whole family silent,

Watchin’ you shape destiny witcha two hands;

Faster than the eye could see...

Ya Know what? Skinny lickle me, started to strut.

Ten years old, suddenly bold,

‘Cos I resolved to live like my hero in the ring...

Be smart, never give an inch, no retreating;

An I racked up, respect from teachers, rednecks; And creatures who attack in a pack like insects.

Never, seen the like, not before or since,

A young prince an I remain convinced of his invincibility,

Athletic agility, virility, still a free spirit.

Forever through eternity, stingin like a bee...

Muhammad Ali.

What did you call me?

Roy Masters of the Sydney Morning Herald wrote of Ali’s visit to Sydney in the 70s. “After visiting a Sydney radio station for an interview at Milson’s Point, he walked past a local pub where the McMahon’s Point A-grade rugby league team was having some schooners after training.

“Unable to resist a crowd, Ali slid into the bar and eyed a big front-rower with his back to the crowd, waiting to buy a drink. Ali motioned for the other drinkers to be quiet as he crept up behind the prop and tapped him roughly on the shoulder. When the prop swung aggressively around, Ali shouted: Did you just call me a nigger?”

“Then, as horror flashed across the footballer’s face, Ali gave him a loving man hug. Ali didn’t drink alcohol, but he stayed for a laugh with the lads.”

Muhammad Ali will forever be remembered - The Star