Today I took a picture of my daughters in front of plaque that commemorates the former location of the 5th Street Gym here on Miami Beach, where Angelo Dundee trained Muhammad Ali for some of his biggest fights.
Ali's loss has surfaced some great memories, some sad parallels, and some conflicted thoughts I have always harbored about an otherwise amazing and iconic person.
As a lifelong sports fan, some of my earliest memories include watching Ali fight with my Father and Grandfather, who were big fight fans. Boxing was an interest we could all share together.
1977, and we had just moved to Florida. During that era, big fights were broadcast on network television during primetime. I remember my Mom and Dad, along with some family friends and me, huddled around a living room TV set, watching Ali fight Ernie Shavers on NBC. Instead of showing the undercard, NBC decided to air an episode of their newest show, CHiPS!
Turns out the Ali-Shavers fight was the most watched fight in TV history to date, with 70 million viewers. Ali took a huge beating in that fight, but ultimately won by decision. It was his last title defense. He went on to lose 3 out of his next 4 fights and then retire. Dr. Ferdie Pacheco, his longtime physician, pleaded with Ali to retire after that fight, due to the toll it had taken on his body from the pounding he had endured throughout his fighting career.
I watched all of those later fights, and witnessed Ali bravely take savage beatings in his quest to retain and regain his crown. My remembrance of witnessing this was that I experienced a strange mixture of awe and pity. He took the beatings and fought back, however it all looked hopeless and diminishing.
At the same time, I was learning about the Civil Rights movement in school and at home. I watched the original Roots miniseries with fascination and outrage, akin to my feelings in learning about the Holocaust. I also learned about the courage of the Civil Rights leaders like Dr. King and the participation of Jewish activists and leaders in that movement.
As a kid (or at least a kid like me), these facts get internalized as absolutes and tend to create a sense of idealism and hope. There really was very little chance that the nuance required to understand the multi-layered and complex situations they were could take hold at that age. While Jews shared common bonds with the black community through their experiences with enslavement and prejudice, which as a kid seems like an undeniable linkage that brings groups together, the realities on the ground were much different. Racial and Religious divides endure for a variety of reasons and while we evolve we also repeat our ignored history.
I also remember having been told to go down to the high school cafeteria and fill out a card to register for the Selective Service. Having the guts to stand up for what you believe in has always been a trait I have valued above many others, but at the same time, living in a civil society has always meant that a measure of conformance and sacrifice are sort of non-negotiable requirements. Ali's act of defiance in this regard made me less of an admirer. But on the whole, I seem to have let this slight go, maybe because it fit with Ali's persona and that made sense to me. Make an exception for situations like this was probably my thought process.
1984 was a very tough year for me and my family. It was my Junior Year of High School, and as a kid who had ambitions of going to college, I was forced to take school seriously, which did not come easily to me. I had the smarts but homework was a painful task. I had hobbies like BMX and Photography which were much more enticing than studies.
More importantly, during this period of time, my Grandmother Gertrude (nicknamed Gussie) was in the late stages of Parkinson's Disease. We had moved her into our home years earlier, with my Mom selflessly committed to caring for her while working a full time job. The whole family sacrificed to make it work, with me giving up my bedroom for Grandma Gussie. But what has become burned into my brain was the fortitude and dedication my Mom had for her stricken Mother in her greatest time of need.
Having lived with a close family member going through the stages of Parkinson's, I witnessed up close how devastating that disease is. Like Ali, my Grandmother showed early signs with a trembling hand. It gradually took hold and ravaged her, leaving her without motor skills. What I found most cruel in witnessing the way the disease took hold is that my Grandmother was so vital and aware mentally. Gussie passed away in 1984, mercifully relieving her of the pain she had endured for so long. She was 74 when she passed.
Over the remaining years of Ali's life, I have seen him do so much good for causes related to treating and curing Parkinson's. But for every appearance I saw him make, it always transported me back to thoughts of my grandmother. In an odd way, this was good for me, as I could summon memories of her before she was fully stricken and hold those close. But I must confess that witnessing the torch lighting ceremony at the 1996 Olympics turned me into a complete mess. I had plans to drive up to Atlanta for the Games during the second week, which I kept. I was secretly thankful that we did not have tickets to the Opening Ceremony. I met Dana later that year and we've been together ever since.
Muhammad Ali died at 74 years old, like my grandmother. He was stricken with a terrible disease, like my grandmother. He endured tremendous challenges and pain, like my grandmother. And also like my grandmother, I'd like to remember him as a great person. History will judge.
